The Ex Factor

by Laura Greaves

  ‘The studio uses its own people.’ Mitchell steps across the threshold and into the bedroom. ‘Who did you think it was, Kitty?’

  ‘Vida. I know you and she have been talking.’ I hate that I have to reveal this to him, to make myself out to be the insecure girlfriend, when he should have told me weeks ago.

  I busy myself hanging the dress in the walk-in closet and carefully setting out the accessories on the bed. I can’t bring myself to look at him, but the energy in the room shifts and I feel him bristle.

  ‘Who told you that? Saada?’

  Yeah, because that’s the important thing here. ‘So it’s true?’

  Mitchell sighs and sits at the foot of the bed. ‘Yes, it’s true,’ he says at last. ‘She’s called me a few times since I’ve been back in LA.’

  A tight knot of anxiety settles in my stomach and I force myself to meet his gaze. ‘Were you planning on telling me about this?’ I ask through gritted teeth.

  ‘Honestly? No. There didn’t seem any point. She calls saying she wants to see me. I keep telling her no, and as far as I’m concerned, that’s it.’

  ‘She wants to see you? Why?’ And why won’t she take no for an answer?

  He chuckles bitterly and runs a hand through his hair, longer now for his latest role than it was when we met. ‘I don’t know. I don’t care! For what it’s worth, I thought I was protecting you by not telling you. I didn’t want to upset you, Kitty. I know you’ve had a hard time settling in.’

  I’m shaking with anger. ‘Do you hear how patronising that sounds? You don’t get to decide what’s best for me, Mitchell. Especially when it means keeping secrets.’

  He looks genuinely surprised by my vehemence, which only makes me more furious. ‘Can you even imagine how foolish this makes me feel? Every day – every single day – I’m reminded in a million different ways that I’m just Vida’s replacement, the consolation prize. But I’ve never believed it, because you’ve always made me feel like I’m your first choice.’

  ‘You are my first choice!’ he says, slamming his fist into the mattress and making my extravagant earrings dance.

  ‘Then why keep this from me? You had to know it would get out eventually. If Saada knows, how long do you think it will be before some gossip rag gets hold of it? And what do you think they’re going to write when Mitchell Pyke and Vida Torres are discovered having fun little chats behind poor clueless Kitty’s back? They’ll have you two back together in an instant and the crazy dog lady from Down Under is the runner-up yet again. They decided the day we met that I’m just the next best thing, and all you’re doing is proving them right.’

  He reaches for me then, circling his arms around my waist and pressing his face to my abdomen. ‘I’m sorry,’ he says over and over. In spite of myself, my hands find his hair and gently brush it back from his face. ‘I don’t care what they write about me, Kitty, but sometimes I forget that you do. Can you forgive me?’

  ‘Promise me you’ll be honest with me in future. This life – our life, here, in this insane town – it will never work if we don’t tell each other the truth.’

  ‘I promise,’ Mitchell says, standing. His arms are still around my waist and he pulls me in close. His lips claim mine in a kiss that sends a surge of electricity right down to my toes.

  ‘And I’m sorry about before,’ he says, pausing after a moment to catch his breath. ‘When I said I wanted to . . . you know. It wasn’t very gentlemanly.’

  The memory of those words that seemed so repugnant just a few minutes ago now ignites a delicious ache in my core. I hold his gaze and tilt my chin up defiantly. ‘Say it again.’

  Mitchell’s eyes widen and I feel his heartbeat quicken beneath his shirt. ‘I want to be inside you,’ he snarls.

  With a smile, I reach for his belt.

  15.

  If the hairstylist and makeup artist object to being left waiting on the doorstep, they don’t say a word when I let them in twenty minutes later. Mitchell jumps in the shower while I show them through to the dressing room – yes, Mitchell’s house has a dressing room – to set up the powders and potions contained in the wheeled trolley cases they pull behind them.

  Two hours later I emerge into the living room looking unrecognisable, but feeling amazing. My hair has been piled on top of my bed in an ‘Old Hollywood’-style chignon, while my makeup is subtle and dewy enough to let the glittering antique earrings take centre stage. And the dress – the moment I step into it for the second time, I wonder why I even bothered trying anything else on in Saada’s studio.

