The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  That melancholy trip down memory lane was followed by a photo shoot at my house with a photographer-to-the-stars called Candi or Brandi, or something, who was flown to Sydney from LA by the magazine. Her job, she said, was to make me look sad and solemn, as though I couldn’t have managed it by myself.

  And now the deed is done, and there’s nothing left for me to do but wait for the issue to come out while repeatedly logging into my internet banking to stare at the screen that says I have half a million dollars in my account.

  Half a million bucks. It’s more money than I ever dreamed I’d have to my name. Mitchell earns that much in less than a day. Is my love, my trust, really worth so little? I guess, to him, it is.

  I refresh my email inbox again and there it is: a message from Molly Reid, with a little paperclip symbol that indicates an attachment. The actual magazine comes out in the US tomorrow, but it will take a few days for an air-freighted copy to reach me, so Molly agreed to put me out of my misery by emailing me a PDF version of the article. I take a deep breath and open the message, then double click on the attached file.

  Oh. My. God.

  It’s not an article at all. Well, it is – but it’s not just an article. The first page of the PDF is the cover of InTouch. And larger than life in the middle of the cover is me.

  My poor excuse for a love life is a supermarket rag cover story. My humiliation is officially complete.

  EXCLUSIVE!

  ‘It was all a lie!’

  Mitchell Pyke’s heartbroken Aussie lover Kitty Hayden reveals how the star FAKED their relationship to help his career – and she had no idea!

  The breathless tone continues as I scroll through six pages devoted to ‘the biggest scandal to rock Hollywood in years’. It’s all here. How Mitchell tracked me down after our fraught first meeting; our first kiss, in full view of the paparazzi and obviously stage-managed for maximum exposure; his super-fast promises of commitment and entreaties for the same from me; the extravagant gifts; the ever-present spectre of Vida Torres in our relationship; my long, lonely weeks in California; our split and my return to Sydney. And then the pièce de résistance: our near-reconciliation and Vida’s nuclear bombshell.

  I finish reading and quietly close my laptop. Nothing in Molly’s story is untrue, but seeing it all there, chronicled in black and white, makes it feel totally surreal. Celebrities manufacturing relationships to further their careers! People who get paid to pretend being even more duplicitous when the cameras stop rolling! Superstars with more money and power than some countries using gullible civilians as pawns to settle petty rivalries! The seedy Tinseltown publicity machine exposed for what it really is! Not even a Hollywood screenwriter could make this stuff up.

  What Molly hasn’t done is seek comment from Mitchell, Vida, or even Mitchell’s publicist, Debi. The story makes him out to be very much the bad guy, but doesn’t give him the right of reply. No doubt that’s because they’ll devote six pages in next week’s issue to Mitchell’s side of the story. And Vida’s the week after that. Not that Mitchell could say anything that would make any of it okay. What he did is unforgiveable, at least in my mind.

  And yet I can’t help wondering what Mitchell will make of it, how he’ll feel when he reads the article. I know he will – that snake Debi is probably already in the midst of an epic meltdown over it. Somehow I don’t think her ‘all publicity is good publicity’ philosophy extends quite this far. Will Mitchell be angry? Sad? He put so much effort into deceiving me; this was truly a long con. Will he feel any remorse about his scam, or will he only feel sorry that I’ve blown his cover?

  As if on cue, the home phone starts to ring. I open my laptop and the Skype ringtone sounds, followed by a dozen pinging email alerts. And so it begins.

  Then my mobile rings, and Mitchell’s name flashes up on the screen. Before I can even think about it, I hit ‘Answer’.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Why, Kitty?’ I have to strain to hear him over the jangle of ringtones in the background, but Mitchell’s voice sounds plaintive, almost strangled. ‘Why would you do this?’

  I realise he’s holding back tears and my heart leaps into my throat. Not this. Outrage I was prepared for. Threats of litigation and ruination I expected. But not this. Not hurt, confusion, unvarnished pain.

  ‘I might ask you the same question,’ I say, fighting to keep the steel in my voice.

