The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  I didn’t mention Mitchell by name once in our conversation. Which means she didn’t buy my fake name for a second. She knew who I was before she even sat down. I turn her business card over in my hands and groan aloud as I register the details printed on the front.

  The gaudy pink logo of InTouch magazine is printed in one corner. And underneath it:

  MOLLY REID

  Chief Entertainment Reporter

  Frantically, I rack my brain, trying to remember every detail of our brief conversation. What did I say? Surely there was nothing worth printing in some casual chitchat with a stranger in a dog park. Did I disparage Los Angeles? Complain about Mitchell?

  But I can’t recall any of it. The last few minutes have been entirely wiped from my memory. All that’s left is a voice in my head screaming, Kitty Hayden, you are a fool.

  14.

  Saada Gebru’s office – though when her assistant called to confirm the appointment she called it a ‘studio’ – is in an imposing glass-and-chrome tower in West Hollywood. Mack drops me off and instructs me to call him when I’m ready to leave.

  I sit in Saada’s blindingly white, minimalist lobby and wait for the woman herself. I’ve really got to stop being so punctual for appointments. ‘On time’ in Los Angeles seems to mean ‘at least twenty minutes late’.

  ‘Ya want a Vitamin Water?’ says Saada’s assistant, a surly-looking young woman whose black-painted fingernails match the roots of her bleached blonde hair. She’s dressed entirely in black and wearing black sunglasses, even though she’s indoors and it’s ten in the morning. Although she does have to sit in the glare of this white cube all day, so I guess the shades are excusable.

  ‘No, thanks. I’m fine.’ I flash a polite smile. I’m still smarting from yesterday’s dog-park debacle; I’m not about to engage in conversation with this girl – or anyone else.

  ‘Coconut Water? Lifewater? Skinny Water?’ She’s obviously an East Coast transplant; her accent makes ‘water’ sound like ‘wor-duh’.

  ‘Um, maybe just regular water?’

  ‘Sorry, we’re all out.’

  ‘Just tap water will be fine.’

  She raises her sunglasses and looks at me, horrified. ‘Tap water? Honey, this is LA!’ She chuckles as if this explains everything and goes back to her work.

  ‘You must be Kitty!’ says a lilting voice. I turn to see the human embodiment of a gazelle sweep into the lobby. She’s at least six foot two, with long, sinewy limbs and an aristocratic neck. She doesn’t so much walk towards me as unfold herself into the space between us, enveloping me in a warm hug that lasts a little too long to be strictly comfortable.

  ‘I am Saada,’ she says, pulling away at last. She smiles broadly, her teeth as white as her interior décor against her flawless onyx skin. ‘It is an honour to meet the woman who has captured my Mitchell’s heart. Come now. We are going to have fun.’

  She turns and strides down a corridor, the vibrant colours of her silk kaftan swirling around her ankles like a kaleidoscope. I hurry to keep up. It’s not easy; the woman has the stride length of a giraffe.

  Saada pushes open an enormous door, quilted in white leather. As I step through, I have a fleeting feeling of being ushered into a padded cell. But there’s nothing spartan about what’s inside. Saada’s studio is every little girl’s dream dress-ups box.

  I gasp as I take it all in. The space is packed with rail after rail of designer gowns, jewel-coloured creations in silk, satin and lace. Some dresses are sleek and modern, some are encrusted with crystals and others replete with acres of tulle so delicate it’s like spun fairy floss. Two large trestle tables groan under the weight of embellished clutch bags and glittering jewellery so exquisite it looks as if it should have an armed guard stationed alongside. An entire wall is covered with shelves displaying shoes whose makers’ labels read like a fashion encyclopaedia: Manolo Blahnik, Prada, Jimmy Choo, Gucci, Christian Louboutin.

  Even for someone like me, who’s never paid a whole lot of attention to high fashion, the studio is a kind of wonderland. I wonder if I can sneak a few photos on my phone later – I know fashionista Frankie will lose her mind when she sees them.

  The only fly in this expensive, heavenly-scented ointment is the life-size photograph of Vida Torres on one wall. There are photos of Saada’s other clients, too, but obviously that’s the one my eyes are immediately drawn to. Vida smoulders within her gilt frame, smirking down at me as if to say, ‘See? I was here first, too.’

