The Ex Factor (7 page)

‘Hello?’ She pauses a moment, then slams down the receiver.

‘Telemarketer?’

‘Worse. Journalist. The cat’s out of the bag.’

The phone literally does not stop ringing all day. First comes the local media – 
Sunrise,
the
Today
show, all the daily newspapers – and then, after I’ve given all of them the same ‘no comment’, I field dozens of calls from reporters and TV networks all over the USA, as well as the UK, Ireland and some European countries I’ve never even heard of. Somehow they’ve found the home number, my mobile and even my email address; my inbox hits capacity around lunchtime. Too bad for any potential clients who might be trying to reach me.

‘How did you get this number?’ I ask one of the first journalists at the crack of dawn, before I come to my senses and start letting the answering machine screen the barrage of calls on my behalf.

‘Oh easy,’ he replies. ‘The snapper who sold us that pic of you kissing Mitchell Pyke told us which house you came out of, and we just looked you up on the electoral roll.’

Damn democracy.

‘At first we weren’t sure whether you were Kathryn or Frances, because you’re both enrolled at that address,’ he goes on – and I’m not about to tell him I prefer to be called Kitty –’so we just Googled. None of the selfies Frances has posted on Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or Tumblr look like you, so we figured she’s the blonde and you’re the redhead. You might want to talk to her about tightening her privacy settings.’

Damn Frankie’s compulsive oversharing.

Of course, none of the hacks who leave messages are satisfied just to have put a name to a face. They all want
details
. They want to know what I do for a living and how I met Mitchell and if it’s serious between us. At least half of them actually have the nerve to ask if we’ve slept together yet.

And all of them – every single one – ask how it feels to be following in the footsteps of the venerable Vida Torres.

The only person who
hasn’t
called me today, and the one I want to speak to the most, is Mitchell. I’m still worried I crossed some unspoken line by asking him about Vida last night. I want to apologise or explain or
something,
but I know he’s on set all day.

‘How silly of me to focus my attention on Mitchell’s and my . . . 
whatever
this is,’ I say sulkily to Frankie as I collapse onto the sofa after clearing my voicemail for the umpteenth time. ‘I didn’t realise I have to live up to his ex-girlfriend’s reputation as well.’

‘You don’t have to live up to her or anyone else,’ my sister says, appearing from the kitchen with two bottles of Corona in her hand. She hands one to me and plops onto the couch beside me. ‘She’s old news. You’re not only
new
news, but you’re an enigma. They might know your name, but they don’t know anything else about you. And they won’t find out. I’ve called everyone we know and threatened them all with gruesome death should they even make eye contact with one of these sleazebag reporters.’

Something tells me Frankie is being wildly optimistic, but I flash her a grateful smile as I reach for the remote control and flip on the TV.

‘Speaking of news, do you mind if I watch it?’ I need to see for myself that the world hasn’t gone entirely mad; that people realise there are more important things going on out there than who some suburban dog trainer is dating.

‘Sure,’ Frankie says, taking a long pull on her beer.

The grandiose overture that signals the start of the nightly news rings out and a banner headline appears across the bottom of the TV screen:
Hollywood star’s new Aussie love.
The words are superimposed over side-by-side still images – one is the now familiar shot of me and Mitchell embracing in the street; the other is a cheesy image of me holding a basket full of chocolate-brown Labrador puppies, taken on the set of a toilet-paper commercial I worked on years ago.

‘Oh crap,’ Frankie says under her breath. ‘I guess maybe they do know some stuff about you after all.’

‘Tonight,’ comes the newsreader’s voiceover. ‘Is an Australian woman helping to mend movie star Mitchell Pyke’s broken heart?’

The pictures of me mercifully vanish, replaced by aerial footage of a boat sinking in rough seas. ‘And another boatload of asylum seekers rescued off the coast of Christmas Island,’ the newsreader continues, switching from his upbeat voice to a graver tone.

I look at Frankie, my astonishment no doubt writ large on my face. ‘Am I hearing things?’ I ask her, ‘Or is my snog with Mitchell the top story on the news? Did he actually just talk about a celebrity’s date
before
he talked about desperate people risking their lives on a leaky boat?’

‘You heard right,’ Frankie says, wearing an expression that makes her look as if she’s just smelled something highly unpleasant.

The opening summary ends and the middle-aged newsreader appears on screen. ‘Good evening,’ he says. ‘First tonight, he’s one of the most famous men on the planet, but after a bitter split from supermodel Vida Torres, it looked like true love had eluded actor Mitchell Pyke. Now it seems a Sydney woman has won the heartthrob’s affections. For more, we go live now to reporter Erin McInerny. Erin, what can you tell us about the mystery woman?’