  Mitchell is sprawled on the sofa, flipping through TV channels as though it’s a lazy Sunday afternoon. If he feels any of the adrenaline or anxiety that’s coursing through my veins, he’s hiding it well.

  ‘Ahem,’ I say.

  He turns and his gaze rakes over me. ‘Kitty,’ he murmurs, standing. ‘You look . . .’

  ‘You don’t scrub up too badly yourself, for a movie star.’ In fact, Mitchell looks like he’s stepped straight out of a Gucci ad campaign in his razor-sharp black tux. It looks as if it was tailor-made for him, and I have no doubt it was. He’s eschewed the traditional bow tie in favour of leaving the top two buttons of his crisp white shirt undone, giving him a rakish, artfully dishevelled look. The overall picture is frighteningly sexy.

  Desire scuds across his freshly shaven face like thunder clouds across the sky.

  ‘You can take that look off your face right now,’ I tease. ‘We’ll be late.’

  ‘Would it make a difference if I said I don’t care?’

  ‘I didn’t spend an entire day getting ready for your party just to stay at home,’ I say with mock indignation. ‘You owe me a night out. Has the car arrived?’

  Mitchell narrows his eyes. ‘I don’t think we can go yet,’ he says, studying me more closely. ‘There’s something missing.’

  I cast a worried look down at my ensemble. ‘What do you mean? These earrings weigh a tonne, and trust me when I say nothing else could possibly fit into this dress.’

  He continues his scrutiny, his eyes roaming over my body. ‘It’s your neck,’ he says finally. ‘It looks too bare.’

  My hand drifts to my throat. True, the strapless gown does reveal a broad swathe of uninterrupted skin, but Saada had assured me the earrings were adornment enough. I mentally run through the contents of my jewellery box, but I don’t own anything remotely glamorous enough to complement my borrowed baubles.

  ‘Well, unless you think I should wear the silver heart locket my mother gave me for my twenty-first birthday, this is the best it’s going to get.’

  ‘Hmm,’ he says. ‘Perhaps this will do the trick.’ From behind his back, Mitchell produces a royal-blue velvet box the size of a dinner plate. Embossed on the lid is a single word that makes my blood pound in my ears.

  ‘That says Cartier,’ I say.

  Mitchell pretends to notice for the first time. ‘So it does.’

  He holds the box out to me and I step tentatively forward. Mitchell prises open the lid with a crrreak and I swear my heart actually stops.

  Nestled inside the box is a necklace, although the word doesn’t even begin to encapsulate its splendour. It’s a thick rope of round old and rose-cut diamonds, set in platinum, that surround an enormous, cushion-shaped polished emerald. It looks like something created by fairies and I have no doubt it’s worth more than my house. Much more.

  ‘Do you like it?’ Mitchell asks softly. ‘It was made in 1932. The emerald is 143 carats.’

  Scratch that. It’s worth more than every house on my street.

  ‘It’s just stunning,’ I breathe, lifting it out of the box and turning around so Mitchell can fasten it around my neck. ‘But how did you know it would go so perfectly with my dress?’

  ‘I snuck a peek while you were in the shower and called a friend of mine at Cartier. He brought it over while you were getting all gussied up.’

  Of course. Because, when you’re a movie star, obviously you
know a guy at Cartier who’ll bring multi-million-dollar jewellery to your house at a moment’s notice.

  I stare at my reflection in the hall mirror, caressing the incredible trinket around my neck. ‘When does it have to go back? I’m going to be so paranoid about losing it. I’ll be grabbing at my throat all night!’

  ‘It doesn’t have to go back, Kitty.’ Mitchell appears in the mirror behind me and kisses my neck. ‘It’s yours.’

  I spin to face him. ‘What?’

  He shakes his head. ‘Don’t tell me you can’t accept it,’ he says with a smile. ‘Don’t tell me it’s too much. It’s not. It’s just a necklace. A prize for my prize.’

  And then he kisses me so tenderly that tears well in my eyes.

  ‘Stop it,’ I say, laughing. ‘If you make me cry and I lose my false lashes, there’ll be hell to pay.’

  ‘Fine,’ he says, kissing me once more for good measure. ‘But you’d better pack a lipstick in that tiny purse, because there won’t be any left on your lips by the time we get to the premiere.’

