Authors: Joe Keenan
I asked Rex why he’d switched from acting to interviewing. On hearing this query, Monty winced and topped off his wine, for
he knew I’d provided Rex a perfect segue into his favorite topic —the rampant homophobia of the film industry and how it had
robbed him of the stardom he’d indisputably deserved.
“I see all these actors today who are your age who say, ‘What’s the big deal? I’m gay, I’m out, and I work all the time.’
I want to
scream
at them because they have no idea what it was like in my day.”
“Well, I think most people my age have
some
idea how —”
“
No
idea!” he snapped. “They weren’t
there.
Back then if you were gay you hid it. And if you were, like me, someone too honest, with too much
integrity
to pretend to be who you weren’t, well, forget it, baby. It was
over.
And of course the casting directors never had the guts to say, ‘Oh, Rex, I’m still in the closet and your courage frightens
me.’ And they’d never say I was ‘too gay’ either. No, they had their little code words. I was the ‘wrong type’ or ‘too fat’
or ‘off pitch.’ Though one director actually said to me, ‘God, Rex, you’re such a pansy! Can’t you hide it?’ ”
“Well,” I asked unwisely, “could you?”
“Could I what?
Hide
it?”
“Just when you were acting? If the part demanded it?”
“Why should I
hide
it? It’s who I
am!
Would you tell Glenn Close to stop being such a woman?”
“Well, if she were playing a man—”
“I refuse to pass!”
There seemed no point in arguing with a man too dementedly self-righteous to concede that acting was pretty much about “passing”
and that a gay man cast as Stanley Kowalski should keep the flouncing to a minimum. I tried to change the subject but Rex
refused, decrying “self-loathing” young queers like me who’d sooner side with their straight oppressors than defend their
wronged brethren. Lily and Monty, dismayed by the turn things had taken, began discussing our progress on her memoir. This
only prompted Rex to pillory “that closet case Miss Stephen” and urge Lily to expose him as a hypocrite who’d taken the coward’s
route to success.
On hearing my beloved so maligned, I could no longer contain myself. I asserted sharply that I had no need to loathe myself,
as Rex was handling that chore quite ably. And had it, by the way, occurred to him that “wrong type,” while possibly a discreet
euphemism for “too gay,” might just as politely stand in for “can’t act to save his fucking life”?
“Well said!” boomed Monty, slapping the table. “And shame on you, Rex, for haranguing poor Glen that way. He’s been an angel
to us and I won’t have him abused at our table. Now change the damn subject or as God is my witness I won’t open the second
bottle.”
This was not a threat Rex took lightly. He calmed himself and spent the rest of the night spouting well-rehearsed anecdotes
and cracking himself up. Whenever one of his zingers struck him as especially hilarious, he’d extract a small voice recorder
from his pocket and repeat it to make sure it was not lost to posterity.
“For tomorrow’s show: ‘Nicolette Sheridan’s a real girl-next-door type — if you live next door to a
whorehouse!
’”
After dessert I beat an understandably hasty retreat. Monty walked me to my car, offering another apology plus an assessment
of his old friend that would prove fatally inaccurate.
“Don’t mind old Rex. A bit of a crank, I know. But quite harmless.”
T
HE NEXT MORNING
I canceled the day’s writing session with Claire, pleading a dental emergency. That afternoon Gilbert and I drove in jittery
silence to Les Étoiles. Never having seen the place when I’d extolled its wonders to Stephen, I feared I might find I’d oversold
it. But the minute we passed through its stately gates, I saw that my fears were groundless and that Les Étoiles was emphatically
not, having grounds as far as the eye could see. Our tires crunched over white gravel as we followed a long gracefully curving
drive that ended in a circle around a grand fountain with smiling cherubs peeing in perpetuity.
The house seemed to have been built by some prosperous southerner who’d felt that, while Tara had been a nice little starter
home, it was time to open the wallet and get serious. On pulling up we saw that Stephen and Gina had arrived just ahead of
us. As our car crunched to a stop, Moira, chastely clad in a peach silk suit, her cloven hooves concealed in matching Manolos,
emerged from the house, followed by a waiter bearing champagne.
“Welcome to Les Étoiles!”
I could tell from her patrician air and suddenly mid-Atlantic diction that Stephen and Gina were in for quite a performance.
She embraced Gilbert and me affectionately, then bestowed courtly handshakes on the stars.
“I can’t thank you enough for visiting my little labor of love! Champagne anyone? I know it’s early, but don’t forget, you’re
here to be pampered!”
We accepted the proffered Cristal and Moira led us inside, Stephen regaling her with fond recollections of Albert, who’d produced
Chamber Music
fifteen years ago and who even then had been valiantly battling emphysema.
We entered the spa’s foyer, which was palatial yet warm, with two majestic staircases that curved gracefully up to join at
a second-floor landing. To the left was a reception desk and a hall leading to guest rooms, to the right a richly paneled
lounge with an inviting mahogany bar. Straight ahead through a wide archway was a large sumptuously furnished salon that for
sheer acreage dwarfed even Diana’s digs. Soaring French windows at the far end gave onto a broad elegant terrace with tables
overlooking the arcadian grounds.
