The Ex Factor (9 page)

Even the air has had a Hollywood makeover: somehow, from somewhere, the dulcet tones of Dean Martin drift into the twilight.

But the pièce de résistance is parked in the driveway: a cherry-red 1958 Plymouth Fury, complete with whitewall tyres and tail fins and dripping with chrome. I don’t know much about cars, but I’d know this beast anywhere: it’s the main ‘character’ in my all-time favourite schlock-horror movie,
Christine.
And the only person I’ve told about my dubious cinematic tastes recently is now opening the driver’s door and stepping out of the car.

Mitchell.

Before I can remind myself I’m still mad that he failed to rush to my side last night, a huge grin hijacks my face. He looks relieved to see me smiling, which makes me smile even more broadly.

I pluck the champagne glasses from the tray and hold one out to Mitchell as the waiter quietly retreats into the lengthening shadows. ‘I thought you didn’t drink?’

Mitchell crosses the garden. ‘It’s sparkling apple juice,’ he says, taking the glass.

‘You are a crazy person, Mitchell Pyke!’

Mitchell clinks his glass against mine. ‘I am crazy, Kitty. I’m crazy about you,’ he says and kisses me softly on the lips. ‘You’re right, I should have been here last night. I should have jumped in my car the second you hung up the phone.’

‘Why didn’t you?’

‘Honestly?’ He looks a little sheepish. ‘I didn’t come because I was trying to be a “regular guy”. You’re such a smart, capable, independent woman and I know you’re not impressed by any of the trappings of money and fame.’

‘I don’t know about that. You parking the car from
Christine
in my driveway is pretty impressive.’

He laughs. ‘Well, then, I wish I’d done that sooner. But I figured you wouldn’t want some arrogant – what is it you Aussies call us? Yank? – bursting through your door like an action hero last night. Believe it or not, I was trying to play it cool.’

‘You were playing the part of a normal boyfriend?’

‘Yes, and not very well. When I found out what happened . . . when I realised you were in danger
because of me
—’ Mitchell breaks off and shakes his head, clearly furious with himself.

‘Hey, it’s fine,’ I say, lacing my arms around his neck and bringing his face close to mine. ‘
I’m
fine.’

‘The thing is, Kitty, I’m
not
normal.’

‘You’ve got that right!’ I gesture to the elaborate set-up behind us.

‘What I mean is, I don’t have a normal life. I’m not like guys you’ve dated before. I can’t promise you that you’ll never again be photographed on a beach or that my more, er,
enthusiastic
fans will treat you with the respect you deserve.’

‘I know,’ I say quietly. It’s like he’s been reading my thoughts.

‘But I can get a window guy out here at a moment’s notice on a Sunday afternoon. A window guy who charges like a wounded bull, by the way. I can have a bodyguard here round the clock. I can have restaurants and cinemas closed so that no one will be able to ogle us if we feel like dinner and a movie. I can buy you the car from your favourite terrible film.’

My jaw drops. ‘You
bought
me this car?’

‘I bought you that car and I’ll buy you ten more if you want me to. And next time anyone threatens you – though of course I hope there won’t be a next time – I’ll be here in a flash with my own private army. I’m not a regular guy, Kitty, I’m a movie star. I figured it was time I started acting like it.’

I can barely comprehend everything Mitchell is saying, all that he’s offering me. I look at the little slice of Hollywood he’s fashioned in my garden. I gaze at the Plymouth.
My
Plymouth. All of it is, of course, way too much; the grandest of grand gestures. I should tell Mitchell I can’t accept any of it. But I already know I’m not going to. I’ve been resisting stepping into his world, hoping instead that he’d step into mine and feeling let down when he wouldn’t – because he
couldn’t
.

‘So what do you think?’ he asks, those melancholy green eyes searching mine.

‘I think . . . I think . . .’

I can’t find the words. In the three days since I met Mitchell, my world has been irrevocably altered. I don’t know how to explain to him that I’m both consumed with misgivings and absolutely, positively falling for him.

I don’t know what I think, so I kiss him instead.

Sensible? Who needs sensible?

By the next morning, the media outlets that hadn’t been able to run with the story in their Sunday editions are all over ‘Brickgate’. One breakfast TV show actually calls it that, which genuinely makes me despair for the future of journalism.

At lunchtime, a gaggle of women on a panel-style chat show that wants to be
The View
but is really just a shrill imitation earnestly debate Mitchell’s decision to date a ‘civilian’ instead of another international beauty like Vida Torres. The talking heads are particularly obsessed with one thing: Mitchell’s drunken vow six months ago that he could never love another woman the way he loved his ex. How must poor Kitty Hayden feel, the pundits wonder aloud, knowing that, no matter what she does, she will never, ever hold a candle to the woman who broke Mitchell’s heart?