  True to his word, there’s not a trace of lipstick on my mouth by the time our sleek black sedan pulls up in front of the famous Dolby Theater on Hollywood Boulevard. My flawlessly made-up complexion has a telltale flush, too; hardly surprising given what we’ve been up to in the back seat. If the opaque glass partition between us and the driver could talk, I’d be mortified.

  Fortunately we’re in a queue of similar black limousines, so I have a few moments to touch up my face and tuck away a few stray strands of hair before a man wearing a black suit, dark sunglasses and an earpiece steps up to the car and opens Mitchell’s door. Mitchell climbs out and my ears are immediately assailed by the shrill screams of what sounds like a thousand teenage girls.

  Mitchell gives the crowd a wave, then turns back and leans into the car. ‘You look incredible, Kitty. I’m so proud to have you on my arm tonight,’ he says, extending his hand toward me. ‘Ready?’

  I take a deep breath. No! Not at all! Not even a little bit! But I nod and take his hand.

  And step out into bedlam.

  The noise on the street is ear-splitting. There aren’t a thousand people here; it must be five thousand at least. The road has been closed off for the event and it’s just a crashing, frothing sea of people in all directions, as far as the eye can see. They’re all screaming, crying, calling Mitchell’s name. They reach out to him over the steel barricades lining the red carpet, desperate for a handshake, a high five. A fleeting moment of his warm skin against theirs that they’ll dine out on for the rest of their days.

  Mitchell beams his widest, most dazzling movie-star grin and the throng roars even louder. As he lets go of my hand and strides over to the barricades to sign autographs and press the flesh, I remain rooted to the spot, frozen like a rabbit in headlights. A wave of sheer terror crashes over me. A human chain of burly security men is stationed along the red carpet, assuring me and Mitchell safe passage to the cinema beyond, but the thought of making my way through the screeching hordes suddenly fills me with dread. My expensive dress, my priceless jewels, my elaborate hair and makeup – it’s all for nothing. I might as well be naked. I feel utterly exposed.

  I can’t do this.

  I look behind me for sanctuary, but all I see is our car gliding away from the kerb and an identical one rolling to a stop in its place.

  ‘Excuse me, Miss Hayden. I’m going to need you to keep moving, ma’am,’ says the designated door opener. He nods toward the car now idling behind me, which no doubt holds more famous people waiting to be disgorged into the beating heart of their adoring public.

  I nod dumbly, but remain where I am. My legs feel leaden. Somehow I can’t seem to get my brain to instruct them to move.

  Mitchell turns away from his fans at that moment, searching the crowd for me. His jade eyes widen as he takes in my rigid posture and he’s at my side in an instant.

  ‘I’m sorry, baby,’ he murmurs in my ear as he loops an arm around my waist and pulls me close. ‘I forgot how overwhelming these things can be the first time.’

  ‘Please don’t let me go,’ I whisper.

  Mitchell kisses my cheek. ‘I won’t,’ he says. ‘I promise.’

  He takes my hand and pulls me gently down the red carpet. He keeps smiling and waving with his free hand, but every few steps he leans in close. ‘You’re amazing,’ he says. ‘Just breathe, sweetheart. One foot in front of the other.’

  Oh my god. I love this man.

  This is Mitchell’s night. His well-deserved reward for months of hard work on a film that proved to be the death knell for both his relationship with Vida and his friendship with Ellis Chevalier. And he’s going to have to come face to face with at least one of the people who betrayed him so completely, so publicly, at any moment. If anyone has a right to feel nervous or apprehensive, it’s Mitchell. He should be a quivering wreck.

  And yet here he is, inching his feckless date along the red carpet like she’s an invalid aunt.

  I love you, Mitchell. I’ve never felt more certain of anything in my life. And I’ve never felt less able to say what’s in my heart.

  Because in realising I’m in love with Mitchell here, at this moment, I also know without doubt that I’m just not cut out for this life. And soon, he’s bound to realise it, too. Whatever spark of something he saw in me back in Sydney, he’ll soon understand that it can’t ignite here, like this. There’s just not enough oxygen in this rarified air. It’s only a matter of time before he sees it and abandons his ‘dating a civilian’ experiment.

  The end of the red carpet is in sight. ‘You okay?’ Mitchell asks. ‘We’ve just got to get by the press pack, and then we’re home free.’

