The Ex Factor (4 page)

I’ve never been fired from a job before. I’ve never lost my temper like that, though I’ve worked with plenty of directors and actors every bit as demanding, egotistical and downright nasty as du Renne and Mitchell. I’ve certainly never
slapped
a Hollywood megastar before. While I can’t bear cruelty to animals in any form – even when it’s accidental – I don’t think it was Mitchell kicking Sphinx that sent me over the edge.

I think it was Mitchell himself. Something about him just got under my skin.

Martha is pacing agitatedly by the van. I’m relieved to see Sphinx has found his way back to her; he’s sitting in the shadow cast by the raised tailgate, a doleful look on his face. Sphinx is flanked by Zulu and Caesar, who seem concerned.

‘There you are!’ Martha says, rushing over to me. ‘What’s happened? Sphinx came racing back here with his knickers all in a twist, then that stick-up-her-arse assistant rolled up in a golf cart yammering into her headset and said our services are no longer required. Was Sphinx no good? Do you need one of the others?’

‘Sphinx was great,’ I tell her. ‘Too good, actually. He worked and worked and worked for those people, and then when he couldn’t work any more they didn’t like it.’

I give Martha the nutshell version of the whole sorry tale. When I get to the part about Mitchell’s boot becoming unexpectedly acquainted with Sphinx’s snout, I fumble. ‘The thing is . . . Mitchell was frustrated and . . . Sphinx picked a bad moment to . . . his timing was off and . . .’

I’m trying to find a way to avoid telling Martha the movie star kicked her dog. I’m worried Mitchell Pyke might find himself being slapped twice today.

But there really is no other way to say it. ‘Inadvertent contact was made’ isn’t quite going to cut the mustard.

‘What happened, Kitty? What did that talentless hack do to my Sphinxy?’ Something tells me Team Mitchell has lost its captain.

‘He . . . well, he kicked him. In the face.’

Martha closes her eyes and inhales deeply. She sucks her cheeks in like a fish. A really, really angry fish.

‘And then Sphinx ran away and I slapped Mitchell across the face and then I got fired.’

She opens her eyes and slowly exhales. ‘Good girl,’ she says at last, patting my shoulder. Then, to the Pharaohs, ‘Let’s go, puppies!’ Martha loads the dogs into the van, slams the tailgate and lumbers around to the passenger side.

‘So, you understand that we won’t be getting paid, right Martha?’ I offer a silent thank you to the universe that I had the foresight to include a ‘no work, no pay’ clause in my contract with Martha. At least I’m not obliged to pay her a cut of the fee I’m no longer going to earn.

‘Oh, I’m not worried about that, darl,’ she says as she eases herself back into the passenger seat. ‘We’ve had a day out and you’ve taught the boys all kinds of wonderful new skills. You won’t hear any complaints from me.’

I take my seat behind the wheel and slip the key into the ignition. I feel a little bad for being so uncharitable in my earlier assessment of Martha.

Seeing my glum expression, Martha leans over and pats my knee.

‘There, there,’ she says. ‘Look on it as a learning experience. You know what they say, after all.’

‘What’s that, Martha? Never work with children or animals?’

‘No! Never meet your heroes.’

Frankie eyes me suspiciously as I slink through the front door. ‘What are you doing home while the sun’s still out?’

‘Hello, Frankie. Lovely to see you. Good day?’

Coming home to find Frankie still in her PJs at four in the afternoon – tapping away at her laptop with the TV blaring, an assortment of dirty plates and coffee cups littering every available surface and no visible evidence of anything resembling gainful employment – would challenge even the sunniest disposition. Throw in the lack of sleep, an expensive trip to Adam’s clinic to make sure Sphinx’s run-in with Mitchell hasn’t done any lasting damage and the possibility that I’ve hit the self-destruct button on my career, and it’s fair to say I am in no mood for my sister’s attitude.

‘Yeah, it was okay,’ she says, predictably failing to absorb the subtext of my greeting. She goes back to staring at her computer screen.

‘Where are the dogs?’ All I really want right now is a glass of shiraz, a phone-book-sized wedge of blue cheese and some serious canine cuddling.

