The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  ‘Pfft,’ Martha says, and waves her hand dismissively. ‘You’re much prettier than her, Kitty. She tries too hard.’

  Vida is the stunning epitome of natural, effortless beauty; saying she tries too hard is like accusing cheese on toast of being too fancy. And yet I feel an overwhelming urge to hug Martha for saying so.

  ‘And anyway, looks don’t make a lick of difference. She envies what you have. It’s so obvious.’

  ‘You mean Mitchell? But she doesn’t even know we’re back together.’ Almost.

  ‘I mean a life. A real life. You have a house and a job that you love, and a family that loves you. And yes, a man who means something. What’s she got? Long legs and a few dollars. That’s not much, and she knows it.’

  As Martha extracts a chamois grooming glove from her tote bag and gets to work giving the dogs a final going-over, I stand and watch Vida. I’m trying to see her as objectively as Martha does; not as the woman who broke Mitchell’s heart and who has been the source of so much angst between us, but as a regular girl like any other – albeit one who scooped the pool in the genetic lottery.

  I’m not blinded by money or fame – my time with Mitchell in Hollywood definitely shattered any illusions I may once have harboured about celebrity. I’ve seen how a privileged life lived in the spotlight can be just as tough as any other kind of existence. And if I put myself in Vida’s towering stilettos, I can imagine that the past year can’t have been easy for her. Sure, she left Mitchell in ignominious fashion, but if there’s one thing I know for certain, it’s that the end of a relationship is heartbreaking for the one who leaves as well as the one who’s left. And yes, she betrayed him with his best friend, which is unforgiveable. But unless she’s completely heartless, sneaking around with Ellis must have been painful for Vida, too. We can’t help who we fall in love with, in spite of the potentially nuclear fallout it may cause. That’s another lesson I’ve learned the hard way.

  And now her marriage to Ellis is over anyway. She must be asking herself if all the heartache was worth it. Also a question I’ve asked myself a lot recently.

  So, sure, I can relate to Vida on some level. Wealth and status aside, maybe we’re not so different. Perhaps she is just a regular girl. And regular girls are programmed to loathe their ex-boyfriend’s new girlfriend. That’s just biology.

  If Martha’s right, if there is some microscopic part of Vida Torres, International Supermodel, that envies Kitty Hayden, Local Dog Trainer, then maybe I could cut her some slack. Take the high road. Be the bigger woman. Figuratively as well as literally.

  The last of the white-hot anger I felt towards Vida in the car dissipates just as a second four-wheel drive roars to a stop beside ours, showering me, Martha and the dogs with a cloud of sand. Danica clambers out and hurries over to me.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Kitty,’ she says, grasping my shoulders. ‘I should have warned you that Vida was the star of this campaign.’

  ‘I’ll admit I was a little surprised to run into her.’ Understatement of the millennium. ‘You didn’t think to mention it?’ Danica’s sudden pallor back at the visitor centre suddenly makes sense.

  She stares at the sand and peeps up at me through mascara-slicked eyelashes. ‘Honestly? I was in such a bind when you showed up at the office earlier in the week, and so desperate for you to take the gig, that I consciously thought not to mention it.’ She offers a contrite smile. ‘It was shifty of me, I know. I really am sorry.’

  I chew my lower lip as I think about how to respond to Danica’s confession. Vida’s appearance has definitely blindsided me, but I think I still would have taken the booking even if Danica had given me a heads-up that she’d be here. I’ve got bills to pay and a life to be getting on with, and Vida Torres has been a thorn in my side for long enough as it is.

  ‘You know what, Danica? I think you actually did me a favour. If I’d known Vida was going to be here, I’d only have spent the past few days stressing out. This way, I’m prepared and focused and good to go.’

  Danica looks incredulous. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course,’ I say with a shrug. ‘Whatever personal issues Vida and I might have, I promise you they won’t affect my work. I’m sure she’d say the same.’

  ‘Wow,’ says Danica. ‘You’re a more evolved being than me, Kitty. If my husband’s ex-wife turned up in my office after talking trash about me to the world’s media, I’d want to scratch her eyes out. And I’d want to scratch my eyes out for not being upfront with me. I mean, you.’