Cut to a perky blonde woman
standing outside my house
.

‘What the hell!’ I cry, leaping up from the couch. I race into the hall and peek through the glass panel beside the front door. Sure enough, there’s an outside broadcast truck parked in my driveway and two men and a woman standing on my lawn. One of the men is holding a boom mike while the other points a camera at the woman, the blonde on my TV screen.

My vision suddenly telescopes, as though I’m in a dream. The people on the lawn look to me like tiny specks at the end of a long, dark tunnel. I’d thought making out with Mitchell was crazy, but this is easily the most surreal moment of my life.

‘Are they really out there?’ Frankie calls.

I return to the living room in time to hear the reporter begin her spiel. ‘Thanks, Alan. I’m standing outside the Northern Beaches home of thirty-year-old Kathryn Hayden, who goes by the name Kitty. It’s a name fans of actor Mitchell Pyke might want to remember, because the pair has reportedly embarked on a whirlwind romance after meeting on the set of his latest film,
Solitaire
, which is currently filming in Sydney’s western suburbs.’

The camera cuts away from my house and stock footage rolls showing Mitchell on various film sets and red carpets – often with the impossibly gorgeous Vida Torres on his arm.

‘We understand Kitty is a dog lover who trains animals for films and television shows. A source close to the couple tells us sparks flew the moment they met, with Kitty actually slapping Mitchell after he accidentally collided with a dog she had trained for the film.’

My house appears on the screen again. ‘Kitty lives in this modest Narrabeen cottage with her younger sister,’ says the chatty blonde.

‘Modest!’ Frankie says indignantly. ‘This house could be in a magazine!’

‘She was spotted locking lips with Mitchell last night on a date that included a quick dip at the beach and dinner at a local restaurant.’

Cut to a shot of the steakhouse we’d eaten at last night. A bemused-looking man, identified as ‘Dino – restaurant manager’, fills the screen. ‘They were just like any other young couple in love,’ he says. ‘He had a steak, she had a cheeseburger.’

Such insight.

And back to Blondie once more. ‘Now Alan, we know that Mitchell Pyke has been single since his shocking split from supermodel Vida Torres six months ago, when he famously vowed he would never love again. Sources tell us Kitty has never been married and has been single for some years.’

That actually makes me wince.

‘Ouch. Way to make you sound like a spinster cat lady,’ says Frankie. ‘At least if they’d gone with crazy
dog
lady they’d have been partially correct.’

This gives me an idea. Keeping my eyes trained on the TV, I give a single, loud whistle. In the next second, Reggie, Dolly, Carl and Bananarama have roused themselves from their respective napping spots and assembled at my feet.

Here’s Alan’s pudgy mug again. The screen splits so we can see both him and the reporter. ‘Erin, has Kitty Hayden made any comment to the media?’

I lead the dogs into the hall and motion for them to sit by the front door. ‘Who’s there?’ I ask them in the most excited tone I can muster. ‘Who is it? Who’s there, puppies? Go get’em!’ The whole pack is on instant alert, sniffing and scratching at the front door – even deaf-as-a-post Reggie, who’s simply feeding off the barely contained agitation of his canine cohorts.

Erin shakes her head vigorously. ‘No, Alan. There’s been no sign of Kitty today. If her fledgling romance with the star voted ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ continues, she’ll obviously have to get used to life in the spotlight. But for now at least, it seems she’s happy to let the pictures tell the story.’

The picture of Mitchell kissing me looms large on screen for a final time, and I wonder how much money that paparazzo actually earned from it on a cost-per-use basis. I take advantage of the momentary diversion to unleash the hounds, opening the front door and sending four barking, keyed-up dogs barrelling across the front lawn toward the news team.

Turning back to the TV screen, I see Erin’s oily grin as she says, ‘Back to you, Alan.’ But her smile turns to a look of sheer panic as she sees my canine army advancing at her. The vision cuts abruptly back to the studio, truncating Erin’s high-pitched squeal. After a startled pause, Alan starts to introduce the next item – the day’s actual news.

Of course, the dogs stop barking as soon as they reach the news crew. Their animosity quickly quelled, they’re more interested in sniffing the expensive equipment strewn across the grass than continuing their snarling interrogation of the strangers. But viewers across Sydney don’t get to see that part. For all anyone watching the broadcast knows, bubbly, flaxen-haired Erin McInerny has just been torn limb from limb by a slavering pack of demon dogs.

