‘He owes her,’ Frankie says emphatically, twisting around to face Adam. Then, turning back to look at me, ‘He owes you, Kitty.’
‘Hey, I got a necklace, a car and a lucrative magazine deal. I imagine Mitchell thinks I’ve been fairly compensated for my troubles,’ I mutter darkly.
‘That!’ she exclaims. ‘That’s why you’ve got to see him. I know you’re trying to move on, but your bitterness is showing. You’ll never be at peace with any of this until you ask him why he’s such a lying scumbag. What he owes you is an explanation.’ She pauses and cocks her head to one side. ‘For closure,’ she says meaningfully.
‘Two days ago you said maybe Mitchell wasn’t such a lying scumbag after all,’ I remind her. ‘You tried to tell me that Vida might have made the whole thing up.’ The fact that there’s still a little voice in my head telling me that Vida might have made the whole thing up is a can of worms I’ll need to muster all my courage to peek inside.
‘Hmm. Did I?’ she says, her mouth twitching upwards in an enigmatic smile. She turns to stare out of the window.
Silence descends on our little trio and we exchange barely a word as we travel the rest of the way to Sydney. I find myself wishing Frankie would keep reading out inane snippets from those trashy websites; anything to distract me from the what-ifs playing on endless loop in my head.
What if Vida’s claims about Mitchell’s and my relationship were all lies? Despite her angelic public persona, she has a pretty impressive track record of manipulation, undermining and just all-out nastiness behind the scenes. And I definitely wasn’t her favourite person on the day of the Cleopatra’s Serum shoot. She grew more sullen and disagreeable every time anyone tossed a kind word in my direction. Maybe she was lashing out when she said Mitchell had never had genuine feelings for me. The idea that Vida aimed to wound me as deeply as she could, any way she could, is definitely not beyond the realms of possibility.
But why was I so quick to believe her that day? Not even an hour before she unleashed her secret, Mitchell had vowed to get our relationship back on track. I was floating on cloud nine. Why, then, was I willing to let a few vicious words from his awful ex-girlfriend shatter that?
It’s because I didn’t believe Mitchell. Or rather, I didn’t believe in us. This realisation slams into my consciousness like one of the semi-trailers hurtling past me on the highway. Well before Vida told me my relationship with Mitchell was an illusion, I already felt that way myself. And his assumption that I’d trot back to LA to be with him only confirmed it. I know I can’t function in that place, so even as my mouth was telling Mitchell I’d give things another try, my brain was signing our relationship’s death certificate.
I doubted Mitchell really loved me, and I didn’t trust my love for him. So it never could have worked, because I was convinced it never would.
Which, of course, makes me a great big hypocrite. The night I left LA I had accused Mitchell of not having faith in us, but it was me. Me! I thought turning my life upside down to follow him to America was proof of my commitment to our relationship, when it turns out I was the faithless one all along.
Mitchell never said he loved me, but from his sweet little notes to using that awful picture of me as his screensaver, he showed it in a million different ways. Only I thought they were Hollywood tricks. I refused to accept he was over Vida, no matter how often he said it or how creatively he demonstrated it, partly because Vida Torres is not the sort of woman men get over. And partly because she left him without warning, and my experience of being left by the person you love most is that the pain of it never goes away.
I left Mitchell because I expected him to leave me, and I bought Vida’s story because being angry with him was easier than admitting to myself that I’d made a huge, huge mistake.
‘Oh no,’ I whisper under my breath.
‘Yeah,’ Frankie replies.
27.
This time there’s no careful planning of a sexy outfit, no meticulous application of makeup, no selection of saucy lingerie. This time I don’t even turn off the engine as I deposit Frankie, Adam and the dogs at home. This time I simply flatten the accelerator and drive into the city as fast as I possibly can, unwashed hair and yesterday’s clothes be damned.
The van screeches to a stop in front of the Shangri-La and I toss the keys to the open-mouthed valet as I run inside.
