Mitchell gives me a meaningful look, then grasps Ellis’s hand and pumps it three times. I know what that look means. It means, I’m going to shake this prick’s hand because, if I don’t, they’ll all say I’m not over Vida.
Mitchell shakes Ellis’s hand for me.
16.
I’m still seeing spots as Mitchell and I are ushered inside the theatre ahead of Ellis and Vida. I thought our kiss had been comprehensively captured by the assembled photographers, but that subsequent moment of apparent reconciliation between Mitchell and Ellis will surely go down in history as ‘the handshake seen around the world’.
‘Are you all right?’ I whisper to Mitchell as we take our seats.
He nods, stony-faced. ‘I’m just thinking about how I’m going to murder my publicist next time I see her,’ he says.
‘Didn’t you tell Debi to make sure the event organisers kept Ellis away from you?’
‘No. Stupidly, I didn’t think I had to. I know Debi can be a shark, but I figured whatever tiny shred of human decency she might possess would make her realise I didn’t want you to meet Vida this way.’ Mitchell speaks quietly, but there’s barely contained fury in his voice.
‘Wait, you think Debi knew Vida would be here? How could she? Her appearance took everyone by surprise.’
He flashes a resigned smile. ‘Oh, I’m sure she knew. In fact, I’d bet that pretty necklace of yours that Debi orchestrated that entire scene. With help from their publicist, of course.’
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. It’s nice that Mitchell’s gone all protective Alpha Male on my behalf, but I think he’s straying into conspiracy-theory territory here. ‘Honey, she’s your publicist. It’s her job to look out for you. Why would she set you up like that?’
‘Debi is very much of the “no such thing as bad publicity” school of thought,’ he says wearily. ‘That little encounter, and the fact that every man and his dog got pictures of it, will mean millions to the total box office of this film and she knows it. That means I remain bankable, so I keep working and keep paying Debi’s salary.’
I shake my head. I can’t believe a few staged pictures of Mitchell and Ellis shaking hands will translate into bumper ticket sales for Twist of the Knife. Then again, based on my experiences in LA so far, I guess I can believe it.
‘Why do you think Vida is here, anyway? I thought she and Ellis were separated.’ The tabloid media have reported on little else for the past two months. When they aren’t speculating on when the apparently newly single Vida will swoop in to reclaim Mitchell, that is.
‘Who knows? It’s a little convenient that they’d publicly reconcile on the very night his latest film premieres, don’t you think?’
My jaw drops. ‘People actually pretend they’re getting divorced just to convince some spotty teenager from Idaho to go see a film?’
He shrugs. ‘That’s Hollywood.’
‘Jesus,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘This town is even more cutthroat than I thought.’
Mitchell gives me a long look, his eyes clouded with sadness. ‘You don’t know the half of it, Kitty.’
Before I can ask him what he means, a woman’s voice interrupts: ‘We meet again.’
I look past Mitchell to see Vida and Ellis settling into the two seats next to us. Oh, come on. As if the rendezvous on the red carpet wasn’t awkward enough, we now have to sit next to the pair of them for the next two hours? I grip the armrests, livid. When I get my hands on that Debi, I’ll murder her myself.
Ellis at least has the decency to look a little uncomfortable with the whole scenario, but Vida wears the smug expression of the cat who stole the cream.
‘Actually, we didn’t meet earlier,’ I say pointedly. ‘I’m Kitty Hayden, Mitchell’s girlfriend.’ I lean across Mitchell and offer her my hand. She shakes it, but I sense a definite reluctance. Good. If she thinks she can make me feel inferior with her unblemished mocha skin and her liquid cocoa eyes and her glossy raven tresses, she can think again.
Mitchell squeezes my other hand and I notice the faintest hint of a smile playing across his lips. In nearly three months, I’ve never actually called Mitchell my boyfriend or referred to myself as his girlfriend in his presence. Throwing the g-word at Vida like a Molotov cocktail wasn’t quite how I’d hoped to ‘define the relationship’, but he obviously appreciated it.
‘Of course, the dog trainer,’ Vida says smoothly. ‘And this is my husband, Ellis Chevalier.’
