Authors: Laura Greaves
‘G’day, Kitty. Gary Roper’s my name. So, what we’re going to do is . . .’
Gary launches into a detailed explanation of how the ad will run and the dog’s role within it. Unusually, I haven’t been given a script ahead of time, because I think the concept is still evolving – in fact, the whole campaign strikes me as a bit ad hoc, but hey, it pays. And what Gary’s outlining sounds simple enough, if a bit cheesy. ‘Cleopatra’ will be standing atop a sand dune, surveying her empire: more dunes, some rented palm trees and a sumptuous royal palace that will be inserted later through the magic of computer graphics. But being an ancient aristocrat in the harsh ‘Egyptian desert’ is murder on a girl’s skin, as Vida will demonstrate by caressing her unblemished limbs in a frustrated fashion.
That’s where Zulu – Gary’s nominated first Pharaoh off the rank – will make her grand entrance, trotting across the sand with a bottle of Cleopatra’s Serum in her mouth. She will deliver it to the queen, solving her invisible dry-skin problems forever.
‘Sound good?’ says Gary, with a look that tells me his question is purely rhetorical. Vida and I both nod. ‘Excellent. We’ll be rolling in about ten minutes so, Vida, why don’t you use the time to get familiar with the dogs?’
Gary walks away, leaving me alone with Vida for the first time ever. She fixes me with her tawny gaze and raises both eyebrows, as if daring me to speak. I stare back at her for what feels like hours before remembering my vow of magnanimity and plastering a smile on my face.
‘Okay, we’ll be starting with Zulu, who’s probably the sassiest of the three,’ I say brightly. ‘Don’t worry, she’s well trained and really obedient, so you won’t have any problems with her, but she definitely has a little bit of swagger.’
I crouch down to give Zulu a scratch behind the ears. When I look up at Vida, her stony mask is as unyielding as ever.
‘The command to give her when you want her to release the moisturiser bottle into your hand is —’
‘What are you doing?’ Vida interrupts coldly.
Is she hard of hearing? ‘I’m explaining the directions you’ll need to give the dog,’ I say, standing up.
She rolls her eyes. ‘I mean, why are you talking to me as if you’re my friend?’ She leans in close. ‘You’re not my friend,
dog girl
.’
A spark of the fury I felt earlier flares in my stomach. To think the whole world thinks Vida is saintlier than Mother Teresa. I take a deep breath and silently count to ten.
She’s just like me, she’s just like me
.
‘Vida, we don’t need to do this. Whatever happened between us in the past, let’s just leave it there and do a good job today.’ I smile at her again, hopefully this time. I’m suddenly uncomfortably aware of just how much havoc she could wreak on this shoot. This job is vitally important for me, for my business, and she could ruin it all without chipping a nail. ‘I have no issue with you, Vida, honestly.’
She looks as affronted as if I’d slapped her. ‘You have no
issue
with me?’ Her accent makes her question sound truly menacing. ‘You think I have an issue with
you
? You think you’re better than me?’
There’s that clenching anger again. The possibility that she might have spent any time at all thinking about me is clearly utterly laughable to Vida, and that makes me want to slap her for real.
But then I remember what happened the last time I slapped a celebrity on a film set.
‘Look,’ I say, opting for one last stab at generosity. ‘I know it’s not easy when a former partner moves on with someone new, but —’
And then Vida actually does laugh, long and loud enough to attract the attention of crew members working nearby. ‘Stop! Stop it before you really embarrass yourself,’ she cackles.
‘Stop
what
?’
She wipes a pretend tear from her eye and makes a great show of quelling her guffaws. ‘Do you honestly think Mitchell
fell in love
with you? Oh, honey. You could have been
anyone.
’ Her voice drips with condescension.
The on-set noise suddenly seems to recede and I become aware of a low buzzing sound in my ears. ‘What are you talking about?’
Vida swallows the last of her giggles. Her face now is a picture of genuine surprise mixed with spiteful glee. ‘It was a publicity stunt.
You
were a publicity stunt, Kitty. Mitchell cooked it up with his rep, that
cadela
Debi.’