All the check-in clerks are busy with hotel guests, but I’m not about to let that stop me. I barge up to the closest one and slap my hand on the marble countertop. My mother would be appalled by my rudeness, but I haven’t got time to worry about that now. And besides, it’s basically her fault I’m in this mess. If she hadn’t gone and died, I wouldn’t be the sort of basket case who goes around leaving the perfect man for no good reason.
‘I need you to let me up to the penthouse,’ I almost shout.
‘I’m with a guest, madam, if you’d care to wait,’ he says smoothly.
‘I don’t care to wait, actually. I can’t. I need to see Mitchell Pyke very urgently.’ Because I’m sure he’s never heard that from a crazy fan before.
The clerk, whose name tag says ‘David’, offers his guest an apologetic smile. ‘Mr Pyke is not currently a guest in this hotel,’ David tells me.
I slap my hand to my forehead. ‘Right. Of course he isn’t. But maybe you have a Mr . . . Hugo?’ That was Mitchell’s nom de plume, right?
‘No, madam. Now, if you’ll excuse me.’ He holds out his hand to his guest. ‘May I have your credit card, sir?’
‘Not Hugo. Hugo . . . something.’ I look wildly around me for inspiration. Damn it. Where’s Mack when I need him?
‘We have neither a Mr Hugo, nor a Mr Something currently in the hotel,’ says David snootily.
My heart sinks. It hadn’t occurred to me that Mitchell would change his hotel pseudonym, but of course it makes sense. Especially when maniacs like me have hold of it.
‘Come on, Dave. Help a girl out. Don’t you know who I am?’
But David’s face is intractable. He will not be acting the part of ‘forthcoming hotel employee’ today. Clearly he has not seen the end of Notting Hill.
The neglected businessman trying to check in finally pipes up. ‘You are incredibly rude,’ he says pompously.
‘Whatever, dude,’ I grumble as I stomp toward the door. ‘Tell it to my mother.’
I climb into my van and slam the door, thumping the steering wheel for good measure as I wait for the valet to deliver the keys.
‘You’re Kitty Hayden,’ he says as he appears at my window and hands them over.
‘You should go inside and tell your friend that,’ I reply, slipping the key into the ignition.
‘Mitchell Pyke isn’t here.’
‘So I heard.’
‘No,’ he says, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I mean it. I read that he’s back in Sydney, but he’s not staying here this time. “Hugo Richmond” isn’t staying here either. I checked.’
Richmond. Of course.
‘You checked?’ And I thought I was the obsessive one.
The valet shrugs. ‘My boyfriend’s a huge fan. I wanted to get Mitchell’s autograph for him.’
‘That’s sweet. Where else do celebrities stay in Sydney?’
‘The Four Seasons. The Hyatt. Sometimes the Langham,’ he says. ‘But honestly, the studios usually book all their talent into the same place. If Mitchell really is in Sydney, chances are he’d be here.’
A car horn sounds loudly behind me, making me jump. I put the van in gear. ‘Thanks for your help,’ I say as I pull back onto the street.
The drive home feels interminable. I call all the hotels the valet mentioned, and about a hundred he didn’t, but none has any record of Mitchell or ‘Hugo’. At least, no record they’re willing to admit over the phone to a desperate-sounding woman. I guess it’s still possible he’s checked in somewhere under a different name, but the chances of me guessing it seem slim at best. And besides, if
he’s using a different fake name, it must be at least partly because he doesn’t want me to find him.
I even call Mitchell’s mobile, though I really don’t want to say what I need to say on the telephone. Anyway, it goes straight to voicemail. He probably has it set up to send any calls from my number straight to hell.
The sun has almost set when I pull up at home, and the house is dark and still. In the hall, I find a note from Frankie.
Puppies with us at Adam’s. On the off-chance you actually come home tonight, we thought you might like some privacy!
F
The missive is punctuated with at least a dozen winky faces.
In fact, privacy is the last thing I want tonight. I want someone here to tell me that it’s not over; that Mitchell doesn’t despise me. I don’t quite know what I’d imagined would happen if I’d found Mitchell at the hotel, but in the cold light of day – well, dusk – I realise I was monumentally deluded to expect a happy ending. What, did I think I’d just turn up at his door and he’d declare his undying love for me? After I sold him out to the tabloids over a transgression that, in all likelihood, didn’t actually happen?