Of course, I know setting my dogs on this poor excuse for a journalist is wildly irresponsible (not to mention a pretty poor advertisement for my skills as a trainer), but at this point, I just don’t care.

I let the dogs sniff a moment longer, enjoying watching Erin and her frightened crew dance around them. I half hope for the lift of a leg against a piece of expensive equipment, but I’ve trained the mutts too well for that. Another whistle brings them back to my side just as rapidly as they went charging forth.

Erin turns and sees me standing on the verandah. Despite her unease, she can’t resist going for the scoop.

‘Kitty Hayden?’ she says, tripping across the lawn as fast as her high heels will carry her, microphone thrust towards me. The camera and sound guys race to keep pace with her. ‘Do you have any comment to make about your relationship with Mitchell Pyke?’

I beckon the dogs into the house. ‘Yes, Erin, as a matter of fact I do,’ I say sweetly. ‘What I would like to say, and I’m sure Mitchell would agree with me, is get your crew and your truck off my property before I call the police.’

Then I slam the door in her face.

Mitchell finally calls late that night. ‘I hear you’ve been making friends with the world’s media,’ he says, a definite note of mirth in his voice.

‘How do you know that? I thought you’d been on set all day.’ But I’m relieved that he sounds relaxed. I’d expected a least a trace of awkwardness after last night, but maybe my prying wasn’t the first-date faux pas I’d imagined.

‘My publicist called from LA, demanding to know all about you so that she can concoct a media strategy for handling our relationship in the press. You know they’re calling us “Kitchell”?’

I’m momentarily speechless. I need a strategy? I’m to be handled? And Mitchell thinks we’re in a
relationship
?

‘I’m sorry if I’ve caused more trouble for you, Mitchell,’ I say when I regain the power of speech. ‘I don’t know how they found out all that stuff about me. About us.’

‘You have absolutely nothing to apologise for, Kitty. That information would have come from people on the movie – film sets leak like sieves. And setting the dogs on that awful reporter was a stroke of genius. I’m the one who should be saying sorry. You didn’t ask for any of this.’

I think about that for a moment. True, the barrage of interest in my personal life over the past twenty-four hours has taken me by surprise, but is it really so unexpected? I’m not totally naïve; I know Mitchell is incredibly famous. And I guess that, deep down, I knew from the moment I agreed to see him again that dating him wouldn’t be like catching a movie with the boy next door.

‘I think I kind of did ask for it,’ I say. ‘At least, I knew it would be part and parcel of being seen with you. Of having a . . . relationship with you.’

‘Ah, so you picked up on that,’ he says quietly.

‘Um, yeah.’

‘Does it freak you out? My saying that after we’ve only been on one date?’

‘Well, technically your
publicist
said it.’

Mitchell laughs. ‘That’s true. I guess I’m off the hook then.’

‘Guess so.’

‘Except that I’m saying it, too. When I said last night that I think there’s really something between us, I meant it.’

But for how long, I wonder. Filming on
Solitaire
is set to wrap in six weeks. What happens to our ‘relationship’ then?

‘So all my crazy-girl questions about your ex didn’t scare you off?’

‘Not at all. I want you to know everything about me. And I want to know everything about you. I want to know
every part
of you.’

There’s a sudden intensity in his voice that makes my stomach flip. Is he saying what I think he’s saying?

‘Where are you right now?’ Mitchell goes on.

‘In my bedroom.’ I’m actually sitting on the floor in the hall, but I quickly get to my feet. If this conversation is headed where I think it is, I’m going to need privacy.

‘Are you in bed?’

So he
is
saying what I think he’s saying. In a nanosecond, I mentally debate the pros and cons of engaging in a spot of telephone hanky-panky with a megastar. Cons: I hardly know the guy. He probably does this with fifty different women every night; I’m just another notch on his verbal bedpost. I’ve never been very good at dirty talk and am liable to say something ridiculous. My phone might have been tapped by some muckraking reporter.

Pros: Mitchell is off-the-charts sexy. This is my chance to make up for being denied more than a kiss last night. And there’s the not-insignificant fact that I
want
to do this.

‘Kitty? Are you still there?’

YOLO, as Frankie might say.

‘Uh-huh. I’m in bed.’ I race toward my bedroom, Dolly and Bananarama at my heels. They look positively outraged when I shut the bedroom door in their faces, then hopeful when I open it again a second later to eject Reggie and Carl, who had been sleeping on my bed. I climb onto the bed and arrange myself against the pillows.

‘Tell me what you’re wearing.’