  ‘You like it?’ Saada says in her gentle staccato voice.

  All I can manage is a mute nod. She must think I’m a total idiot.

  ‘Wonderful. Let’s play!’

  She guides me further into the room and gestures for me to sit on a white chaise longue. ‘Now, Miss Kitty. You must tell me about yourself so that I can find the perfect gown for you,’ she says, perching next to me. ‘What do you feel are your strengths?’

  ‘Well, I guess . . . um, I’m good with dogs?’

  Saada nods sagely. ‘You are a compassionate soul. I see this in your eyes. However, today I am interested in your physical strengths. What do you like best about your appearance? Is there any part of your figure you would prefer to conceal?’

  ‘Oh! Of course. I misunderstood.’ Idiot, idiot, idiot. ‘Let’s see. Maybe my . . . I suppose I have good . . . my hair is kind of . . . I don’t know. Maybe you should ask Mitchell?’ Maybe LA types are good at reeling off their many faultless physical attributes, but it’s not something that comes naturally to a dog trainer from suburban Sydney. Especially one who’s taken a vow of silence when it comes to ostensibly friendly women. I’ve learned the hard way that the walls have ears in this town. The park benches, too.

  ‘I tried that, my darling. He was no help. He thinks every inch of you is perfect and would prefer I send you down the red carpet in lingerie.’ Saada rolls her eyes.

  I giggle. ‘He really said that?’

  ‘I could not make him stop talking. You have run away with his heart, Miss Kitty.’ She looks wistful for a moment and pats my hand. ‘It is a beautiful thing to see him happy again after . . .’

  She suddenly looks distressed and leaps up. After what?

  ‘I think perhaps some Givenchy for you,’ she says briskly, marching to the nearest rail and thumbing through the dresses hanging from it. ‘Some Dior, yes. A Badgley Mischka or two. And—ahhh!’

  ‘Ahhh?’

  She turns to face me, an inspired look on her face. ‘Oscar de la Renta. He is the man for you, I am sure of it.’

  She plucks a gown from the rail and hands it to me. It’s strapless, with a sweetheart neckline and a severely cinched-in waist that’s softened by a full skirt that cascades to the floor in a waterfall of gossamer-thin silk petals. It’s possibly the most breathtaking garment I’ve ever seen in my life. But —

  ‘It’s red,’ I say flatly.

  ‘It is not just red, my love, it is scarlet,’ Saada says.

  ‘Won’t it clash with my hair?’ Not to mention the red carpet itself.

  ‘On the contrary, it will highlight your beautiful hair. Your locks are one of your best features, along with your tiny waist and rather spectacular bosom.’ I can’t help but grin; no doubt my bust was one of the attributes Mitchell was keen to showcase.

  ‘I trust your judgement, Saada, but perhaps I should try on some other dresses, too. Just to be sure this is, you know, The One.’

  Saada gives me a knowing smile. ‘But of course. It’s not every day a girl has the world’s greatest designers at her fingertips, no? Let us see what else we can find, and while you’re trying them on I will choose shoes and jewels for Mr de la Renta.’ She lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Just in case.’

  She shows me into the fitting room – which is twice the size of my bedroom back in Sydney – and I peel off my jeans and sweater. I step into the red – sorry, scarlet – gown first. Saada is right: this dress could have been made for me. Not only does it
fit me like a glove, the deep crimson hue makes my titian hair look positively blazing. I know immediately I won’t be wearing anything else tonight. Or possibly ever.

  But I don’t want to leave Saada’s cheerful company just yet, so when I step out into the main studio for her critique I make a face that suggests I’m not entirely convinced. She dutifully hands me another gown – an equally stunning, midnight-blue Valentino number – and follows me into the fitting room, leaning against the doorjamb while I disappear behind an ornate Chinese screen to try it on.

  ‘How are you finding life in the City of Angels?’ Saada calls as I step into the dress.

  ‘Honestly, it’s taking some getting used to,’ I reply carefully. ‘It’s so sprawling and I find it difficult to get around with photographers on my trail all the time.’ There, a perfectly adequate response. Nothing there that could be spun into a scandal for the likes of InTouch. I’m reluctant to express any personal opinions after yesterday, but I figure Saada wouldn’t have a career if she was in the habit of selling her clients’ innermost thoughts to the gutter press. And while I still feel suspicious, I don’t want to be standoffish with Saada. She has such a magnetic presence, and in spite of myself I’m warming to her.

