The Ex Factor (14 page)

Example #1517 of how insane my new Hollywood life is: I have a bodyguard-cum-driver now.

‘How can I help you, Miss Hayden?’ comes Mack’s pleasant baritone.

‘Mack, how many times do I have to ask you to call me Kitty?’

‘About as many as I have to tell
you
it ain’t never gonna happen, ma’am,’ he replies jovially. ‘What can I do for you?’

‘I need to be with dogs, Mack,’ I say simply.

There’s a pause. Clearly the man thinks I’m an idiot. ‘I know just the place,’ he says at length. ‘I’ll bring the car around.’

Twenty minutes later, I’m perched on a park bench in the 160-acre Runyon Canyon Park with the endless, smog-covered sprawl of Los Angeles spread out below me. Mack hovers a discreet distance away. I asked him to sit with me, but he demurred; it’s as if he knows I just need to sit and take it all in without speaking. He may be a man mountain, but Mack is a sensitive soul. His looming presence means the handful of wily photographers who spotted us as we left the house via the back entrance are keeping a vaguely respectful distance, though I’m sure their telephoto lenses mean they’re not missing a moment of my outing.

I can imagine the headlines now:
Exclusive! Woman sits on bench!
Seriously rivetting stuff.

The park is teeming with raucous, happy dogs of all shapes and sizes who sniff, tumble and play as their owners strike yoga poses, jog the rugged hilltop trails or tap away at their BlackBerries. It’s
very
Hollywood. It’s also my new happy place. I’m aware of a dull ache at my solar plexus as I think about how much my dogs would adore this, but it’s assuaged by the simple pleasure of being surrounded by so many excited hounds.

Suddenly, a furry missile appears from nowhere and collides at speed with my shins.

‘Oof!’

Briefly stunned, the fluffy grey bitser – a dead ringer for the Hairy Maclary character in my favourite childhood books – lies prone in the dirt for a moment. Then she gets to her feet, shakes herself vigorously and sits in front of me, dropping a well-chewed tennis ball at my feet. Her jaw drops open and she pants heavily, tongue lolling, giving the impression of a wide grin.

‘Well, hello there,’ I say, picking up the slobbery ball. ‘That was quite an entrance you made . . .’ I turn over her ID tag to read her name. ‘Maggie May.’

She wags her tail and gives a little yip.

‘Is this what you want?’ I hold up the ball and Maggie May jumps to attention, spinning in excited circles as she anticipates the next throw.

‘Oh no!’ comes a woman’s voice from my right. ‘Don’t touch that!’

I turn to see a statuesque blonde clad in designer gym gear loping towards me. She’s clutching a plastic ball-thrower and wears an appalled expression.

I drop the ball like it’s a hot potato. The dog promptly picks it up and trots it over to Lycra Lady, who uses the ball thrower to pitch it far into the distance. Maggie May becomes a grey blur as she streaks after it.

‘Sorry,’ I say to Little Miss Lycra. ‘I didn’t see her owner anywhere so I was just going to . . .’

‘No,
I’m
sorry. That ball is disgusting! Nobody should have to touch it with bare hands,’ she says warmly. ‘I was just trying to save you from being covered in drool!’

She fishes in the bum bag strapped around her waist – Hollywood people wear them without even a smidgeon of embarrassment – and hands me a small bottle of hand sanitiser. ‘Purelle?’

I’ve never been put off by a bit of dog saliva – it’s a professional hazard in my line of work – but I squeeze a dollop of the antiseptic cleanser into my hands anyway. The harsh scent of alcohol stings my nostrils.

‘Maggie May certainly seems to love playing fetch,’ I say as, a hundred metres away, the little mutt picks up her ball and begins the journey back to her owner.

‘You have no idea,’ says the woman next to me, plopping down onto the bench. ‘I got her from a shelter. She was rescued from a puppy mill and had never had real toys, so I bought her pretty much everything they had at the pet store. But she’s barely even sniffed them – all she wants is that mangy old tennis ball!’ Her California accent makes everything she says sound like a question.