  ‘It’s not true, Kitty. I swear to you, it’s not true.’

  ‘What’s not true? The part where you sold your soul to a movie studio? Or the bit where you and Debi decided to ruin my life?’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong.’ He sounds desolate. ‘I can explain everything. Why did you talk to the press? You should have come to me.’

  And there it is. The insistence that this is all my doing; that I’m in a situation entirely of my own making. The arrogant presumption that I should have given the big important celebrity another opportunity to lie to me.

  ‘Listen,’ Mitchell goes on. ‘If we could just —’

  ‘No, Mitchell. You listen! You’ve lied to me from the moment we met and I don’t want to hear any more lies. I can’t take it.’

  ‘I’ve never lied to you. Not once!’

  ‘Really? You told me you don’t drink, but you claimed to be drunk in that video when you said . . .’ my voice falters. He knows what he said in the clip. ‘You must have been sober. You lied.’

  ‘I was drunk,’ he almost shouts. ‘And I don’t drink.’

  ‘Well, that clears things right up,’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘I don’t drink because I’m a terrible lightweight. Whenever I touch alcohol I get into embarrassing scrapes like that one, so usually I stay away from it. That night was different.’ Mitchell sighs hopelessly. ‘Haven’t you ever had your heart broken, Kitty?’

  Did he really just ask me that? Is he serious?

  My voice wavers as tears well in my eyes. ‘You have no idea what you’ve done to me, Mitchell, to my life. I don’t know why you chose me, but I wish you hadn’t. I wish I’d never met you.’

  ‘Kitty, please. You don’t mean that.’

  ‘I do. And I mean this, too: don’t ever contact me again. Forget my name. Forget my face. Forget all of it.’

  And I hang up, knowing that I’ll never be able to forget any of it.

  25.

  They say every cloud has a silver lining, and in my case it’s the glum look on Erin McInerny’s face when she assumes her semi-regular position in front of my house at dawn the next day. She’s one of more than a dozen reporters and camera crews, but hers is by far the sourest expression.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say cheerfully as I stroll past the assembled scrum with Reggie, Dolly and Carl in tow. I don’t feel the least bit cheerful, but I can’t resist the opportunity to add insult to Erin’s injury. She’s pouting like a schoolgirl who’s just been given detention.

  ‘How could you talk to InTouch?’ she spits. ‘I thought we had a deal.’

  I flash her a big smile. ‘Why on earth would you think that, Erin? I’d have given an interview to Kyle Sandilands before I’d talk to you.’

  Her pretty face contorts into a scowl and she thrusts her microphone at me. ‘Will you give me a quote now, at least?’ She clearly thinks I owe her, and that audacity sets my teeth on edge. She is so lucky the dogs are worn out from an extra-long run at the park, or there would be fur and bottle-blonde hair flying.

  ‘Here’s a quote for you,’ I say tightly, my faux joviality gone in an instant. ‘Get your bony backside off my property once and for all.’

  Reggie punctuates my statement with a menacing growl. It never ceases to amaze me how accurately he can read my mood despite not being able to hear my voice. If only Ms McInerny was so perceptive.

  Erin stalks across the lawn to her broadcast truck, a bewildered cameraman trotting along behind her. Sensing their moment, the other journalists dive in with their own questions, and for the first time, I decide to answer t
hem. What have I got to lose now? My story is already out there for all to see.

  ‘Kitty, has Mitchell seen the story?’ asks a tall man with a shock of black hair and a florid complexion. ‘What does he think?’

  ‘Yes, he’s seen it. I don’t know what he thinks. You’ll have to ask him.’

  A curvaceous brunette chimes in. ‘So you’ve been in contact with Mitchell? Is there any chance of a reconciliation?’

  I look directly into her eyes. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Peta Fornelli. I’m with celebuzz.com.’

  ‘Well, Peta. Have you read the article?’

  She nods.

  ‘Would you reconcile with a man who treated you like that?’

  She shakes her head vehemently. ‘Hell, no!’