I don’t know what
cadela
means, but I can tell by the way Vida says it that it’s not a compliment. The buzzing sound grows louder. I feel lightheaded and shaky, my breath coming in shallow bursts.
‘No. You’re lying.’ She has to be.
She has to be
. ‘What Mitchell and I have is real.’
‘Oh, please. He’s an actor, Kitty. A damn good one – even I have to admit that. Mitchell can make you feel whatever he wants you to feel,’ she says, a little bitterly. ‘It’s his job.’
A wave of nausea wells up in the pit of my stomach and I clamp my hand over my mouth. ‘But why?’ I say between my fingers.
Vida shrugs. ‘When I left him, he was humiliated. There was that pathetic video – I’m sure you saw it. The studio was worried their most bankable star was losing it, and that audiences would be turned off. Crying over a girl isn’t very “action hero”, is it? They spent a hundred and fifty million dollars on
Twist of the Knife
, you know.’ She says this as if it explains everything.
‘SO?!’ I don’t mean to raise my voice, but the buzzing in my ears is so loud now I have to shout to hear myself above it.
A flicker of uncertainty clouds Vida’s expression. I can tell she’s worried that
I’m
losing it.
‘So Debi thought that Mitchell should find another girlfriend, one who was’ – she looks me up and down –’
ordinary,
and make her the most talked-about woman in the world. Prove to everyone that whatever Mitchell touches still turns to gold, so people would remember that he’s a huge deal and they’d all go see his stupid movie, and the studio would be happy again.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ I say flatly.
She flashes a knowing smile. ‘I think you do,’ she says. ‘I mean, he didn’t declare his undying love for
you
to the world’s media, did he?’
A lump the size of one of the Devil’s Marbles lodges in my throat. Trying to draw breath past it is like trying to suck a golf ball through a straw. It’s all I can do to remain conscious; speaking is out of the question.
‘I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, Kitty. I figured you knew – that you and Mitchell had some kind of arrangement,’ Vida says casually. There it is again; that assumption that we’re all prepared to sell our souls for fifteen minutes of fame.
I shake my head mutely as Mitchell’s own words echo in my head:
You don’t know the half of it.
He’d said that the night of the
Twist of the Knife
premiere, when I’d been gobsmacked by his revelation that Vida and Ellis had orchestrated their separation and reconciliation to generate buzz around the film. There had been a faraway look in his eye as he said it. Was this why? Was he feeling guilty about doing the same thing to me?
‘Didn’t it all seem strange, Kitty?’ Vida goes on. ‘Didn’t you ever stop to wonder why Mitchell chose you?’
There’s that question again – Adam had asked the same one at the restaurant all those weeks ago. Did it seem strange to have a movie star falling at my feet? Of course. From the day I met Mitchell to the agony of this very moment, every single second has felt like an out-of-body experience. But did I wonder why Mitchell chose me? Did I pause to consider why a bona fide superstar would look twice at some plain Jane dog nut from suburban Sydney?
No. Not once. Because I was too busy choosing Mitchell; choosing to ignore the gut instinct that told me he wasn’t a good guy – the same instinct that had led me to slap him the first time we met – and instead take it upon myself to mend his wounded heart. Because, after all, that’s what I do.
I was the hunter and from the moment I saw him in that paparazzi video, wobbling drunkenly out of the bar with his proverbial wings clipped, Mitchell became the ultimate lame duck. Only I’m the one who’s been blown to smithereens.
And then I remember something else. Mitchell swore he was drunk in that video. Emotional and overwrought, he assured me he was simply letting off steam, saying stuff he didn’t mean. But the very first time he turned up on my doorstep, he had turned down Frankie’s offer of a glass of wine.
I don’t drink
, he’d told her.
So he was sober in the video. And if he was sober, then he was sincere. When Mitchell said he’d never love anyone like he loved Vida, he meant it.
I fall to my knees and retch into the sand.
While I wouldn’t recommend being emotionally eviscerated by your boyfriend’s ex as a professional motivator, my work on the Cleopatra’s Serum commercial is some of the best I’ve ever done. It’s as if Vida’s truth bomb causes something inside me to disconnect; numbed by the pain of betrayal, my feelings go into lockdown and I switch over to autopilot.
No
, my brain says.
