The Ex Factor (17 page)

‘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 instead.

‘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.

‘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.

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.

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 just 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.’