  I shrug. Me either.

  ‘So, you’re saying there’s absolutely no chance?’ Peta persists. ‘Like, when Mitchell stumbled out of that bar and said he’d never love anyone like Vida – this is like that?’

  I hesitate. Is this like that? Is this my definite, final – and public – say on the matter? I know that, in spite of everything, I still have feelings for Mitchell. Discovering that his feelings weren’t real doesn’t make my own any less so, more’s the pity. But that’s an issue for a lonely night and a bottle of chardonnay. I’m not about to admit to the world’s media that I’m still in love with the guy who trampled my heart. Not when such an admission would mean signing up for a lifetime of early-morning interrogations about my relationship status on my front lawn.

  ‘It’s a moot point,’ I say at last. ‘You can’t have a relationship with someone who was only pretending to have a relationship.’

  ‘Do you think Solitaire’s release date being pushed back has anything to do with this?’ Peta asks. When I blink, surprised, she says, ‘Oh, you didn’t know?’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  She leans her head close to mine. ‘I’ve heard the studio’s in damage control. They think the movie will bomb if they release it while the whole world thinks Mitchell’s a total shit.’

  Peta looks alarmed when the other reporters titter at this, as though she’d forgotten she’s surrounded by her competition.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure it’s a good film.’ But actually, I’m not sorry. The thought of seeing Mitchell’s handsome face on the backs of buses and plastered across promotional billboards all over Sydney is too much to bear right now.

  Peta opens her mouth to ask another question, but a statuesque redhead interrupts. ‘How much did InTouch pay for your tell-all?’ she asks bluntly.

  I bristle at the rude question. My mother always said discussing money in public was vulgar, and it’s stuck with me. ‘That’s my business,’ I say pertly.

  Red rolls her eyes. Clearly she’s of the opinion that, because I sold my story to a magazine, every detail of my life is now fair game.

  ‘What are you going to do with the money then? Buy a better house?’

  I gasp audibly at her impudence. Maybe she and Erin are friends; they both have an equally charming way with people.

  As it happens, I know exactly what I’m going to do with the money. I’ve known since the moment I picked up the phone to dial Molly Reid’s number. It’s the whole reason I decided to make my deal with the devil. Well, almost the whole reason.

  But I’m not going to tell this nosy cow a damn thing.

  ‘The money has been earmarked for a project that will be underway soon,’ I say in the frostiest tone I can muster. ‘Watch this space.’

  Frankie hasn’t been home in five days. Not since my last mortifying encounter with Adam. This isn’t like when Rama died and Frankie stayed away to give me time to get myself together. I know my sister and I know that, this time, she’s pissed off. And she has every right to be.

  I made a pass at my sister’s boyfriend.

  Ugh. Thinking of Adam that way is going to take some getting used to. But I’m going to get used to it – I’ve got to – because I’ve been thinking about it, and the thing is, Adam and Frankie are actually made for each other.

  Adam is cautious, while Frankie is impulsive. They’re both sharp as tacks, but he’s more academic and she’s worldly-wise. He’s as emotionally constipated as Hugh Grant in every Hugh Grant movie ever, while she’s forthright to a fault. He’ll help her to grow up and she’ll keep him from becoming middle-aged before his time. She’ll drag him to the top of the highest rollercoaster, and he’ll keep her feet on the ground when she needs it.

  He will love her and protect her, even though she thinks she’s fine on her own. They will complement and challenge each other every single day in every single way. Their relationship will be all about checks and balances.

  My sister and my best friend are a perfect match, and realising this makes me genuinely happy. Not just happy for them, but happy that – at last – something has worked out the way it ought to.

  I just hope Frankie is willing to hear me say so. Something tells me that, after a transgression like this, being sisters does mean having to say you’re sorry. There’s no way Adam won’t have told Frankie what happened between us. He’s always been rubbish at keeping secrets; he would have spilled his guts the second he got home. And the fact that I didn’t know Adam and Frankie were together when I kissed him makes no difference. I broke rule one in the sisters rulebook, and making amends will require some big-time grovelling.