Ellis smiles wanly and silence descends on our little group. Moments later, the theatre lights dim and I silently thank the cinema gods for sparing me from any more excruciating conversation with either of them.
The movie’s director gets up and gives a short speech, thanking his two leading men for their stellar performances. Two spotlights shine on Ellis and Mitchell and their half-hearted waves are received with rapturous applause.
Finally, the screening begins. The film is probably wonderful, but I can’t say for sure since I don’t actually watch any of it. Instead, I cast furtive glances at Mitchell, who stares resolutely at the screen while gripping my hand like he’s holding onto a cliff face by his fingertips. His face is completely unreadable, but the lingering grief in his eyes is plain. My heart sinks a little to see just what a profound effect Vida still has on him.
I can never tell him how I feel. Never. Not when I’m just not certain that Mitchell’s heart is a Vida-free zone.
On Mitchell’s other side, Vida is watching him just as intently. She leans in closer to him as though she’s about to whisper something in his ear, but settles back in her seat when she sees me see her. The woman is utterly shameless.
Mercifully, after the most agonising hour of my life, Mitchell turns to me and says, ‘Let’s go.’
‘Really?’
‘Yep. No one ever stays for the whole movie.’
‘Thank god for that.’ Finally, a Hollywood protocol I can get behind.
I stand and inch my way along the row. When I reach the aisle, I turn back to see Vida reach out and clasp Mitchell’s hand as he passes.
He looks down at her and she mouths, ‘Call me.’
Mitchell pulls his hand from hers and stalks to the aisle. Grabbing my elbow, he steers me out of the theatre and into the deserted lobby.
‘Whoa there, speedy. Some of us are in six-inch heels,’ I say, trying to lighten the oppressive mood.
‘Sorry,’ he snaps. He paces back and forth, running his hands over his face like he’s trying to rub it out. Maybe he is. Maybe all he wants right now is to be invisible to the world. I know the feeling.
‘Hey,’ I say, stepping in close to him and planting a gentle kiss on his lips. ‘It’s okay. That sucked, but it’s over now.’
Mitchell looks at me sharply. ‘You thought it sucked?’
Well, duh. Then the penny drops. ‘Not the movie. The situation! The movie was brilliant.’ At least, I think it was.
He stills at last and gives a hollow laugh. ‘Sorry, I guess I’m a little sensitive. I was prepared for tonight. Well, I thought so,’ he says. ‘But I just . . .’
‘You were prepared to see Ellis, Mitchell. Not both of them. Not together.’ And especially not acting like nothing ever happened between you.
His chest heaves with a deep sigh and he returns my kiss. ‘How can anyone compare you to her? You’re a hundred times the woman she is, Kitty.’ He kisses me again, more deeply this time. I feel his pelvis stir against the frothy layers of my dress. ‘Promise me you won’t ever forget that.’
My cheeks redden and I lower my gaze, suddenly self-conscious.
‘Promise me,’ Mitchell says again, pulling me closer. There’s a fierceness in his eyes that both thrills and frightens me.
‘I promise. And ow.’
He laughs, sincerely this time, and releases me. ‘Let’s go home. We need to get you out of that dress.’
We sleep late the next morning for what feels like the first time in weeks and I wake well after ten feel
ing relaxed and content, despite our fraught evening. But my sense of wellbeing vanishes when I see that Mack has already deposited a tall stack of newspapers outside the bedroom door. I carry them to the bed, my sense of trepidation growing with each step.
While Mitchell scans Variety and The Hollywood Reporter – known in the movie business as ‘the trades’ – in search of the first reviews of Twist of the Knife, I reach for the Los Angeles Times and USA Today. I’m about to flip to the entertainment pull-outs when I realise that I don’t need to.
I’m front-page news.
‘Oh my god,’ I murmur as the full horror hits home.
Scarlet woman! crows the Times, while USA Today goes with Lady in Red. For once, neither story is about my relationship with Mitchell. They’re not even about my meeting my so-called ‘love rival’ for the first time last night. They’re actually about my underwear.