  I briefly consider telling Danica about my newfound goodwill towards Vida, but decide against it. Something tells me my theory of how the six-foot glamazon in the shimmering Cleopatra costume is just like the rest of us could get lost in translation. So I settle instead for, ‘I’m sure we’ll both be able to contain ourselves.’

  ‘Great,’ she says with a relieved grin. ‘In that case, can I get you to join Vida and Gary, the director, for a quick pow-wow about what we need from the dogs?’

  ‘Sure.’ I take Zulu, Caesar and Sphinx’s leashes from Martha and follow Danica across the sand to a portable gazebo that has been set up to provide shade for the cast and crew. Unfortunately it doesn’t have any sides, so it does nothing to shelter us from the biting wind that’s whipping between the dunes. Vida’s perfect skin is ridged with goose bumps and her hard expression is every bit as icy as the temperature.

  ‘G’day, Kitty. Gary Roper’s my name. So, what we’re going to do is . . .’

  Gary launches into a detailed explanation of how the ad will run and the dog’s role within it. Unusually, I haven’t been given a script ahead of time, because I think the concept is still evolving – in fact, the whole campaign strikes me as a bit ad hoc, but hey, it pays. And what Gary’s outlining sounds simple enough, if a bit cheesy. ‘Cleopatra’ will be standing atop a sand dune, surveying her empire: more dunes, some rented palm trees and a sumptuous royal palace that will be inserted later through the magic of computer graphics. But being an ancient aristocrat in the harsh ‘Egyptian desert’ is murder on a girl’s skin, as Vida will demonstrate by caressing her unblemished limbs in a frustrated fashion.

  That’s where Zulu – Gary’s nominated first Pharaoh off the rank – will make her grand entrance, trotting across the sand with a bottle of Cleopatra’s Serum in her mouth. She will deliver it to the queen, solving her invisible dry-skin problems forever.

  ‘Sound good?’ says Gary, with a look that tells me his question is purely rhetorical. Vida and I both nod. ‘Excellent. We’ll be rolling in about ten minutes so, Vida, why don’t you use the time to get familiar with the dogs?’

  Gary walks away, leaving me alone with Vida for the first time ever. She fixes me with her tawny gaze and raises both eyebrows, as if daring me to speak. I stare back at her for what feels like hours before remembering my vow of magnanimity and plastering a smile on my face.

  ‘Okay, we’ll be starting with Zulu, who’s probably the sassiest of the three,’ I say brightly. ‘Don’t worry, she’s well trained and really obedient, so you won’t have any problems with her, but she definitely has a little bit of swagger.’

  I crouch down to give Zulu a scratch behind the ears. When I look up at Vida, her stony mask is as unyielding as ever.

  ‘The command to give her when you want her to release the moisturiser bottle into your hand is —’

  ‘What are you doing?’ Vida interrupts coldly.

  Is she hard of hearing? ‘I’m explaining the directions you’ll need to give the dog,’ I say, standing up.

  She rolls her eyes. ‘I mean, why are you talking to me as if you’re my friend?’ She leans in close. ‘You’re not my friend, dog girl.’

  A spark of the fury I felt earlier flares in my stomach. To think the whole world thinks Vida is saintlier than Mother Teresa. I take a deep breath and silently count to ten. She’s just like me, she’s just like me.

  ‘Vida, we don’t need to do this. Whatever happened between us in the past,
let’s just leave it there and do a good job today.’ I smile at her again, hopefully this time. I’m suddenly uncomfortably aware of just how much havoc she could wreak on this shoot. This job is vitally important for me, for my business, and she could ruin it all without chipping a nail. ‘I have no issue with you, Vida, honestly.’

  She looks as affronted as if I’d slapped her. ‘You have no issue with me?’ Her accent makes her question sound truly menacing. ‘You think I have an issue with you? You think you’re better than me?’

  There’s that clenching anger again. The possibility that she might have spent any time at all thinking about me is clearly utterly laughable to Vida, and that makes me want to slap her for real.

  But then I remember what happened the last time I slapped a celebrity on a film set.