‘Really?’ I wrinkle my nose at the cliché.

Mitchell laughs, a low, gruff sound that’s more like a growl. ‘Really.’

I cast an eye over my outfit. I’d taken the dogs to the park earlier, once I was sure my garden was free of lurking reporters, so my ensemble is entirely practical: jeans and a black tank top under a blue hooded jumper.

‘I’m wearing a silk slip, a black lace bra and matching panties,’ I lie. I don’t actually own anything made of silk and I’ve never used the word panties in my life, but hey, it’s about painting a picture. ‘The silk feels so cool against my skin. It’s so hot in here.’

That part, at least, is true. Weatherboard cottages are a nightmare for retaining heat.

‘Take the slip off,’ he says.

I lay the phone beside me as I wriggle out of my layers. Briefly, I consider switching it to speaker mode, but the thought of Frankie overhearing what may follow is mortifying.

‘Underwear too?’ I ask in what I hope is a coquettish tone. The reality of my faded cotton knickers and mismatched bra is somewhat different to what I’ve described.

‘No. Leave those on. I want to unwrap you a little at a time.’

A delicious shiver starts in my toes and ripples through my entire body. So much for his pledge last night to take things slowly.

‘Hey, why do I get all the attention? Let’s talk about you for a second. Are you at your hotel?’

‘Yes. I’m sitting by the window, looking out over the Opera House and the Harbour Bridge. It’s a beautiful night out there.’

‘Curtains open?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘So, you can be seen?’

There’s a pause at the end of the line and I can tell Mitchell hasn’t actually considered the possibility that he might be observed. The realisation could kill our little game dead. Or . . .

‘I’m on the thirtieth floor, so it’s unlikely anybody’s looking. But yeah, I guess someone driving by on the expressway or in one of the neighbouring buildings could watch me if they wanted to.’

‘How does that make you feel?’

‘Hard.’

A gasp escapes my lips. In my mind’s eye, I see a shirtless Mitchell sprawled in an armchair in front of a floor-to-ceiling plate-glass window, a telltale bulge straining against the denim of his designer jeans.

‘Interesting. In that case, unzip your pants.’

His breathing deepens and I hear a faint, obedient
zzzip.

‘Done.’

‘Good. Take it out. No, wait. Imagine me taking it out.’

Mitchell gives a soft moan as he follows my instruction. ‘And now?’

‘Hmm. Now . . . now I think it’s my turn again.’

I know I’m being cruel, but if Mitchell is frustrated I can’t hear it in his voice. ‘Put your hand in your panties,’ he says thickly. ‘Tell me how it feels.’

I do as he asks and an electric thrill snakes through me. I’ve never done anything like this before. Getting it on over the phone has always seemed so, I don’t know,
tawdry.
It’s not something I imagine a lot of thirty-year-old dog trainers do in their spare time – not with one of the most famous men on the planet at the other end of the line, anyway. I’d imagined that, if I ever tried it, I’d feel awkward or self-conscious. But there are demands and declarations on the tip of my tongue right now that would make a porn star blush. I feel quite the libertine.

‘Tell me,’ Mitchell urges again. His breathing is rapid and shallow and I know he’s touching himself, too.

‘It feels . . .’

But I don’t get to find out how it feels, because at that moment there’s an almighty
BANG
at the front of the house, followed by the unmistakable tinkle of breaking glass. Then comes the Scooby Doo scrabble of claws against floorboards as the dogs dash toward the commotion, barking as if their lives depend on it.

‘Jesus Christ!’

‘Feels good, doesn’t it?’ Mitchell purrs.

‘No! I mean, yes, but . . . something’s happened. I’m sorry, Mitchell. I’ll have to call you back.’ I press ‘end call’ before he can respond, spring out of bed and yank on my jeans. Not bothering with my tank, I zip up my hoodie and dart into the hall, almost colliding with Frankie as she careens out of her bedroom.

‘What the hell was that?!’

The dogs are at the front door now, scratching at it and whining. Reggie throws his full, impressive weight at it, literally foaming at the mouth in his desperation to get to whatever lurks outside.

I can see the narrow windowpane next to the door has been shattered. Shards of glass cover the floor of the hall, glinting in the silvery moonlight. I feel panic rising as I imagine the potential carnage should soft paws make contact with the razor-sharp fragments.

‘Frankie, help me grab the dogs! There’s glass everywhere.’