You are not going to let Vida destroy your shaky career on top of everything else.
Zulu and I work in perfect symbiosis, nailing take after take while Vida flubs her lines and grows increasingly irritated in the cold, uncomfortable conditions. The more efficiently I work, and the more praise Jacinta Sterne and Gary the director heap upon me, the more thunderous Vida’s mood becomes. I imagine I’d find it immensely satisfying, if I were able to feel anything at all.
Between takes, I smile and answer questions and make friendly conversation with the crew. I eat lunch and drink awful instant coffee. I accept compliments about my skill with the dogs, because I deserve them. I nod when Danica offers me another job for next week. I let Martha’s endless chatter wash over me as I drive her home. And all the while, nobody suspects that something inside me has died.
My flawless impression of a normal, functioning human being continues right up until I pull into my driveway, just as the last light of the day is fading. The glow of the rising moon glints off the Plymouth’s chrome rear fenders. My mobile rings, and I fish it out of my bag and stare at the screen.
Mitchell. Calling to plan our beautiful future together. Calling to feed me whatever bogus relationship strategy he and Debi have devised for ‘Kitchell 2.0’.
Sitting there, in the semi-darkness, my resolve crumbles. Autopilot disengages and the emotions I’ve been ignoring all day rush at me with the force of a dam breaking. I can hardly catch my breath amid the swirling torrent of sorrow, humiliation, regret, shock, and cold, consuming fury.
But I don’t cry. I can’t; I’m way too tired for crying. I just sit while the phone rings, quietly hyperventilating and gripping the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white.
Eventually, it rings out. A doorbell chime tells me Mitchell has left a message. There’s five seconds of silence, and then the ringing starts again. And again. And again.
He calls seven times in a row before sending a text message:
Landed at Kennedy. Where are you, beautiful? I can’t wait to have you in my arms again. Call me as soon as you can, M xox
Did Debi write that for him? I wonder how many drafts it went through, how many people had to approve the script. I wonder if anything Mitchell has ever said to me was real.
At last, there’s silence. I know it won’t last – Mitchell will call again later, and tomorrow, and probably for several days. He’ll send more text messages and emails, too. But I won’t answer the phone and I won’t reply. I won’t speak to him ever again. I don’t want apologies or gifts or grand gestures. I don’t want platitudes or promises or even an explanation. I don’t want
anything
from Mitchell Pyke. Ever.
My gritty-eyed gaze alights on the Plymouth once more. I don’t want this car. I’ve never wanted it – it’s wildly impractical and awkward to drive, not to mention a money pit to run – but now it just feels like a symbol of Mitchell’s and my
betray
tionship: pretty on the outside, drama behind the scenes. A performance that’s totally unsuited to the real world.
In fact, the sight of it now – parked here in front of my humble cottage, mocking me with its overblown Hollywood fabulousness – makes me apoplectic. I scramble out of the van and snatch a heavy stone from the garden bed that runs alongside the driveway. Before I have a chance to change my mind, I heave the rock at the car with all the force I can muster. It shatters the Plymouth’s left brake light, then ricochets onto the boot, carving an ugly fissure down the ruby-red duco before denting the bumper and clattering to the ground.
Breathing hard, I pick it up again and run around to the front of the car, stopping in front of the bonnet. ‘Bye-bye, windscreen,’ I mutter, as I lift the stone high over my head.
‘Stop!’
Startled, I drop the paver. It misses my right foot by a dog’s whisker. ‘Who’s there?’ I shout into the night. ‘I have a weapon and I’m not afraid to use it!’
‘Don’t fret. It’s just me.’ Out of the gathering darkness, Adam appears. ‘And I don’t know that ornamental rocks count as weapons.’
‘I think that brake light would disagree with you,’ I say as he strolls up the driveway toward me. ‘Watch your step.’
Adam deftly sidesteps the broken glass. ‘What are you doing, Kitty?’
‘I’m smashing the bejesus out of this ridiculous car. Wanna help?’
‘My dear,’ he says, laying one hand on my shoulder. It seems like it’s been years since Adam said a kind word to me, or made an affectionate gesture. It feels foreign, and wonderful. ‘My dear, I think you’ve seen
Christine
one too many times. I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you this, Kitty, but
the car will not regenerate
.’