‘Dunno. Sleeping in your room, I guess.’

I don’t bother disguising my eye-roll. Reggie, Dolly, Carl and Bananarama could have been press-ganged into piracy while I was out and Frankie wouldn’t have noticed. I drop my bag onto the expensive marble-topped coffee table, because I know Frankie hates it when I do that, and head toward the sanctuary of my bedroom.

‘There was a phone call for you before,’ she calls when I’m halfway down the hallway.

I pause and wait for further information. None is forthcoming.

‘Do you want to give me a hint?’

‘I wrote it down on the pad by the phone.’ I can hear the shrug in her voice.

I glance down at the telephone table, where it says ‘Michael P’ in Frankie’s inimitable scrawl on the back of an envelope. I don’t know anyone called Michael. I pick up the message and take it back into the living room.

‘Who’s Michael P?’ I thrust the envelope under her nose.

‘I don’t know,’ she says.

‘Well, did he say what he wanted?’

‘Nah.’

‘What time did he call?’

At last, Frankie wrenches her gaze away from her Mac and turns to face me. ‘I don’t
know
, Kitty. I’m not your
secretary
. I have actually been working today, you know.’ She pushes out her lower lip. Her indignation would be hilarious if she wasn’t so serious.

‘Well, did he leave a number?’

‘Look, all I know is some American guy named Michael rang and he said he’d try again later. Okay?’

‘American? But I don’t know any Americans called . . . oh my god.’

‘Now what?’ But Frankie looks up at me, interested in spite of herself.

‘Frankie, are you sure his name was Michael? It wasn’t . . .’ I can’t believe I’m about to say this aloud. ‘It wasn’t
Mitchell
, was it?’

She snaps her fingers. ‘That’s the one. Michael, Mitchell. Sounds the same. Some American dude called Mitchell.’

I drop heavily onto the sofa next to her. Cupping my index finger and thumb around her chin, I manoeuvre her head to face me. ‘Now, think about this carefully. Did you take this message in the morning or the afternoon?’

She sighs irritably and searches the recesses of her memory. ‘It was this afternoon. About an hour ago,’ she says finally. ‘Why? Who’s Mitchell?’

‘Mitchell is Mitchell Pyke.’ And this message was left post-slap.

Frankie’s blue eyes widen and her mouth falls open. She looks like a very surprised owl.

‘Mitchell Pyke?’ she squeals. ‘
The
Mitchell Pyke?’

‘I think so.’ It seems insane, but who else could it be?

‘Why would he be calling you?’ she asks. Except that it comes out as ‘Why would
he
be calling
you
?’, as though there must have been a terrible mistake.

‘Probably to tell me that he’s going to sue me for everything I’ve got and make sure I never work in this town again.’

Frankie’s eyes grow even wider. Now she’s more lemur than owl. I relay the awful story of the slap once again. Surprisingly, like Martha, Frankie is more amused than aghast.

‘You go, girlfriend!’ she crows, because apparently it’s 1995. ‘What a complete tool. Who cares if he sues you? No court in the country will convict you!’

I can’t help but smile at Frankie’s sisterly support. ‘There are no convictions in civil cases. There can only be damages awarded.’ Although, actually, Mitchell could lay criminal assault charges. Plenty of people saw what I did.
Any
court in the country would convict me. Oh good, one more thing to stress about.

‘That’s even better, then. We don’t have anything a mega-rich movie star would want,’ Frankie says.

But I’m worried that’s where she’s wrong. Two years ago, it would indeed have been pointless for Mitchell Pyke to sue me. I had no assets, no savings. But then Mum died. Sure, her estate wasn’t huge, but thanks to her careful planning I’m now a homeowner with a small nest egg in the bank. And so is Frankie. If Mitchell Pyke and his team of bloodthirsty Hollywood attorneys decide to avenge his on-set humiliation, my sister and I could lose everything.

‘Don’t sweat it, Kit. He got exactly what he deserved,’ my sister says as though she’s reading my thoughts.

‘Really? Given your stance on our four-legged friends, I wouldn’t have thought you’d object to a bit of dog kicking. I was actually a bit surprised Bananarama didn’t cop a boot up the bum early this morning.’