Unlikely.
I want someone here to tell me that Mitchell’s feelings for me were real, and are real still. Preferably Mitchell himself.
In the absence of this, I decide to go and cry in the shower instead.
Thirty minutes later, the hot water has long since cooled to lukewarm, but I can’t bring myself to step out of the cubicle. I’ve washed my hair and sloughed off the dusty remains of my country sojourn, but no amount of scrubbing can cleanse me of the profound desolation I feel. Losing love when you have no say in it is awful; squandering love because you’re a gullible ball of neuroses is so much worse.
Finally, the water runs ice cold. I wrap myself in a towel and stagger to my bedroom. Next stop: bed.
A muffled thunk pierces the early-evening hush. A chill creeps up my spine from my shoulder blades to the base of my skull. The sound is unmistakable. It’s the sound of the side gate banging closed.
‘Frankie?’
There’s no reply. My sister is at Adam’s place. And even if she had come back, she’d enter the house through the front door, not skulk down the side path to the back garden.
Now there’s a crash as the empty bottles stacked by the back door awaiting recycling clatter onto the deck. My heart starts to race and sweat beads my brow.
‘Who’s there?’ I say feebly.
Silence.
I’ve left my phone on the hall table with my keys, so I can’t call the police. In one fluid movement, I drop my towel and grab a pile of clothes from the floor. I fasten my bra and pull a T-shirt over my head, then stop.
‘A bra, Kitty? You’re probably about to be dismembered, but sure, don’t forget proper support for the girls.’
Shaking my head, I shimmy into a denim skirt and pick up the closest thing to a weapon I can lay my hands on: a Castiglioni lamp that Frankie bought. It seems a shame it’s about to bludgeon my intruder into unconsciousness, since it probably cost more than my car.
I tiptoe into the hall, wishing I could send the dogs ahead as spotters. If I survive the next few minutes with all my limbs intact, I am going to shake Frankie for taking my three snarling, salivating security guards away for the night.
When I reach the kitchen, I fumble in the darkness for the light switch and flip on the outside light.
Nothing. I can’t see anyone in the backyard. Whatever – whoever – it was must have been scared off by the light.
I breathe a sigh of relief and set the lamp down. And then I do the opposite of what I know I should do – which is find my phone and call the police – and unlock the back door.
The chill night air kisses my face as I step onto the deck. I shiver. With my wet hair and inappropriately summery outfit, I’m definitely not dressed for night-time burglar patrol. And yet I keep walking, wrapping my arms around myself for warmth as I pad onto the dewy grass.
I turn my face up to the inky darkness. One of the things I’ve always loved most about living here is the clear night sky. When we were kids, Frankie and I would lie out here for hours in summer, just staring up at the twinkling blanket of stars. I was in my teens when my sister started primary school, so I always pretended I was merely humouring her. But really, those moments lying side by side, trying to fathom the magnitude of space, were some of my most peaceful.
‘Kitty.’
The voice shoots out of the darkness like a bullet, and I scream.
‘Stay away! I have a knife!’ Which is a complete lie.
Adrenalin surges through my body as I whirl around and see a shadowy figure lurking by the gate.
‘Calm down,’ the figure says. ‘It’s okay.’
It’s a man. An enormous, terrifying man.
Wait.
An enormous, terrifying American man.
‘Mitchell?’
‘Yes, don’t panic,’ he says, emerging from the darkness. He strides towards me. ‘I didn’t mean to scare you. I knocked at the front door, but there was no answer. Your van’s here so I knew you were home, but I couldn’t hear the dogs and I got worried.’
‘So you thought you’d just break in through the back? Jesus, Mitchell! You just about gave me a coronary.’ The fact that barely an hour earlier I’d been feverishly searching for this man has been entirely displaced by the fact that I want to punch him right at this moment.
‘That wasn’t my intention,’ he says earnestly, but I swear he’s fighting a smile. ‘When I saw the light come on I started heading around the front again so I wouldn’t frighten you. But then you came outside and you just looked so . . .’ He holds out his hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender.