The truth is that Kitty Hayden hadn’t even thought about it until it was repeatedly pointed out to her via the world’s media that she’s very much second in line to the throne. And yet now she is – 
I
am
 – struggling to think about anything else. I know we’ve all made sweeping declarations in the heat of the moment. If I had a buck for every time I swore a solemn oath never to drink again while wrestling with a shocking hangover in my early twenties, I’d have a nice little nest egg indeed. But I have to admit the ceaseless banging on about it – not to mention the replaying of that blurry paparazzi video of a tipsy Mitchell stumbling out of the bar – has got me wondering whether he was sincere in his pledge after all.

I bang my tea mug on the coffee table in frustration, making Carl and Dolly jump in fright. They haughtily climb down from their napping positions on the sofa next to me. Why do I keep doing this to myself? Last night Mitchell was very clear about his feelings for me. What’s more, his statement was
public.
He could have staged his little makeover in the privacy of my backyard, but he chose to do it where he knew it – and we – would be seen. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before pictures of his transformation of my garden appear online. There’s absolutely no need for me to be sitting in my living room the morning after wondering if these self-important TV harpies are right. Why do I keep second-guessing myself any time some total stranger suggests I’m not Mitchell’s first choice, but merely the next best thing?

Perhaps it’s because, while Mitchell’s intentions couldn’t have been more explicit last night, nothing else about the evening was. After those delicious kisses on the front lawn, Mitchell departed almost immediately for a night shoot, leaving me to enjoy the Golden Age ambience with Frankie and Adam, who turned up out of the blue to remind me of my dinner invitation and tell me he was free for dinner two weeks on Thursday. Mitchell’s quick exit had left me wondering how celebrities ever managed to earn their promiscuous reputations – when did they have time to play Lothario when they apparently have to work every minute of the day and night?

Work
. My mood this morning isn’t helped by the fact that this is the first weekday morning in months that I haven’t had a job to go to. Sure, having downtime between projects isn’t uncommon for me, but I’ve always had my next gig lined up or at least the sniff of a project on the horizon. As it stands right now, my business is on an unscheduled hiatus – and who knows how long it will last once word gets around that Kitty Hayden can’t control her temper on set?

Compounding my irritation is the fact that I woke up this morning determined to be productive, and foolishly fired up the Excel spreadsheet on my laptop that keeps track of the household expenses. So far, it’s not making for pleasant reading. We don’t have a mortgage, thanks to Mum’s meticulous saving, but our outgoings are through the roof. The latest electricity bill, in particular, is terrifying – no doubt thanks to Frankie’s habit of having every home appliance running simultaneously and never switching off a light. My earnings in recent months have been reasonably healthy, but my sister’s contribution to the domestic coffers has been precisely zilch. I guess that’s what happens when all the ‘independent fashion designers’ and ‘emerging artists’ whose social media presence she manages are in fact old school friends running T-shirt stalls at Manly Markets or selling whimsical greeting cards on Etsy. Which is to say that her ‘clients’ don’t have any money, and neither does Frankie.

Danica Keane’s shiny black business card lies in front of me on the coffee table, spattered now with drops of my tea. Accepting her offer would certainly solve my immediate cashflow problems, but I’m still not sure it’s the right decision. I don’t want to do something as huge as walk away from my business just because I’m in a financial bind. I might have decided to jump in feet first with Mitchell, but I can’t afford – literally – to be rash where business is concerned.

As if I’ve summoned her with my fretting over her role in the sorry state of our finances, the front door bangs and my sister comes bouncing into the living room clutching a large cardboard box. Her cheeks are flushed and her blue eyes glitter as she sets the box on the table.

‘Ta-da!’ Frankie says.

I eye the box suspiciously. Something tells me whatever is in it was expensive. Frankie doesn’t issue ta-das lightly.

‘What’s that?’

‘That,’ says Frankie triumphantly, ‘is a George Nelson sunburst clock.’

I grab the TV remote and hit the ‘mute’ button, plunging the shrewish TV panel into merciful silence.

‘But we already have a clock.’ I point to the Alessi timepiece, just a couple of months old, that takes pride of place on the wall above the gas fire.

‘This isn’t just a clock, Kitty. This is
the
clock. I’ve only been looking for one, like,
forever.
It’s pretty much the Everest of my mid-century design collection.’

She opens the box and carefully lifts the prized clock out and lays it on the table. It has a small, round face surrounded by blue, green, orange and black spikes. It can’t have been that difficult to find; I’ve seen a million like it in those ads for replica furniture stores in the interiors magazines she hoards. Unless . . .

‘Frankie, please tell me that’s a replica. It’s not original, right?’

She rolls her eyes. ‘Of
course
it’s an original. Made in 1957. What would be the point in buying the same cheap plastic one everyone else has?’ Frankie’s expression tells me she finds it tiresome having to explain herself to such a philistine.

‘But it looks exactly like the cheap plastic one everyone else has. No one will know it’s the real deal.’

‘
I’ll
know,’ she says, as if this unequivocally justifies her extravagance.

I’m already dreading the answer to my next question. ‘How much did it cost?’

‘Kitty. This is one of the most sought-after pieces of mid-century design out there. It’s not about what it costs; it’s about what it’s
worth
.’