  ‘Look,’ I say, opting for one last stab at generosity. ‘I know it’s not easy when a former partner moves on with someone new, but —’

  And then Vida actually does laugh, long and loud enough to attract the attention of crew members working nearby. ‘Stop! Stop it before you really embarrass yourself,’ she cackles.

  ‘Stop what?’

  She wipes a pretend tear from her eye and makes a great show of quelling her guffaws. ‘Do you honestly think Mitchell fell in love with you? Oh, honey. You could have been anyone.’ Her voice drips with condescension.

  The on-set noise suddenly seems to recede and I become aware of a low buzzing sound in my ears. ‘What are you talking about?’

  Vida swallows the last of her giggles. Her face now is a picture of genuine surprise mixed with spiteful glee. ‘It was a publicity stunt. You were a publicity stunt, Kitty. Mitchell cooked it up with his rep, that cadela Debi.’

  I don’t know what cadela means, but I can tell by the way Vida says it that it’s not a compliment. The buzzing sound grows louder. I feel lightheaded and shaky, my breath coming in shallow bursts.

  ‘No. You’re lying.’ She has to be. She has to be. ‘What Mitchell and I have is real.’

  ‘Oh, please. He’s an actor, Kitty. A damn good one – even I have to admit that. Mitchell can make you feel whatever he wants you to feel,’ she says, a little bitterly. ‘It’s his job.’

  A wave of nausea wells up in the pit of my stomach and I clamp my hand over my mouth. ‘But why?’ I say between my fingers.

  Vida shrugs. ‘When I left him, he was humiliated. There was that pathetic video – I’m sure you saw it. The studio was worried their most bankable star was losing it, and that audiences would be turned off. Crying over a girl isn’t very “action hero”, is it? They spent a hundred and fifty million dollars on Twist of the Knife, you know.’ She says this as if it explains everything.

  ‘SO?!’ I don’t mean to raise my voice, but the buzzing in my ears is so loud now I have to shout to hear myself above it.

  A flicker of uncertainty clouds Vida’s expression. I can tell she’s worried that I’m losing it.

  ‘So Debi thought that Mitchell should find another girlfriend, one who was’ – she looks me up and down –’ordinary, and make her the most talked-about woman in the world. Prove to everyone that whatever Mitchell touches still turns to gold, so people would remember that he’s a huge deal and they’d all go see his stupid movie, and the studio would be happy again.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ I say flatly.

  She flashes a knowing smile. ‘I think you do,’ she says. ‘I mean, he didn’t declare his undying love for you to the world’s media, did he?’

  A lump the size of one of the Devil’s Marbles lodges in my throat. Trying to draw breath past it is like trying to suck a golf ball through a straw. It’s all I can do to remain conscious; speaking is out of the question.

  ‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Kitty. I figured you knew – that you and Mitchell had some kind of arrangement,’ Vida says casually. There it is again; that assumption that we’re all prepared to sell our souls for fifteen minutes of fame.

  I shake my head mutely as Mitchell’s own words echo in my head: You don’t know the half of it. He’d said that the night of the Twist of the Knife premiere, when I’d been gobsmacked by his revelation that Vida and Ellis had orchestrated their separation and reconciliation to generate buzz around the film. There had been a faraway look in his eye as he said it. Was this why? Was he feeling guilty about doing the same thing to me?

  ‘Didn’t it all seem strange, Kitty?’ Vida goes on. ‘Didn’t you ever stop to wonder why Mitchell chose you?’

  There’s that question again – Adam had asked the same one at the restaurant all those weeks ago. Did it seem strange to have a movie star falling at my feet? Of course. From the day I met Mitchell to the agony of this very moment, every single second has felt like an out-of-body experience. But did I wonder why Mitchell chose me? Did I pause to consider why a bona fide superstar would look twice at some plain Jane dog nut from suburban Sydney?

  No. Not once. Because I was too busy choosing Mitchell; choosing to ignore the gut instinct that told me he wasn’t a good guy – the same instinct that had led me to slap him the first time we met – and instead take it upon myself to mend his wounded heart. Because, after all, that’s what I do.

  I was the hunter and from the moment I saw him in that paparazzi video, wobbling drunkenly out of the bar with his proverbial wings clipped, Mitchell became the ultimate lame duck. Only I’m the one who’s been blown to smithereens.