  ‘Ah, yes, the ever-present paparazzi. I must say, it is refreshing to meet someone who sees them as the bottom-dwelling cretins they are. Some of my clients actively court them. They seem to need them like they need oxygen.’

  I zip up the Valentino and sweep out from behind the screen. There’s something about these incredible frocks. Ordinary walking just won’t cut it; only sweeping will do.

  Now it’s Saada’s turn to pull a face. ‘This shade is too dour for your complexion. And the high neckline does nothing for your décolletage,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘Mitchell will not be happy if we cover you up entirely.’

  She hands me an emerald-green Prada sheath and motions for me to turn around so she can unzip the dress I’m wearing. ‘I think green is too obvious for a redhead, but let’s have a look anyway.’ With a gentle push, she sends me back behind the screen.

  The Prada number was clearly made for a woman without hips or a bust. Or ribs. Trying to squeeze myself into it is like trying to get toothpaste back in the tube.

  ‘I can’t imagine being so desperate for attention that I’d actually call up photographers and tell them where I’m going to be,’ I say as I wrestle with the dress. ‘It just seems so, I don’t know, shameless.’

  ‘I’m sure that attitude is one of the reasons Mitchell is so smitten with you. You’re clearly very different to . . . to . . .’

  I freeze, the dress stuck inelegantly around my thighs. ‘To Vida?’

  There’s a loaded silence on the other side of the screen. I shuffle out, still only half dressed, to face Saada. ‘You know Vida Torres?’ Ugh. Now who’s being shameless?

  ‘I apologise, Kitty. I should not have said anything. It was inappropriate.’

  But I’m not about to pass up this chance. This is the first opportunity I’ve had to pump a real-life person for information about Mitchell’s former girlfriend – someone who actually knows her, as opposed to the mysterious (and probably fictitious) ‘sources’ quoted in all the gossip magazines.

  ‘Please, Saada. I feel like I’ve been living in this woman’s shadow ever since I met Mitchell. What’s she like?’

  Saada lets out a noisy sigh. ‘Vida is a client of mine, Kitty, and a friend.’

  I offer a placating smile. ‘And I respect that. I’m just interested to know what sort of person she is,’ I say with a shrug.

  She hesitates, then evidently decides to take pity on me. ‘She is a very nice person, despite what you may have heard. Very focused, determined,’ she says at last.

  I would have preferred her to tell me she’s a heartless wench with the IQ of a gnat, but I suppose it’s a start.

  ‘You said I’m different from her. How so? I imagine Vida wouldn’t interrogate her stylist while half-naked in a fitting room, for one thing.’

  Saada laughs and visibly relaxes. ‘No, you’re right. That’s probably not her style. Vida is very concerned with appearances.’

  I sense we’re getting to the good gossip now. ‘She is a model. I suppose she has to be,’ I say.

  ‘Oh, I don’t mean what she looks like. Vida knows she is beautiful, and I make sure she’s always impeccably dressed.’ I see a flicker of pride in Saada’s eyes as she steps forward to shimmy the green dress the rest of the way up my torso. ‘She’s more concerned with how she is perceived. She has a very strategic understanding of the hierarchy in this town, and of her place within it.’

  ‘Wow. You make it sound like global politics.’ Either that or the ever-shifting social structure at a girls’ high school.

  ‘I suppose it is, in a way. She knows how to use her influence,’ she says, looking thoughtful. ‘It’s why she has been so successful in her charity work. Once she sets her sights on something, she doesn’t give up.’

  I feel as if I’m being laced into a Victorian corset as Saada inches the gown’s zipper up my back. ‘I’m sure that’s why she keeps calling Mitchell. It’s the thrill of the chase.’

  I whirl to face her. ‘Vida calls Mitchell? Since when?’ And why the hell hasn’t he told me?

  In a heartbeat, Saada comprehends what she’s said; what feral, snarling cat she’s let out of the bag. Her regal face falls. ‘No! I mean . . . I don’t know if . . .’

