The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  ‘It’s okay. They deserve what’s coming to them.’ He holds out his hand for the phone.

  ‘No, Mitchell. You don’t understand.’ Oh god. It’s now or never. ‘The story is . . . it’s not entirely untrue. I did say some of those things.’ My shame is like a lump of granite in my chest; I can barely drag my breath past it.

  Mitchell grows very still. ‘Which things?’ he says, almost inaudibly.

  I hang my head, tears pricking at my eyes. ‘All of them.’

  His breath comes in a rush, as though he’s been winded. ‘All of them? You mean, you told this woman that we’re drifting apart?’ His green eyes are flinty.

  An hour passes. Or maybe it’s just half a second. All I know is, the world changes in that instant. ‘Yes.’

  Without another word, Mitchell gets out of bed and pulls on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt.

  ‘Mitchell, please. Let me explain!’

  He rounds on me, his face contorted with rage. ‘What is there to explain, Kitty? You’ve never believed this would work. I don’t know why you even came. You’ve been miserable from the moment you arrived. But instead of talking to me about it, the man who . . .’ He stops and rakes his hands through his hair. ‘Instead of trying to work it out, you tell a reporter what a shitty boyfriend I am.’

  ‘I didn’t know she was a reporter! I was lonely and sad. We got talking in the park. I thought she was a . . . a friend.’

  Even to my own ears, I hear how pathetic I sound. I may be a novice player in the fame game, but I should have known better than to vent my relationship woes to a total stranger. Of course Molly knew who I was. Everyone does now, and that’s not arrogance, it’s just a fact. She probably pays the paparazzi for tip-offs and hightailed it to the park the second one of them called to tell her I was there. She probably hired that dog! If I’d thought about it for one second, I would have kept my mouth shut. But I was so needy, so mired in my own pitiful friendlessness, that I latched on to the first person to show any interest in me. Not ‘Mitchell Pyke’s girlfriend’ me, but me.

  And in my desperate attempt to make myself feel better for a little while, I’ve done exactly what Mitchell has tried so hard from the moment we met to convince himself I wouldn’t do. I’ve publicly trampled his heart, just like Vida.

  Mitchell stalks toward the bedroom door.

  ‘Please don’t go, Mitchell. Can’t we talk about this?’

  ‘What is there to talk about? You seem to have made up your mind about our relationship.’

  And he leaves.

  17.

  I’ve been crying for, oh, about seven hundred years when the doorbell rings. My eyes are red and swollen; my nose would give Rudolph a run for his money. I’m in no fit state to be seen by anyone, but I rush to open the door anyway. The tiny glimmer of hope that it might be Mitchell trumps any concerns about my appearance.

  And besides, when the whole world has seen your backside, looking a little unkempt in the privacy of your own home doesn’t seem like such a big deal.

  But it’s not Mitchell on the doorstep. Of course it’s not. Why would he ring his own bell? It’s Mack, clutching an enormous bunch of red roses.

  ‘Afternoon, ma’am,’ he says. ‘These were just delivered to the gatehouse for you.’

  My heart leaps. Mitchell.

  Mack hands me the bouquet while studying my face intently. It’s obvious he knows something’s up. As if my blotchy face isn’t enough of a flashing neon sign, he would have seen Mitchell’s car speeding out of the drive hours earlier. Mitchell doesn’t drive himself anywhere unless he absolutely has to.

  But, bless him, Mack also knows better than to pry into the affairs of his celebrity employer. ‘Everything okay?’ he asks casually. ‘Anything you need?’

  I shake my head, sniffling attractively. ‘I’m fine, but thank you.’ I nod toward the flowers. ‘I’d better get these into some water.’

  ‘Of course,’ says Mack, turning to go. Then he hesitates, pivots to face me once more. ‘They ain’t no better than the rest of us, you know?’

  ‘Who ain’t? Er, isn’t?’

  He shrugs. ‘These movie stars. They got they money and they big house, but they just folks like you and me. Don’t be fooled by all this.’ He sweeps his arm out to indicate Mitchell’s vast property. ‘It’s none of my business, but you’re a special lady, Kitty. Don’t never let nobody tell you different.’