‘I heard you were back in Sydney,’ I say when at last my heartbeat slows to something approaching normal. ‘Shouldn’t you be in a penthouse somewhere?’
‘I was hoping I might stay with a friend instead,’ he says in his gruff drawl, and the weight of intent in that sentence ignites a slow burn between my thighs.
I take a step toward him and breathe in his heady scent. God, how I’ve missed the smell of him. I want to run to him, to wrap myself around him and never let him go. But now that I have him here in front of me, some perverse sense of self-preservation kicks in. I can’t lay my heart at his feet just yet. I won’t.
‘Really? Times must be tough. New movie not doing so well?’
Mitchell chuckles mirthlessly. ‘Well, a lot of people aren’t very happy with me right now. Maybe you read about it?’ Even in the dim glow cast by the porch light, I can see the steely glint in his blue eyes.
‘I’m so sorry, Mitchell. I wish I could take it back.’ I don’t know what else I can say.
‘I’m sorry. I should have been on the next flight to Sydney the day you left LA. And for the record, none of what Vida told you is true,’ he says, and I’m taken aback by the vehemence in his tone. ‘Not one word of it. There was no publicity stunt.’
‘I know.’
Now it’s Mitchell’s turn to look startled. ‘You do?’
‘Yes. I should have believed you. I should have trusted my feelings for you. I should have believed in us.’ My throat tightens as the full force of all the things I should have done hits me. ‘And now it’s too late.’
Mitchell reaches for my hand, but pauses. The warmth of his skin radiates against mine as he hesitates. There’s just millimetres between us, but it feels like miles.
‘It doesn’t have to be,’ he says at last.
My stomach flips. I stare down at the grass. I can feel his gaze searching for mine, but I can’t bring myself to look at him. If the fleeting hope his words have given me isn’t reflected in his face, I don’t know what I’ll do. I want to see the answer to my unspoken question in his eyes.
‘Look at me, Kitty,’ Mitchell says. ‘Please.’
‘I can’t.’
With his index finger, he gently tilts my chin up until ou
r eyes lock. I have no doubt my hunger for him is writ large in mine, but his are dark and unknowable.
‘You made a big mistake the day we met, Kitty Hayden,’ he says.
Not what I’d expected. ‘I did?’
Mitchell nods. ‘You thought we were worlds apart and so we could never work. And maybe I reinforced that with my whole “let me be a movie star” speech and the car and . . . what happened to the Plymouth, by the way?’
Oh! Uh . . .’ I clear my throat. ‘Fender bender.’
‘Movies are just what I do, Kitty,’ he goes on, apparently buying my explanation. ‘It’s not who I am. I’m just Mitch Pyke, some drama geek from the Midwest who got crazy lucky.’
‘So, you’re basically telling me you’re just a boy, standing in front of a girl, asking her to love him?’ I deadpan.
He grins. ‘Something like that.’
‘Well, you’re in luck.’ I take a deep breath and summon all my courage. ‘Because I do love you. I never stopped, even when I thought what we had was just a figment of my imagination.’
‘You have a pretty dirty imagination,’ he says, leaning in close.
‘You have no idea.’ That smouldering feeling down low is building to a delicious ache.
‘I love you, Kitty,’ Mitchell says, and lowers his mouth to mine.
His kisses feel like memories. His lips graze my neck, my shoulders, the soft well at the base of my throat.
A soft moan escapes my lips. ‘Who are you?’ I whisper into the darkness.
‘You know who I am, Kitty. You’ve known all along,’ Mitchell replies. He pulls back and his gaze bores into mine. He smiles. ‘I’m yours.’
EPILOGUE
‘It was our dream day’: Mitchell Pyke ties the knot
By Molly Reid
What’s that we hear? Oh, just the sound of a million hearts breaking. Sorry to be the one to tell you, ladies, but the rumours are true: Mitchell Pyke is off the market.
The Solitaire hunk wed his Aussie lady love, Kitty Hayden, last weekend at the country property the pair share two hours south of Sydney.
The Ex Factor Page 28