She flips on the hall light and races to the laundry to get the dogs’ leashes as I pick my way through the minefield that stands between me and my pets. Ancient Dolly and laidback Carl are pretty easy to subdue. I grab their collars and gingerly guide them toward me, sweeping the largest glass shards from their path with my big toe. Frankie quickly leashes the pair and leads them into the other room.

‘Check their feet,’ I call after her. From the bedroom comes the insistent ring of my mobile.
Mitchell.
That’s twice – if I’m counting my dream – that we’ve been rudely interrupted just as things were getting interesting. Right now it’s difficult to imagine I’ll ever have an opportunity to turn my fantasies into reality.

Not that this is the moment to be thinking about that; not when I have Reggie to deal with. Dolly and Carl might have been pliable, but there’s no way forty kilos of pure, snarling muscle is going to stand down and come quietly – not when he thinks he’s doing his sacred duty and defending his pack against an enemy he can’t even hear. And the fact that he’s so wild when he hasn’t actually heard anything chills me: what’s out there that he can sense?

My hand signals won’t work because Reggie won’t look at me; he’s too busy firing his laser glare at the door. Though I’ve never felt so much as a millisecond of fear around Reggie, I know better than to get all up in the business of a dog in full flow. There’s only one option.

Taking a deep breath, I lean forward and grasp the door handle.

‘No, Kitty!’ Frankie yells over Reggie’s racket. ‘You don’t know what’s out there.’

‘There’s no other way to calm him down,’ I say. Clearly this is karmic retribution for my earlier stunt with the TV reporter.

The TV reporter. What was her name – Erin? Could she have returned to settle the score? But breaking a window is so juvenile. And Erin would have to know she’d be the first person I’d think of. Surely she can’t possibly be
that
stupid.

I pull the door open and Reggie bolts outside, triggering the automatic sensor light. Realising there’s no one he needs to attack, he begins patrolling the perimeter of the garden, madly sniffing everything in sight. As my eyes adjust to the sudden glare, I’m stunned. I don’t quite know what I expected to see, but it wasn’t this.

Nothing.

There’s absolutely no sign of anyone or anything either on my property or in the inky darkness beyond the glow cast by the light. The street is as still and quiet as a church. Even the resident possums have turned in for the night.

The only hint that anything is amiss is the smashed window and —

Oh.

Lying on the verandah, directly under the window it pulverised, is a red brick. It must have rebounded after breaking the window. Wrapped around the brick is a piece of paper.

‘What is it?’ asks Frankie, appearing in the doorway. Reggie trots onto the verandah too, having apparently given the garden the all-clear. He sniffs curiously at the brick.

I prise the paper out from under the rubber band lashing it to the brick and unfold it. It’s a note.

‘Frankie?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Do me a favour and call the police.’

The police arrive at the same moment as Adam.

‘Are you all right, precious?’ he asks as he wraps me in a big bear hug. The two constables peering at the ruined window exchange glances.

‘I’m fine, Adam, but how do you —’

‘Frankie called and told me what happened.’

On a scale of one to totally bizarre, this is only slightly less shocking than having a brick hurled through my front window at midnight.

‘
Frankie
? My sister? That Frankie?’ The sister in question is nowhere in sight: having declared she didn’t want to impede the police investigation, she’d gone back to bed.

‘That’s the one.’

‘But . . . why?’

Adam looks peeved at my question, and rightfully so. The guy had dragged himself out of bed – possibly not even his – to dash to my side at this hour, and here I was giving him the third degree.

‘Sorry, Adam. I don’t mean why are you here. It’s great that you’re here. I
love
that you’re here.’ I give his arm a squeeze to underscore my point. ‘In fact, I would have called you myself. I’m just surprised Frankie got in first. You two aren’t exactly bosom buddies.’

‘I guess she thought perhaps you’d want me to give the dogs the once-over,’ he says with a shrug.

I ponder this for a moment. If Adam’s right, it means Frankie not only thought about someone else before herself – i.e. me – but that she also gave consideration to the dogs’ welfare. She barely acknowledges their existence except to complain when they damage her pricy interiors. Something about the whole scenario just doesn’t compute.

But before I can probe further, the stockier and more middle-aged of the two constables is standing in front of me, pen poised over his notebook.

‘This Mr Pyke, ma’am?’ he asks, jerking his head towards Adam. ‘This who the note refers to?’

I offer a silent thank you to the universe for sending me possibly the only person in the world who doesn’t know anything about Mitchell – and presumably doesn’t have an opinion about my dating him.

‘This is Adam Katz, my friend and my dogs’ vet. He’s just come to make sure they’re okay.’

‘I came to make sure
you’re
okay,’ Adam says quietly.