  And then I remember something else. Mitchell swore he was drunk in that video. Emotional and overwrought, he assured me he was simply letting off steam, saying stuff he didn’t mean. But the very first time he turned up on my doorstep, he had turned down Frankie’s offer of a glass of wine. I don’t drink, he’d told her.

  So he was sober in the video. And if he was sober, then he was sincere. When Mitchell said he’d never love anyone like he loved Vida, he meant it.

  I fall to my knees and retch into the sand.

  23.

  While I wouldn’t recommend being emotionally eviscerated by your boyfriend’s ex as a professional motivator, my work on the Cleopatra’s Serum commercial is some of the best I’ve ever done. It’s as if Vida’s truth bomb causes something inside me to disconnect; numbed by the pain of betrayal, my feelings go into lockdown and I switch over to autopilot. No, my brain says. You are not going to let Vida destroy your shaky career on top of everything else.

  Zulu and I work in perfect symbiosis, nailing take after take while Vida flubs her lines and grows increasingly irritated in the cold, uncomfortable conditions. The more efficiently I work, and the more praise Jacinta Sterne and Gary the director heap upon me, the more thunderous Vida’s mood becomes. I imagine I’d find it immensely satisfying, if I were able to feel anything at all.

  Between takes, I smile and answer questions and make friendly conversation with the crew. I eat lunch and drink awful instant coffee. I accept compliments about my skill with the dogs, because I deserve them. I nod when Danica offers me another job for next week. I let Martha’s endless chatter wash over me as I drive her home. And all the while, nobody suspects that something inside me has died.

  My flawless impression of a normal, functioning human being continues right up until I pull into my driveway, just as the last light of the day is fading. The glow of the rising moon glints off the Plymouth’s chrome rear fenders. My mobile rings, and I fish it out of my bag and stare at the screen.

  Mitchell. Calling to plan our beautiful future together. Calling to feed me whatever bogus relationship strategy he and Debi have devised for ‘Kitchell 2.0’.

  Sitting there, in the semi-darkness, my resolve crumbles. Autopilot disengages and the emotions I’ve been ignoring all day rush at me with the force of a dam breaking. I can hardly catch my breath amid the swirling torrent of sorrow, humiliation, regret, shock, and cold, consuming fury.

  But I don’t cry. I can’t; I’m way too tired for crying. I just sit while the phone rings, quietly hyperventilating and gripping th
e steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white.

  Eventually, it rings out. A doorbell chime tells me Mitchell has left a message. There’s five seconds of silence, and then the ringing starts again. And again. And again.

  He calls seven times in a row before sending a text message: Landed at Kennedy. Where are you, beautiful? I can’t wait to have you in my arms again. Call me as soon as you can, M xox

  Did Debi write that for him? I wonder how many drafts it went through, how many people had to approve the script. I wonder if anything Mitchell has ever said to me was real.

  At last, there’s silence. I know it won’t last – Mitchell will call again later, and tomorrow, and probably for several days. He’ll send more text messages and emails, too. But I won’t answer the phone and I won’t reply. I won’t speak to him ever again. I don’t want apologies or gifts or grand gestures. I don’t want platitudes or promises or even an explanation. I don’t want anything from Mitchell Pyke. Ever.

  My gritty-eyed gaze alights on the Plymouth once more. I don’t want this car. I’ve never wanted it – it’s wildly impractical and awkward to drive, not to mention a money pit to run – but now it just feels like a symbol of Mitchell’s and my betraytionship: pretty on the outside, drama behind the scenes. A performance that’s totally unsuited to the real world.

  In fact, the sight of it now – parked here in front of my humble cottage, mocking me with its overblown Hollywood fabulousness – makes me apoplectic. I scramble out of the van and snatch a heavy stone from the garden bed that runs alongside the driveway. Before I have a chance to change my mind, I heave the rock at the car with all the force I can muster. It shatters the Plymouth’s left brake light, then ricochets onto the boot, carving an ugly fissure down the ruby-red duco before denting the bumper and clattering to the ground.

  Breathing hard, I pick it up again and run around to the front of the car, stopping in front of the bonnet. ‘Bye-bye, windscreen,’ I mutter, as I lift the stone high over my head.