  Just ahead, what looks like a three-tier grandstand has been erected for the media covering the premiere. Level with us on the carpet – but sequestered behind velvet ropes – are a gaggle of botoxed blonde TV presenters, all brandishing microphones emblazoned with the names of their celebrity news shows: E!, Entertainment Tonight, TMZ, Access Hollywood. Behind them are the camera crews and behind them, on the very top tier, are the stills photographers – the paparazzi.

  As soon as Mitchell and I enter their field of vision, they all start shouting at us.

  ‘Mitchell! A few words for the Hollywood Reporter?’

  ‘Is tonight the first time you’ve seen Ellis since he married Vida?’

  ‘Mitchell, are you going to marry Kitty?’

  ‘You told the world you’d never love again, Mitchell! How did Kitty win you over?’

  ‘Kitty! How do you like LA?’

  ‘Who are you wearing, Kitty? Who did your jewellery?’

  Mitchell gives the rabble his most beguiling smile and grips my hand more tightly. ‘You don’t have to say a word if you don’t want to,’ he says, barely moving his lips. ‘Just smile and let them see how beautiful you are.’

  I try to smile, really I do. But I’m so dazzled by the endless popping of flashbulbs that I’m seeing spots. I’m pretty sure there won’t be a decent shot of me among the hundreds they’re snapping.

  ‘I’m so happy to be back in Hollywood to share Twist of the Knife for the first time,’ Mitchell says smoothly. ‘I’m very proud of this film and I know people are going to love it. Thanks guys.’ With that, he makes to move off into the theatre.

  ‘Give Kitty a kiss for us, Mitchell!’ one of the paps shouts.

  Mitchell turns to me, a cheeky look in those seductive eyes. ‘With pleasure,’ he shouts back.

  Gripping me around the waist, he tips me backwards and covers my lips with his. All at once, the cacophony recedes into the background and, for an evanescent moment, we’re alone. The camera flashes explode. It’s the very definition of a Hollywood kiss. It draws cheers from the crowd and leaves me breathless.

  As he puts me back on my feet, I can’t help but laugh. All the tension in my body suddenly evaporates and I feel lighter than air.

  Until I see the ashen look on Mitch
ell’s face. He’s staring at something over my shoulder and whatever it is has given his handsome face the pallor of a corpse. I turn and follow his line of sight.

  Halfway down the red carpet, and advancing steadily toward us, is Ellis Chevalier. In his old-school tuxedo, complete with tails and a top hat, he could be a young Fred Astaire. But with muscles. Lots and lots of muscles.

  But while Ellis Chevalier in the flesh is truly magnificent, it’s not the sight of his former best friend that has stopped Mitchell’s heart.

  It’s the woman on Ellis’s arm.

  Vida.

  I fire a horrified glance at Mitchell. What is she doing here? He looks as bewildered as I feel.

  The media mob notices Ellis and Vida at the same moment I do, and for a split-second a strained hush descends. Then, apparently as one, they realise what a juicy – and saleable – moment they have on their hands.

  ‘Vida! Are you and Ellis back together?’

  ‘Are you going to apologise to Mitchell, Ellis?’

  ‘Mitchell, how does it feel to see them together?’

  ‘Kitty! Can we get a photo of you with Vida?’

  That one actually grabs my attention. Are these vultures mad?

  Ellis and Vida draw level with Mitchell and me. Wearing the inky-blue Valentino gown I tried on in Saada’s studio this morning, she’s a million times more beautiful in the flesh than in any photograph I’ve seen. I wonder whether Saada relayed any of our conversation to Vida – or confessed that she told me about Vida’s calls to Mitchell.

  I almost feel compelled to say something; to introduce myself, perhaps. Or to claw that self-satisfied smile right off Vida’s face. How dare she show up here tonight, to try to make this all about her. Hasn’t she put Mitchell through enough?

  ‘Mitchell,’ Ellis says at last. ‘How’s tricks?’ He extends his hand and I see Mitchell’s eyes widen in shock. How’s tricks? Is this guy for real?

  I can almost hear the thoughts tearing through Mitchell’s mind. If he shakes Ellis’s hand, the media will report that he has magnanimously forgiven Ellis and Vida for ripping his heart into a million pieces. But if he doesn’t, the press will have a field day with his bitterness, his perceived petty refusal to let bygones be bygones.