  Fresh tears well in my eyes, not so much at Mack’s kind words but the fact that – finally – he actually used my name. ‘Thank you, Mack,’ I manage to choke out.

  ‘Aight then. You call me you need anything.’ He turns his monolithic frame and ambles back toward the gatehouse.

  I carry the flowers into the kitchen, feeling foolish and sad. My ham-fisted efforts to make a friend have probably killed my relationship with Mitchell, and yet there was a potential pal under my nose all along. How clueless can one woman be?

  Setting the blood-red flowers on the marble counter, I pluck out the card. My jaw literally drops as I read the message inside.

  Kitty, it wasn’t personal. For what it’s worth, I really did enjoy meeting you. Unfortunately, the scoop is everything in my business. If you think you can ever forgive me, I’d love to buy you a cup of coffee sometime – off the record, I promise.

  Your friend, Molly Reid.

  My friend? She cannot be serious. This woman is the reason Mitchell stormed out of here six hours ago. She’s the reason I don’t know where he is right now, or if he’s coming back. She’s the reason he won’t answer his phone, despite the dozen messages I’ve left for him. And she thinks a few measly flowers are going to make me forget all that and agree to a friendly chitchat over a latte? I am literally breathless at her audacity.

  The words on the card swim in front of my eyes, only this time it’s not misery but blind fury that’s affecting my vision. How stupid does Hollywood think I am?

  ‘Screw this town!’ I scream. My words reverberate around the spotless kitchen.

  My response is an excited yip-yip-yip! from the doorway. I whirl around to see Mitchell leaning against the doorjamb, cradling a white whicker basket. In the basket, a big red bow around its neck, is a puppy.

  ‘Bad time?’ Mitchell drawls. ‘We can come back later.’ But he sets the basket on the floor and the puppy leaps out. It trips over its clumsy paws in its rush to explore every corner of its new surroundings. I’d find it adorable if I weren’t still so unutterably angry.

  ‘What is that?’ I say stiffly.

  ‘As a professional dog trainer, I kinda hoped that would be obvious to you.’ He grins a sardonic smile. When I don’t respond, he tries a different tack. ‘She’s an Australian Shepherd. Her name is Gracie. After . . .’

  My gaze snaps from the puppy back to Mitchell. From the way he has his hands jammed into his jeans pockets, I can tell his easy self-assurance has given way to uncertainty.

  ‘After my mother.’

  He nods. ‘I know how much you miss Sydney and the dogs. I can’t be here as much as I’d like and I know you’re lonely.’ He steps forward and caresses my cheek with the back of his hand. ‘I overreacted this morning. I know you wouldn’t have talked to that woman if you’d known she was a reporter. It’s not your fault.’

  The puppy returns to Mitchell and lies down at his feet. She’s asleep within seconds.

  ‘I know it’s not my fault, Mitchell,’ I snap. I push his hand away and step beyond his reach. With Gracie lying across his toes, he can’t follow me. ‘It’s not my fault I can’t live my life like a normal person here. It’s not my fault that the whole damn world has decided I’m not good enough for you. I don’t need a dog named after my dead mother to know that’s it not my fault.’

  Especially an expensive pedigree pup when LA’s shelters are packed with unwanted mutts, I want to add.

  Mitchell looks stricken. I can’t tell if he wants to gather me up into his arms or run away. I don’t think he can tell either. ‘I j
ust thought you could use a companion,’ he mumbles.

  ‘I do need a companion. I need the man who invited me here to be my companion. What I don’t need is vintage cars and designer puppies and ridiculous jewellery. You can’t fix everything by throwing money at it. I don’t need expensive Band-Aids, Mitchell, I need a real relationship.’

  As soon as the words leave my lips, understanding dawns. Mitchell doesn’t want what I want: a true partnership. At least, not yet and not with me. He wants the sex and the fun and a warm body in his bed at night, but he’s not ready for everything that comes with it. Both Frankie and Adam were right. Mitchell has thrown himself into our . . . whatever this is for the same reason he threw himself into his work with renewed vigour after his relationship with Vida imploded: he simply didn’t know what else to do.

  It’s not just the rest of the world that thinks I’m a stopgap, a mere impersonation of the irreplaceable Vida Torres. Mitchell thinks so, too.