In spite of my tempest, I laugh. ‘I don’t want it to regenerate. I want to forget it ever existed. I want it
gone
. Out of my life. Forever.’
‘Are we still talking about the car?’ In the dim glow of the streetlight, I can see a flicker of genuine concern lurking behind Adam’s goofy grin.
I hang my head. ‘No.’
‘Will we go inside?’ He uses the hand still resting on my shoulder to turn me gently towards the house. ‘Unless you’d like to invite the neighbours to join in the ceremonial car sacrifice?’
With a sigh, I trudge alongside Adam to the front door, where he extracts my keys from my pocket and lets us in. Reggie, Dolly and Carl greet us both rapturously, although my welcome becomes notably less effusive when they detect the scent of other dogs on my clothes. They look at me as if I’ve been cheating on them and trot haughtily into the living room.
‘Frankie?’ I call out as I follow them. There’s no response.
‘She’s working late,’ Adam says.
‘I guess so.’ Frankie has been putting in long hours at her new job as a junior marketing officer for a local surfwear label. Well, the job is new to me; Frankie started there not long after I went to LA, but I still can’t quite get used to thinking of my little sister as gainfully employed. She is, though, and by all accounts she’s loving it – she often gets home after I’ve gone to bed, and even heads into the office on weekends. It’s kind of wonderful to see her so passionate about something, although I do worry about her burning out.
‘So, shall we have a glass of wine and you can unburden your heavy heart?’ Adam calls over his shoulder as he heads into the kitchen.
I sink into the sofa. ‘Actually, Adam, you know what I’d really love?’
He pops his head around the kitchen door, a quizzical expression on his face. ‘Do tell.’
‘Milo.’
Ten minutes later, the dogs have been fed and watered and I’m curled in a ball on the couch, a steaming mug of Milo in my hand. Adam sits opposite me, and suddenly there’s a palpable feeling of awkwardness between us. In my surprise at seeing him materialise out of the night I forgot that we’ve only been in each other’s company twice in the past two months, and that on both occasions we said some pretty terrible things to each other.
‘So,’ Adam says, sipping from his own mug and not quite meeting my gaze. ‘What did that god-awful car ever do to you?’
‘It had the misfortune of being a gift from Mitchell Pyke.’
‘Ah, I see. I thought you’d begun to move on from Mr Movie Star.’ He frowns. ‘Did something happen today?’
I sigh. ‘Not something, some
one
. Vida Torres.’
Adam grimaces. ‘Uh-oh. Do you want to talk about it?’
‘Do you want to hear it?’ I reply, a little more sharply than I’d intended. Adam doesn’t appear to have any intention of bringing up our recent clashes, and I’m sick to the back teeth of things being left unsaid. ‘The last time we broached the subject of my relationship with Mitchell, it didn’t exactly go well.’
‘Of course I want to hear it,’ he says, looking wounded. ‘You’re still my best friend, Kitty. That’s all water under the bridge.’
‘It’s not water under the bridge to
me,
Adam. I was devastated by the things you said to me that night. And then you never called me once while I was in America. I was so lonely over there. I missed you so much.’
‘You did?’ Adam looks genuinely surprised. ‘Really?’
‘Yes! We’ve been friends for the best part of a decade. You’re the only person in my life who really gets me. You’re definitely the only one who understands my crazy dog ladyness.’
Adam sets his mug on the coffee table and slides off the couch onto the floor. Shuffling over to me on his knees, he takes my left hand between both of his and presses it to his chest, his heart.
‘Kitty, my dearest, my number-one girl, I prostrate myself at your feet,’ he says grandly. ‘I offer my most heartfelt apologies and humbly beg your forgiveness. Do you think you can find it in your heart to walk by my side at the dog park ever again?’
A hearty laugh bubbles up from deep inside me and erupts, taking me by surprise. I swat Adam with a cushion. ‘Get up, you big diva. Of course I forgive you.’
With mock indignation, Adam returns to the sofa, but this time he sits next to me and pulls me in close.
‘A simple “I’m sorry” would have sufficed, you know,’ I tell him.