I’d put money – if my sister hasn’t spent it all – on that being exactly the spiel the salesperson gave her.

‘Did you use your own money to acquire this
worthy
piece of junk? Does it even work?’ The hands are set to the wrong time and haven’t moved at all since Frankie has been cradling it.

She pouts and casts her gaze to the floor. ‘I bought it for us, for our home.’

So that’ll be a no on having paid for it with her own funds. As well as the small sums Mum left to each of us in her will, there’s a joint account for household expenses. Of course, Frankie’s definition of a legitimate household expense tends to differ wildly from mine. I think boring things like insurance and paying the guy who mows the lawns qualify, whereas my sister is more of the ‘wildly overpriced trinkets’ and ‘designer wallpaper’ school of thought.

‘Seriously, Frankie. How much was it?’ Her steadfast evasion is making me feel panicky.

Frankie looks pained. ‘It’s going to double – maybe even triple – its value within a few years,’ she says sullenly.

‘Frankie . . .’ There’s an unmistakable note of warning in my voice.

She sighs noisily. ‘Six,’ she says at last.

‘Six hundred bucks? You paid six hundred bucks for a manky old clock that doesn’t even work?’ I shake my head in disbelief.

Frankie mutters something under her breath that I don’t quite catch.

‘What was that?’

She repeats it in a voice only slightly louder than a whisper. But she might as well have hired a plane to skywrite it, because it comes through loud and clear.

‘Six
thousand
dollars?! You have
got to be kidding me
!’

‘It’s an antique,’ she replies meekly.

‘I don’t care if it’s come out of Tutankhamun’s tomb. We don’t have that kind of money, certainly not to waste on useless crap like this. What are you thinking, Frankie? Oh wait, how silly of me. You don’t think, do you? Not about anyone other than yourself, anyway.’

I’m bellowing at an almost inhuman pitch, once again startling Dolly and Carl, who get up and actually leave the room this time. The small part of my brain that’s still thinking rationally knows that screaming at my sister will get me nowhere. Frankie’s default response when confronted is to shut down; it’s the young-adult equivalent of clamping her hands over her ears and singing ‘la la la!’

But I don’t feel at all rational. All I can think about is the fact that Frankie has spent six thousand dollars we don’t have. If it were business as usual, that would be six grand I’d have to go out and earn, but since I don’t have a job, it’s six grand we currently have no way of recovering. I want to take her pointless, ugly clock and stick it where the sunburst don’t shine.

‘You’ll have to take it back to the shop. Like, today. Right now.
This instant.’

‘I can’t. I bought it at auction. All sales are final.’ Frankie juts her chin out defiantly.

‘Well, then, you’d better use your social-media wizardry to sell it online, because I don’t want to see it again.’ I’m suddenly aware how like my mother I sound. ‘And then you’d better get on Seek and find yourself a job. A
real
job,’ I add pointedly. ‘I’m sick of being the one to bankroll your shopping sprees, Frankie. I’m taking your name off the joint account. From now on, if you want to throw money away, you can go out and damn well earn it.’

‘You can’t do that!’ Frankie protests. ‘Mum left that money to both of us.’

‘Exactly. It’s my money too, not that you ever seem to think about that. And Mum also appointed me power of attorney and executor of her will, so I
can
make decisions regarding her estate.’

‘Why don’t you ask Mr Moneybags Movie Star for the money? If he can buy you that hideous car parked outside, six thousand dollars must be like small change to him.’

‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it, Frankie? Just get someone else to clean up the messes you make. I’m not asking Mitchell for anything. This was your stupid decision and
you
can take responsibility for it.’

The silence that descends between us is poisonous. Frankie stares at me through narrowed eyes. I cross my arms in front of my chest and stare right back. I’m not backing down. Not this time.

Finally, Frankie picks up the clock and shoves it indelicately into its box. Without a word, she spins on her heel and storms out. Seconds later, I hear her on the phone to one of her friends.

‘You won’t
believe
what my bitch of a sister just did . . .’ Then her bedroom door slams shut and quiet is restored.

I don’t feel good about our fight. In the past few days, when everything has been so crazy, I’ve felt as if Frankie has been a confidante, an ally. But this is just so typical of her. Every time I start to think of my sister as an equal, she does something to remind me that our nine-year age gap might as well be ninety years. Does she think I want to tell her how to live her life? Does she honestly not appreciate that I have better things to do at the age of thirty than parent my little sister?

Our screaming match hasn’t resolved anything, anyway. We’re both still unemployed and, thanks to Frankie, we’re now six thousand dollars in the red. And while my sister is right about one thing – I’m sure Mitchell would loan me the money if I asked – there’s no way I’m about to risk having him think I’m a gold-digger.

No. There’s only one option. Until Frankie gets a job – and I
will
make sure she applies for anything that might be even remotely suitable – the buck once again stops with me.

I scoop up Danica’s card from the coffee table. With the other hand, I pick up my phone.