  It’s hardly surprising that he’s keeping me at arm’s length, trying to distract me with his wealth and status. He doesn’t understand that I truly don’t care about those things. Mack is right: the trappings of Mitchell’s celebrity lifestyle are all just stuff. It doesn’t mean a damn thing. None of it makes Mitchell better able to deal with his pain.

  My stomach clenches as I realise that Mitchell doesn’t trust me to really love him, because he simply doesn’t believe that I won’t hurt him if he allows himself to really love me. After all this time, he still hasn’t said the L-word. And he won’t, because he’s terrified of how vulnerable it would make him. He’s playing the part of a devoted boyfriend, and he almost had me convinced. But his portrayal doesn’t ring true; his heart isn’t in it.

  I feel doubly, triply, quadruply glad I didn’t confess my feelings to him last night. What if he’d said it back out of some sense of obligation? The puppy probably would have come with her own mansion.

  ‘The problem is, Mitchell,’ I say, ‘you’re not over Vida.’

  ‘What? Of course I am! I don’t ever want to see her again.’ He slams his fist on the countertop, waking Gracie with a start. She skitters across to me and sits at my feet with a pleading look. In spite of myself, I pick her up. She licks my hand and nestles into the crook of my elbow. She’s so fragile, so tiny against this unforgiving, foreign landscape. I know exactly how she feels.

  I close my eyes. It’s suddenly all so clear. My anger dissipates and a profound, smothering anguish takes its place. ‘I don’t mean Vida personally, I mean what she did to you. The way she betrayed you. You can’t move past it. And we can’t move forward until you do.’

  ‘So, what then? What are you saying, Kitty?’ There’s utter defeat in Mitchell’s tone. It stings a little that he doesn’t insist Vida is but a distant memory, but I wouldn’t believe him if he did.

  I stare out of the wide kitchen window. All of Los Angeles spreads out below Mitchell’s hilltop perch. The sun is setting, casting a dappled glow across the smog-ridden metropolis. From up here, the city is almost beautiful.

  But it’s not home.

  ‘I think we need some time apart. You need to figure out what you want, Mitchell.’ I step forward and kiss his cheek. ‘It’s okay. You can’t say we didn’t try.’

  His eyes glisten. ‘And what about you?’ he says, his voice threadbare. ‘What do you want?’

  I look once more at that sprawling vista, where so many dreams are realised.

  And where even more are dashed.

  ‘I want to go home.’

  18.

  It might be one of the busiest airports in the world, not to mention the gateway to the Promised Land for many travellers, but LAX is easily the worst I’ve ever seen. The check-in area of the Tom Bradley International Terminal is all high-spec and shiny, with an array of slick fast-food outlets and exclusive stores, but pass through Customs and it’s as grim and grey as a prison.

  It’s almost two o’clock in the morning and a fuel leak has delayed my flight by three hours. The last update from the airline was over an hour ago and people are growing fractious. Prone bodies litter the grimy floor. There’s not enough seating in the gate lounge for the five hundred passengers who should be somewhere over the Pacific Ocean by now, let alone the plane-load of people whose flight was scheduled to depart from this gate after mine, so people are trying to get comfortable however they can.

  The solitary food kiosk in this part of the terminal closed hours ago and the vending machines have been stripped bare. So that makes roughly a thousand exhausted, irate and really hungry people crammed into what is essentially a shabby shed.

  It complements my mood to a tee.

  The latest issue of InTouch has hit newsstands, with an expanded version of Molly Reid’s ill-gotten exclusive as the cover story. It looks as if every second person in the terminal is reading it. Well, pretending to read it while surreptitiously staring at me.

  Mitchell doesn’t love me! screams the headline. Aussie Kitty’s anguish. As if the online story wasn’t intrusive enough, the print edition includes quotes from ‘sources’ confirming my misery, and includes not only a list of the various expensive gifts Mitchell gave me, but details of my mother’s death. God knows where Molly got her information, but it’s all true – and reading it was like being publicly eviscerated.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, it’s Brenda again,’ comes a gratingly perky voice over the public-address system. My jaw clenches. No one has any business sounding so cheerful at this hour and in these circumstances, least of all the vapid airline spokeswoman. ‘Once again, I’d like to apologise for the continued delay to your service to Sydney tonight. The good news is the captain has just informed me the technical issues have been rectified and we expect to have you boarding within the next ten to fifteen minutes.’