  But it’s too late. My stomach churns and a glance in the mirror reveals my face has already turned the colour of my pretty Prada dress.

  Mitchell is waiting for me when I arrive home with a garment bag containing the Oscar de la Renta dress folded over my arm. Just as Saada predicted, the wine-coloured gown proved unsurpassable, especially when teamed with original Art Deco emerald-and-diamond earrings and quirky green suede Jimmy Choo heels.

  For a sweet second, my heart soars at the sight of Mitchell stretched out on the sofa, eyes closed, his chest rising and falling with deep, even breaths. He’s been working such insane hours on his latest film that it’s a rare thing to see him in daylight and I’m content to just watch him sleep for a few moments.

  But then I remember that he’s apparently been having cosy little conversations with his ex-girlfriend, and my stupid, gullible heart plummets to the soles of my feet.

  It shouldn’t bother me that Mitchell has been speaking to Vida. The rational part of me knows he should talk to her; should seek some resolution to the shocking and painful end of their relationship. But the irrational part of me is stronger and it has two key problems with the whole scenario. Firstly, why hasn’t Mitchell told me he’s in touch with Vida? And secondly, who does that bitch think she is?

  I throw my keys on the hall table with decidedly more force than necessary and Mitchell wakes from his nap with a start.

  ‘Hey, baby,’ he says sleepily, reaching out for me. ‘Come tell me about your day.’

  I cross the room stiffly and perch at the far end of the couch, laying the garment bag carefully over the armrest. ‘What are you doing back so early?’ I ask.

  Mitchell sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. ‘They scheduled it that way because of the premiere tonight. Plus,’ he says, his voice dropping an octave, ‘I missed you.’

  There’s dark desire in his tone and, despite my anger, it sends a shiver right down my spine. Mitchell scoots up to my end of the sofa and gently touches his index finger to my chin, turning my head to face him. He lowers his lips to mine and I can feel the heat, the urgency, in his kiss. He clearly wants to make the most of his unexpected afternoon off, and my body responds before my brain has time to engage. I feel my core grow slick as his tongue explores my mouth.

  Mitchell’s hand snakes up under my sweater and unhooks my bra. My breasts spill forward and press hard against the muscular wall of his chest as he caresses the bare skin of my back. My hands reach for the worn leather of his belt. I feel consumed by a sudden need to be c
onsumed by him.

  And then the phone rings.

  The fire inside is doused as quickly as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over me. I pull my lips away from Mitchell’s as one thought fills my mind: Vida.

  Mitchell looks at me, startled. ‘It’s okay, the machine will get it,’ he says, his voice still thick with lust. He clasps the back of my neck and pulls me in close once more.

  The phone rings again, and again I snap back. ‘You should answer it,’ I say coldly, turning away from him.

  ‘I don’t want to answer it, Kitty,’ he says, frowning. ‘I don’t want to do anything right now but be inside you.’

  His frank choice of words hits me like a punch in the stomach, instantly erasing the last traces of my hunger for him. Any other time, the unconcealed need in that sentence would make me burn for him even more intensely. But there’s something so clinical about the way he says it now, like it’s purely the act that he’s interested in – it’s got nothing to do with me, with us. We haven’t had a proper conversation in days – though apparently he hasn’t had any trouble finding time to chat with the woman who publicly shattered his heart – but all he wants is the immediate gratification of flesh against flesh.

  And still the telephone rings.

  ‘As romantic as that sounds,’ I say, raising my voice to be heard over the insistent chiming, ‘I have to get ready for the premiere. The hair and makeup people will be here any second. And you really should get that call. It might be important.’ I spit out the word.

  Standing, I re-fasten my bra and pick up the garment bag before stalking into the bedroom. In the living room, I hear Mitchell snatch up the phone and mutter a few words to the caller before slamming it back in its cradle.

  A moment later he appears in the bedroom doorway. ‘Do you want to tell me what’s going on?’ he asks.

  ‘Who was on the phone?’

  ‘It was the car service, confirming tonight’s pick-up time.’

  ‘Mack’s not driving us?’ Of course Vida wouldn’t call Mitchell at home, where there’s a chance I could intercept the call. She’s smarter – and more devious – than that.