Or, to be entirely accurate, my lack of underwear.
As it turns out, those whisper-delicate petals I so adored on my fancy Oscar de la Renta dress really were lighter than air. They were so light, in fact, that in the glare of a thousand flashbulbs the skirt became transparent. One hundred per cent see-through.
And I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. Well, I was when I left the house, but Mitchell had pocketed my nude-coloured G-string in the back of the limousine. Not that it would have made a skerrick of difference, I see now. All of which means roughly three hundred million newspaper readers are slurping their cereal this morning while perusing pictures of my rosy round bottom.
‘What is it?’ Mitchell asks, abandoning his own reading and resting his chin on my shoulder.
Groaning, I shove the papers in his direction and bury my face in my hands.
‘Oh dear,’ he says at length. ‘Saada didn’t warn you?’
I shake my head miserably, trying not to think the unthinkable: Did Saada set me up? No. I won’t believe it. She may be friends with Vida, but I just know Saada wouldn’t intentionally have risked sending me down the red carpet with my hoo-ha on show. She wouldn’t jeopardise her reputation, no matter how close she is to Vida. At least I have Hollywood’s relentless self-obsession to thank for that.
And I have to admit there’s a small part of me that’s pleased to see a photograph of me not accompanied by one of Vida Torres. Even if it is of my backside.
‘God, could I be any more of a disaster? Hollywood hates me!’
He chuckles and draws me into a tight embrace. ‘Trust me, you’re not the first woman this has happened to. And if it helps, your ass looks fantastic.’
‘It doesn’t,’ I pout, swatting his cheek lightly. ‘Such a rookie mistake.’
‘Well, it’s not all doom and gloom. The first reviews for Twist of the Knife are pretty great,’ he says.
I grab Variety and speed-read the review. It’s nothing short of rapturous, calling the film a ‘dramatic triumph’ and lording Mitchell as ‘a surefire Oscar contender’. At the same time, I note meanly, the reviewer derides Ellis as ‘one note’ and ‘wooden’.
‘Pretty great? Mitchell, this is amazing!’ I lean over and plant a kiss on his lips, my own torment momentarily forgotten. He responds with gusto and in seconds we’re lost in a tangle of lips, tongues and limbs.
Much later, sweaty and sated, I nestle into the crook of Mitchell’s arm and listen to his deep, steady breathing. I’m teetering on the edge of sleep when he suddenly says, ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Tell me truthfully,’ he says, rolling me gently onto the mattress and propping himself up on his elbow. ‘Do you think I’m good at what I do?’
I study Mitchell’s face carefully, sure he’s messing with me. ‘Um, did you not read the review I just read? Pretty sure they’re tipping you for a little gold statue.’
Mitchell waves a hand dismissively. ‘Who cares what reviewers think? You know what they say: those who can, do – those who can’t, review. I want to know what you think, Kitty.’
I pull myself up to sitting and draw my knees into my chest. ‘Mitchell, you’re incredibly talented. How can you not know how good you are?’
He exhales noisily and throws himself back into the pillows. ‘Sorry,’ he says, screwing his face up. ‘I’m really not one of those diva actors who need compliments the way others need air and water, I promise. It’s just . . .’ He trails off and stares at the ceiling.
‘It’s just?’ I prompt.
Mitchell rolls to face me again. ‘It matters to me – probably more than it should – that the people I care about like what I do.’
The expression on his face is so earnest, like he’s willing me to understand something he doesn’t want to have to say aloud. And suddenly, I do.
‘It must have been hard not having your family’s support when you started out,’ I say gently. ‘I know your dad was against you pursuing acting as a career, but what about your mum?’
Mitchell shrugs. ‘My father is an extremely dominating man. It’s his way or the highway.’
‘You don’t mean he . . .’
‘What? Oh!’ Mitchell registers my horrified expression. ‘No. He was never violent. But he’s manipulative. Somehow he convinced my mother that the tough-love approach – that’s what he calls turning his back on his own son – was good for me. That I’d eventually give up and come scurrying back to Indiana.’
‘But instead you became a huge success. Surely they must miss you?’