  A cheer goes up from the crowd and there’s a stampede to queue at the boarding doors. Some people actually applaud. I want to break their fingers.

  I pull out my phone and click on the messages icon for what feels like the millionth time this evening.

  Nothing.

  I haven’t seen or spoken to Mitchell since I told him I wanted to leave LA two nights ago. Not since he picked up the puppy, turned and walked out of the kitchen.

  And apparently out of my life.

  I stuffed some clothes into a suitcase, checked into a cheap motel and spent the following day planning my return to Sydney. Everything else is still at Mitchell’s mansion, including the belongings I brought with me from Sydney nearly five weeks ago.

  Not even five weeks. That’s how long my Hollywood dream with Mitchell lasted. With the six weeks we spent together in Sydney, our relationship lasted less than three months in total. It seems laughable that I uprooted my entire life for such a tiny fragment of time. I left my house, my dogs, and my job for him. And what did he give up? Not a single thing. Not even five minutes of his time to make a phone call.

  But I don’t even know what I’d say to him if he called now. Goodbye? I’m sorry? Send my stuff back? There’s so much left unsaid between us, I wouldn’t know where to start.

  The boarding queue has started moving at last, so I tag onto the end of it. When at last I reach the insufferably perky Brenda, I hand her my boarding pass and stride down the air bridge onto the plane without looking back.

  The air on board the A380 is hot, thick and stale; it’s as if the infamous LA smog crept in and filled all the available space while the plane sat idle on the tarmac. As I take my seat and shove my carry-on bag under the seat in front, my mobile phone rings.

  Mitchell. I curse the thought as soon as it forms in my brain. Where Mitchell Pyke is concerned, I’m done hoping.

  ‘Hello?’ I say quietly. Even though we’re still on the ground, there’s something about using a phone on a plane that just feels wrong to a by-the-book traveller like me.

  ‘Kitty,’ comes Frankie’s voice, thick with tears. She sounds reedy and far away, as if she’s on another planet instead of on
the other side of the ocean.

  My heart leaps into my throat. ‘Frankie? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Bananarama,’ my sister says, choking back a sob. ‘She’s sick, Kitty. She’s really, really sick.’

  A nauseating chill envelops my body like a cloak, though the plane’s air conditioning still hasn’t kicked in. ‘What do you mean? What’s wrong with her, Frank?’

  ‘She was really quiet all day yesterday. She didn’t eat her dinner and wasn’t interested in playing with the other dogs. I didn’t think much of it – you know how she can be. But then she woke me up in the night, drinking constantly. She emptied her water bowl in one go, so I refilled it and she drank that, too.’

  ‘Was it hot today? Maybe she’s just a bit dehydrated,’ I say hopefully, but dread has settled in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘That’s what I thought. So I refilled her bowl again, and then again. Kitty, she drank seven bowlfuls of water. I finally stopped refilling it because I thought she was going to drink herself to death.’

  There’s a tap on my shoulder. I turn to see a heavily made-up stewardess leaning over me. ‘Ma’am, you’re going to need to switch off your phone now. We’re preparing for departure,’ she says in a no-nonsense tone.

  I nod and cover the mouthpiece. ‘Just a second. This is really important.’ The stewardess frowns, but moves on.

  ‘Frankie, you need to call —’

  ‘I called him. He opened the clinic for us in the middle of the night and ran all kinds of tests . . .’ She trails off.

  ‘What did he say? Frankie? What did Adam say?’ The other passengers in my row turn to stare at me, whether alarmed by the desperation in my voice or its volume I’m not sure.

  ‘He said she has acute renal failure. Her kidneys are shutting down. Her body can’t get rid of toxins and waste products.’ She dissolves into tears.

  ‘Ma’am.’ The stewardess is back and looking pointedly at my phone. ‘The final cabin door is closed and we’re about to begin our taxi. You have to switch that off. Now.’