‘I
am
sorry,’ he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze. ‘I didn’t contact you while you were away because I didn’t know how to even begin to atone for my terrible behaviour. I was afraid for you when you left, that’s all. I didn’t want you to get hurt.’
‘I know. And I appreciate you not saying “I told you so”.’
‘Nevertheless, I was an absolute cad at the restaurant that night, not to mention a monster at the clinic the day you got home.’
‘Oh, yes,
that
,’ I say, enjoying the comforting feeling of his strong arms around me. ‘I
never
thought I would see the day when you would side with my sister instead of me!’
Adam chuckles, but doesn’t respond.
I burrow my face into the sleeve of his T-shirt and breathe him in. There’s a new aroma mixed in with his usual scent of dog hair and veterinary chemicals. It’s sweet, like perfume.
‘Adam Katz, are you wearing aftershave?!’ I pull back and look at him, enjoying the way he squirms under my gaze. In all the years I’ve known him, my best friend’s loathing of ‘man bouquet’, as he calls it, has never wavered. Adam prefers to smell honest and unadorned, or so he’s always claimed.
‘Maybe a little . . .’ he mumbles.
‘Good
God
! Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?’ I frown with faux suspicion. ‘Just what else aren’t you telling me?’
I expect Adam to join in with my laughter, but he only offers a small smile and looks away. Then he clears his throat. ‘There, um . . . there is something I want to tell you, actually. Well, something I
need
to tell you.’
He looks up at me now, and the undisguised vulnerability in his expression makes my breath catch in my throat. Understanding crashes down upon me like a breaking wave. How could I have been so clueless for so long?
Adam has feelings for me.
The apprehensive, hopeful look on his face might as well be a flashing neon sign. It all adds up: his misgivings about Mitchell, his opposition to my moving to LA, the way he lashed out at me at the restaurant that night. The fact that he’s never actually called Mitchell by his name. It’s all been driven by jealousy.
Has he felt this way the whole time we’ve been friends? He hasn’t really dated anyone the whole time I’ve known him. Though, to be honest, I don’t know when he’d have time. If he’s not at work, he often pops in unexpectedly or finds me at the dog park. He does odd jobs around the house . . . come to think of it, with notable recent exceptions, we’ve been virtually inseparable for years. And now he’s wearing aftershave.
Adam is
in love
with me.
‘Kitty, we’ve been friends a long time,’ he says haltingly. ‘And I know you know how much you mean to me . . .’
Oh God. I’m not ready for this conversation. Am I? It’s not that I haven’t thought about what it would be like to be with Adam; I mean, really
be
with him. The last time the notion crossed my mind was when I first met Mitchell and wasn’t sure I’d be able to cope with the attention a relationship with ‘Mr Movie Star’ would bring. I had wondered then if someone like Adam – sweet, familiar,
not famous
Adam – would be a better match for me.
Turns out I was one hundred per cent right about Mitchell. Could I have been right about Adam, too?
‘You mean the world to me, too,’ I say. My voice is tentative, but I mean those words from the bottom of my heart.
Adam is a good man. A wonderful man. A man who has been by my side through thick and thin. A man who’s about to lay his heart at my feet. A man I can trust with my own.
Adam is the man I should be with. Not a man
like
Adam, but Adam himself.
‘I’m so glad to hear you say that,’ he goes on. ‘Because things have changed, and—’
I stifle his words with a kiss, claiming his lips with my own more passionately than I thought possible. It’s not just a kiss; it’s a promise. Maybe I’m not ready for a new relationship yet, but I can’t let Adam bare his soul without telling him that he has mine, too, and that one day, soon, he’ll have all of me.
I feel Adam respond, his lips parting as the kiss deepens. But then he pulls away.
‘What are you doing?’ he gasps.
I cup his cheek with my palm. ‘It’s okay, Adam,’ I say gently. ‘You don’t need to explain. I understand.’
He frowns. ‘I don’t think you do.’
‘You’re in love with me. I should have realised it years ago. And I feel the same way. Well, I
will
feel the same way. If you can give me just a little time, I know I’ll —’
Adam groans. ‘Oh, Kitty,’ he says. A crimson blush creeps up from his collarbones. ‘I’m in love with
Frankie
.’