  Which is why I’ve come to Adam’s house – because I’ve no doubt that’s where Frankie’s holed up – bearing gifts. Well, one gift. But it’s a good one, and I was thrilled to find I’d inadvertently stuffed it into my suitcase along with the rest of the detritus of my brief Hollywood life. Nothing says ‘sorry I stuck my tongue down your fella’s throat’ like a 143-carat emerald Cartier necklace.

  I rap lightly on Adam’s front door with my left hand as my right, clutching the velvet jewellery box, grows damp with nerves.

  A second later, the door swings open and my sister is standing in front of me, clad in a bathrobe and with a towel wrapped around her wet hair.

  ‘Oh,’ Frankie says. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hey,’ I say, trying valiantly to ignore the unwelcome images that Frankie’s state of undress sledgehammers into my brain.

  Don’t think about your sister and your best friend getting it on. Do. Not.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fine,’ she says, tilting her chin up defiantly. ‘How are you?’

  The look in her eyes tells me this forced civility is torture for Frankie. She’s probably dying to yell at me, and then ask me a million questions about the InTouch story. I wonder if I have Adam to thank for this uncharacteristic restraint.

  ‘I’d be a lot better if my sister didn’t hate me. Not that she doesn’t have every right to. And I’d be happy to beg for her forgiveness if she’d let me.’

  A faint smile plays across Frankie’s lips. ‘I suppose she might,’ she says, her gaze zeroing in on the jewellery box. ‘If you show her what you’ve got in the box.’

  I hold the box out to her and lift the lid. ‘For you.’

  You know that scene in those heist movies where the bad guys open the treasure chest and all you see is the glow of the loot reflected on their gobsmacked faces? This is just like that. The look on Frankie’s face is almost as priceless as the bauble in the box.

  ‘That’s . . .’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘But it’s worth . . .’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And it’s really for . . .?’

  ‘Yup.’

  She finally drags her attention away from the necklace and looks up at me. ‘You’d better come in.’

  I follow Frankie down the long hallway of Adam’s ultra-modern beachside apartment. I’ve always thought this featureless cube a strange choice of home for a man who often seems to have stepped straight out of a bygone era. Then again, I’ve learned lately that people aren’t always as they seem.

  ‘Have a seat. I’ll be
back in a sec,’ says Frankie, as she ducks into the bedroom that leads off the living area.

  I sit on the sofa, displacing a miffed-looking Beryl the Russian Blue, and set the open box carefully on the glass coffee table. The late-afternoon sunlight streaming in through the wide windows catches the diamonds and refracts into a magical, disco-ball-style pattern on the walls and ceiling.

  ‘So,’ Frankie says as she returns a moment later wearing in a cute sundress and yanking a brush through her tangled hair. ‘Why are you giving me this necklace that’s worth more than our house?’

  She sits on the couch next to me and looks at me expectantly.

  ‘Where’s Adam?’ I ask.

  ‘He’s at work. You know he works Saturdays, Kitty. Why?’

  ‘Well, I owe him an apology, too.’

  Frankie raises one eyebrow. I’m not sure if that means yeah, you do, or simply get on with it then.

  ‘I want you to have this necklace, Frankie, because it’s something that should be given with love.’ I take the box from the table and set it in her lap. ‘I thought it was given to me that way, but I was wrong. I love you and I’m very, very sorry about the way I’ve behaved. Not just when I . . .’

  ‘Kissed my boyfriend,’ Frankie supplies helpfully.

  ‘Right. Not just then, although I cannot tell you how much I wish I could take that back.’ I feel my cheeks turn scarlet at the mere though of it. ‘I’m sorry about the things I said to Adam afterwards, too. I accused him of taking advantage of you, of not being serious about you. And I know that was wrong. Adam is the most serious person I’ve ever met.’

  ‘He’s never not serious,’ Frankie says with an exasperated sigh. ‘It’s something we’re working on.’