‘That sounds familiar. I have four dogs and they’re exactly the same. They have all the designer toys, but they’re happiest playing with one of my old shoes or a pair of pantyhose they stole off the clothesline.’

‘Four dogs! Wow.’ Shading her eyes with her hand, my companion peers into the morass of canines filling the park. ‘Which ones are they?’

‘Oh! No, they’re not here. They’re back home in Australia,’ I say, trying to keep the note of sadness out of my voice.

‘You’re here on vacation?’ Maggie May returns and drops the ball at the woman’s feet. She scoops it up with the thrower and launches it in the other direction. Once again, the dog takes off after it like a rocket.

‘Um . . . I’m sort of . . .’ I try to find the right words. ‘I moved here to be with someone. A man.’

‘Oh, that’s so romantic!’ she says.

‘Well . . . yeah. I guess it is.’

My new friend arches an eyebrow. ‘You don’t sound convinced. Not working out?’

Wow. These Americans sure are direct. ‘No. Well, yes. It’s not that, it’s just . . .’ I exhale loudly. What
is
it exactly? And why do I feel compelled to tell this stranger about it? ‘He’s great, but he works a lot. We don’t see much of each other.’

‘That’s gotta be tough on a new relationship,’ she says.

‘It is. I worry, you know, that we’ll drift apart. And I miss Sydney. I
really
miss my dogs.’

She reaches down to give Maggie May a scratch behind the ears as she returns with her ball once more.

‘So you feel a little stranded?’

I nod eagerly. ‘Yes, that’s exactly it.’

She shrugs. ‘Hey, I get it. We’ve all been there. Almost everyone in this town is from somewhere else originally. And LA isn’t for everyone; it’s an acquired taste.’

‘Tell me about it. I’m not sure how much more of this place I can take.’ I bite my tongue, regretting the words as soon as I’ve said them.
Careful, Kitty.
‘Are you from somewhere else?’

‘Minnesota, born and raised,’ she says proudly, flashing a wide smile. ‘I’ve been here about ten years. I’m Molly, by the way.’ She extends an expertly manicured hand and I shake it.

‘Kit—’ I stop myself, though I’m not quite sure why. ‘Frankie. So, are you an actress?’

She regards me quizzically as she throws the ball for Maggie May again. ‘What makes you say that?’

‘It seems like everyone here is an actor, or trying to be.’

She lets out a hoot of laughter. ‘You got that right, sister! Everyone’s looking for their big break. But me? No. I work in publishing. Are you in the business?’

Now it’s my turn to laugh. ‘No way! But my, er . . .’ What am I supposed to call Mitchell? My boyfriend? My beau? The guy I followed here like some lovesick teenager? ‘My partner. He’s an actor.’

Molly looks at me for a long moment, as though she’s seen me somewhere before but can’t quite place me. I’m not about to tell her that ‘somewhere’ is probably the cover of every supermarket rag for the last two months.

‘Cool,’ she says finally, and I let out the breath I didn’t realise I was holding. ‘Hey, if you like dogs and you have time on your hands, maybe you should consider volunteering with a rescue. I know the shelter Maggie May came from is desperate for help.’

My heart gives a little leap at the suggestion.
Why didn’t I think of that?
‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ I say. ‘What’s it called?’

‘A Dog’s Life Rescue. Here, I’ll write down their details.’ Molly delves back into her bum bag and pulls out a business card and a pen. Turning the card over, she writes the shelter’s address and website on the back.

‘Let me know how you get on,’ she says, as Maggie May returns with the ball and flops at Molly’s feet. ‘My details are on the front. I think this one is telling me it’s time to go home for a nap.’

‘I will. Thanks so much, Molly. It was lovely to meet you.’

She clips Maggie May’s leash to her collar and stands up. ‘You too, Frankie. Good luck with everything. I really hope it works out with you and Mitchell.’ She slides on a pair of oversize sunglasses, smiles and strides away.

Grinning dumbly after her, it’s a full minute before her words sink in.
You and Mitchell.

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.

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.