Frankie looks genuinely hurt by my suggestion, but also, I’m pleased to see, a little embarrassed. ‘I would never hurt Rama, Kitty. Surely you know that,’ she says quietly. ‘I know I was a bit over the top this morning. I was just tired and . . .’

‘And what?’

‘Things didn’t go so well with Dominic last night. He dumped me.’

Now it’s my turn to adopt the wide-eyed stare. My sister does not get dumped. Like, I literally can’t remember it ever happening. Frankie is a catch. She’s gorgeous, for one thing, with her blonde locks, blue eyes and athletic figure. She’s whip-smart, too, though it often feels as if she goes out of her way to appear the opposite. And she’s fun. Sure, I’m regularly driven mad by her fleeting attention span and refusal to commit to anything, but guys seem to love that quirky, messed-up-in-an-adorable-way thing. They just lap that stuff up. Especially hipster idiots like Dominic.

‘I’m sorry, Frank. Do you feel like talking about it?’

‘There’s nothing to talk about. He just said he liked me but he didn’t think I was The One. So, you know, whatever.’

I didn’t think The One was even a thing anymore. In my experience, ‘love’em and leave’em’ is how most guys operate these days. Then again, it’s been so long since my last relationship I really don’t have much to go on.

‘Right. There’s only one thing for it. I’m opening a bottle of red and busting out the smelliest cheese I can find.’

Frankie laughs as I leap off the sofa and disappear into the kitchen. ‘Drinking in the afternoon! Who are you and what have you done with my sister?’ she calls after me. ‘I can’t wait til Mitchell Pyke phones back so you can give him another serve!’

But Mitchell Pyke doesn’t phone back. Instead, he waits until Frankie and I are deep into our second bottle of shiraz and then knocks on my front door.

I don’t know whether it’s the wine or just the sheer absurdity of the situation, but it takes me a good few seconds to comprehend who I’m looking at. The resemblance between Mitchell Pyke and the hulking figure on my doorstep, silhouetted against the fading twilight, is uncanny. Same broad chest. Same sculpted jawline. Same sage-coloured eyes.

Same angry welt across his left cheek.

But it can’t be. What would Mitchell Pyke – an actual celebrity – be doing at my door?

‘Hello there,’ the man at the door says amiably. Then, noting the half-full wine glass I’m clutching, he adds: ‘I hope I’m not interrupting?’

I don’t answer. I just keep peering at him through narrowed eyes, as though he’s a distant cousin whose name is right on the tip of my tongue.

He looks at me quizzically. ‘Sorry, how rude of me. It’s Mitchell. From earlier? You punched me in the face?’

‘I did not punch you in the face,’ I say hotly, my brain finally engaging. ‘I slapped you and you deserved it. You
kicked
my dog.’

I’m pleased to find I’m not about to let this guy charm his way into my good books, even while cocooned in the heady comfort of my wine cloak.

‘Yes, well, about that,’ he says, his brow furrowing. Am I imagining it or does he look a bit sheepish? ‘Perhaps I could come in and we can discuss it?’

He takes a step forward. I don’t budge.

‘What, you want to size the place up? Get a sense of where you might put your waterbed and your bearskin rug?’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘I know your game. You’re the big movie star who thinks he can just walk all over the little people. Well, not this time. My mother left me this house and
you
’ – I take a swig of my wine to emphasise my point –’can’t have it.’

Now it’s Mitchell’s turn to narrow his eyes, but rather than trying to figure out who I am, he’s trying to determine if I’m crazy. Over his left shoulder, I notice an enormous four-wheel drive with tinted windows idling at the kerb in front of the house. His bodyguards? I wonder if they have guns.

Suddenly, the penny drops for Mitchell. ‘You think I want your house?
This
house?’

I can’t help but feel piqued by his incredulous tone. It might not be a Beverly Hills mansion, but there’s nothing wrong with my little cottage.

‘Why would you think that?’ he continues.

‘Aren’t you going to sue me? That’s what you do. You’re a litigious lot.’

‘Actors?’

‘Americans.’