‘I thought that way once. I even called him. “Hey, Dad, I’m not a failure after all, can I come home for Christmas?”’ Mitchell laughs bitterly. ‘He hung up on me.’
My heart sinks. ‘But why?’
‘Because I did the one thing that’s worse than proving him right. I proved him wrong. I made him look stupid.’ He shrugs. ‘That’s the way he sees it.’
I can’t quite wrap my mind around it. I remember the way my mother fought so hard against the disease that was slowly killing her because she was desperate to stay with her children. That a father would disown a son for daring to disobey him, even when that disobedience proved worthwhile, is as foreign to me as this new country I’m living in.
I bite back the choice insults poised on the tip of my tongue. I know Mitchell doesn’t want me to criticise his father. I can tell by his forlorn expression that he’ll never stop hoping to win the man’s approval.
‘I’m glad you told me,’ I say instead, wrapping my arms around him. ‘And you can obsess over reviews all you like. Your diva movie-star secret is safe with me.’
He laughs and buries his face in my neck. ‘Have I told you lately what a lucky bastard I am to have you?’
‘Not recently,’ I reply, trailing my fingers lightly down his spine. ‘Why don’t you demonstrate your appreciation instead?’
In one swift motion, Mitchell pins me underneath him, trailing his lips down my neck, my chest, my solar plexus. His kisses grow more urgent as he continues the journey south, and within moments I’m adrift.
Just as the wave of my pleasure approaches its peak, Mitchell’s mobile phone vibrates harshly on the bedside table. I feel him hesitate.
‘Leave it,’ I rasp, digging my fingernails into his back.
The ringing stops and Mitchell relaxes into my arms once more. For about three seconds, until his phone starts trilling again.
‘I’d better get it,’ he says, pulling away and trying to catch his breath. ‘Whoever it is clearly isn’t giving up.’
He snatches up the phone. ‘Yeah?’ he barks. Then he turns to me, arching his brows. ‘Debi. I was going to call you this morning. What the —’
This should be good.
But Mitchell’s publicist interrupts his reading of the riot act. I can hear her shrill voice squawking at the other end of the phone line. He frowns. ‘Of course I haven’t seen it, Debi. You know I don’t read that shit. Okay. Fine. Fine. I’ll call you back.’
He ends the call but doesn’t put the phone down, tapping at the screen ins
tead.
‘Problem?’
‘I don’t know. Probably just Debi being hysterical,’ he says absently. ‘She says there’s some story about us on the InTouch magazine website. She’s emailing me the link now.’
My blood runs cold as my meeting with Molly Reid in Runyon Canyon Park comes rushing back. She must have turned our brief conversation into the predictable hatchet job.
Within seconds, the sound of the email arriving rings out like machine-gun fire. I can’t look as Mitchell calls up the story and, with a heavy sigh, begins to read. Seconds stretch into minutes. It feels like an eternity before Mitchell turns to me, hurt and confusion plain on his face.
‘Kitty, did you talk to a reporter?’
‘No! Well, yes. But I didn’t —’
‘Yes? You gave an interview about our relationship? When?’
I can see the dismay in Mitchell’s eyes slowly morphing into anger. ‘A couple of days ago, in Runyon Canyon Park. But Mitchell, I swear I didn’t know she was a reporter. I would never talk to the press about you. About us.’ Surely he has to know that?
Relief flickers briefly. ‘So none of this is true? You didn’t say that you hate living in LA and you want to go back to Australia? That I’ve stranded you here?’
‘Well, I —’
He shakes his head. ‘These hacks. They’ll print any old lies to sell magazines. Well, I’ve had enough of it. They can say what they like about me, but they have no business messing with you.’
Mitchell starts punching numbers into the phone’s keypad.
‘Who are you calling?’
‘My lawyer. I’m going to sue them. This has to stop.’
‘No! You . . . you can’t do that.’
‘Oh yes, I can. You once said it yourself, Kitty – we Americans are a litigious lot.’ He smiles bitterly and places the phone to his ear.
‘Wait!’ I grab the phone and end the call before it connects.
The Ex Factor Page 18