He laughs then. It’s a real belly laugh, deep and undulating, and it makes me shiver just a little.

Must be the wine.

‘No, Kitty. I’m not going to sue you and I have no designs on your home. Lovely as it is,’ he adds quickly when he sees my miffed expression. ‘You’re absolutely right: I did deserve that slap. I came to apologise to you.’

I feel my shoulders drop a good inch as the tension of the day abruptly dissipates. Mitchell must see it too, because he tries his luck again. ‘So, can I come in? Please?’

But still I hesitate, not sure just what I’d be inviting into my home.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Kitty! Let the man inside!’ comes Frankie’s voice from the living room.

In the next moment she’s at my side, muscling me out of the way as she extends her hand to Mitchell. I notice she’s fluffed up her hair and applied a slick of fuchsia lipstick. ‘Hello, Mitchell. I’m Frances,’ she purrs.

I swallow a laugh. So it’s
Frances
now?

‘Don’t mind my sister,’ she says. ‘She forgets her manners when she drinks. Do come in.’ With a flourish that would make a game show hostess proud – and an elbow to the ribs for me – Frankie gestures for Mitchell to follow her inside.

On the street, the driver of the ominous four-wheel drive kills the engine.

‘Would you like a glass of wine?’ she asks as she shows him into the living room.

‘I don’t drink, but thank you,’ he says.

‘Oh, are you an addict?’

And
there’s
the Frankie I know and love. ‘Frankie!’

‘What? Isn’t everyone “in recovery” in Hollywood?’

‘Pretty much,’ Mitchell says with that same resonant chuckle. ‘Not me, though. I just prefer to steer clear of alcohol. Keep a clear head, especially when I’m shooting. You know?’

Frankie nods wisely, though she absolutely doesn’t know.

‘It’s been great to meet you, Frances, but I wonder if I might borrow Kitty for just a few minutes?’

‘Oh. Sure,’ she says and places her wine glass on the coffee table. ‘I’ll just . . . I need to . . . I’ll be in . . .’ And she drifts out of the room.

Mitchell turns expectantly to face me. ‘So . . .’ he says.

‘So.’

‘Do you mind if I sit down? It’s been a long day.’ He looks longingly at the sofa.

But I’m not ready to let him off the hook for his part in it just yet.

‘You mentioned there was something you wanted to say.’

His expression clouds briefly. ‘Right. Of course,’ he says after a moment. ‘I really am sorry about what happened today, Kitty. I didn’t intend to kick Sphinx – I would never intentionally hurt an animal – and I truly regret what happened.’

‘You regret what happened? That’s a politician’s apology if ever I’ve heard one.’

A smile plays across his full lips. ‘You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you?’ He sits down heavily on the couch and clears his throat. ‘Do you think I could have a glass of water?’

I go into the kitchen to fetch a glass for Mitchell and am greeted by four forlorn sets of eyes peering in the back door. Dolly’s tail thumps loudly against the back deck when she sees me.

‘Puppy dogs! What are you doing shut out there?’ Sleeping in my bedroom indeed. When will I learn to stop trusting everything that comes out of my sister’s mouth?

I open the door and the dogs whirl in, running straight to their empty food bowls. I dish up generous helpings of dry food, noting guiltily that it’s way past their usual dinnertime. What kind of dog-parent am I? A movie star comes calling and all of a sudden nothing else matters.
Get a grip, Kitty
.

‘Sounds like you have some hungry customers out there,’ he says as I set his water on the coffee table and top up my wine glass. ‘You must really love dogs.’

I shrug. ‘I always have. In my experience, dogs tend to be nicer than most people.’

Mitchell nods approvingly and takes a sip of his water. ‘I’m sorry I kicked Sphinx,’ he says simply. ‘I take my work very seriously. Sometimes too seriously. I was having a shitty day, but that wasn’t his fault and it definitely wasn’t yours.’

‘I appreciate that.’

We sit in thoughtful silence for a moment as, one by one, the dogs meander into the room. Dolly, Carl and Bananarama retire straight to their respective beds for a post-dinner snooze, but Reggie bounds over to the couch and thrusts his snout into Mitchell’s crotch.