It was, as one of Lily’s film-noir dames would have remarked, one sweet little setup. As Moira led us into the salon, she
tenderly recalled how dear Albert had invited her to lunch here for their very first date. I had no doubt that the minute
she’d left she’d choppered straight to the bridal shop, phoning the tobacconist en route to order the groom some nice unfiltered
Gitanes.
As it was quite warmish for December, Moira led us out to the terrace, seating us two tables away from where a producer famed
for his tantrums sat serenely taking tea with his mistress. We sipped our champagne and admired the charming, ivy-covered
guest cottages while Moira, sounding more and more like Dame Diana Rigg, expounded on her spiritual commitment to high-end
hospitality.
“When I designed Les Étoiles I thought mainly about my many friends who are, like you, brilliant and accomplished, but forced
to live every day with the stress and scrutiny such careers bring. I asked myself, ‘What can I provide these people that other
spas can’t?’ And the answer was simple —
sanctuary
. A place of beauty where they can escape every outside pressure. A place that pampers their bodies straight to nirvana, even
as it nourishes their souls. A place of complete privacy where no cameras are permitted — even the guests are forbidden to
bring them. A place where those two ravenous beasts, the Public and the Media, aren’t allowed to set foot.”
She continued in this vein, wrapping ruthless exclusivity in pretty new age ribbons, and Gina was eating it up, oh-yessing
and how-trueing her head off. Moira then gave us brochures detailing the broad array of treatments available. Stephen and
Gina opted for simple shiatsus followed by facials and I said that sounded fine by me. Gilbert rather showily chose two of
the more esoteric options and I was pleased when Moira corrected his pronunciation. Then she led us back into the salon, where
frosted glass doors on one end led to the treatment center.
Since my income pre-Hollywood was such that my concept of “luxury” did not much extend beyond dental care and wines requiring
recourse to a corkscrew, I’d never before experienced either of my treatments. I found them both so agreeably soothing that
even my anxieties about Moira began to subside as I surrendered to pure sybaritic serenity. After my sessions I toddled off
to the bar. Gina and Gilbert were already there, looking thoroughly blissed-out, and soon Moira and Stephen joined us. Stephen
said he couldn’t recall a more relaxing day, and if Moira’s purpose in extending such largesse had been to win a new customer,
she could consider her goal achieved. Moira took her bows modestly, telling us to come back whenever we liked as we were now
part of the Les Étoiles family.
Driving home I allowed myself not only to hope but to believe that the danger had passed, that Moira, having gotten what she
wanted, would plague us no further. If this view seems, in hindsight, lethally naive, the weeks that followed offered little
to contradict it. Stephen and Gina became regular visitors to the spa, and as each day passed with no additional demands from
Moira, my outlook steadily brightened.
Claire’s spirits rose too as we grew closer to completing the script, and they positively soared when our agent informed us
that a producer wished to option
Mrs. McManus.
This heartening glimpse of a post-Greta future helped us both to unclench a bit. We started getting out more, accepting Gilbert’s
invitations to join him at the parties thrown by his many new friends, and we soon found ourselves immersed in the frenetic
social whirl of the industry’s younger set.
Though I did not “go Hollywood” half so shamelessly as Gilbert, I’ll admit that I began to display a tendency toward, not
arrogance quite, but that breezy self-satisfaction one glimpses in many a young Hollywood turk who finds his star on the rise
and cannot at present conceive of its descent.
How pleasant it was to meet new people and ask them what they did. How simple to feign interest while waiting for them to
pose the same question to me. How lovely to tell them. I took particularly nasty pleasure in meeting other writers who were
even more puffed up than me but on far flimsier grounds. I’d draw them out, letting them prattle about their meager toeholds
on fame before casually letting drop that I was a writer as well.
“Right now? Oh, I’m writing a picture for Stephen Donato. His mom’s in it too. So this Lifetime Original of yours —do you
really think you can get Delta Burke?”
Not even my gym acquaintances were spared the details of my glory. True, it was harder to coax boys bench-pressing two hundred
pounds into career chat, but I was nothing if not persistent and it was not long before the whole gym knew what air I breathed.
One day as I was there, attempting to coax one more rep from my biceps—which, had they been masochists, would have been screaming
the safety word—a voice behind me exclaimed, “Oh my God, it’s you!” Turning, I saw a tall, vaguely familiar fellow in shorts
and a tank top. He had a lithe gymnast’s physique and carrot-colored hair. His face was densely freckled and, if not quite
handsome, open and instantly likable.
“Sorry, have we met?”
“I served you drinks! At Vici! You were with Stephen Donato! Your heads were really close together!”
“Oh, right,” I said, remembering now the little hearts that had danced around the bartender’s eyes each time he’d looked our
way.
He said his name was Billy Grimes and asked if he could buy me a coffee next door. I agreed and for the next twenty minutes
he pelted me with questions about Stephen, no detail of whose life, however mundane, failed to inspire his rapt fascination.
He begged, of course, to know if Stephen was gay. I replied, of course, that I didn’t know but could not resist doing so in
a tone so coy as to practically scream that I did know and from personal experience. My evasive replies to his cajoling follow-ups
only heightened this impression, and a halfdozen “Oh, c’mons!” later I finally changed the subject.
“So that was your dad who came over to hassle us?”
“Don’t bring it up!” groaned Billy. “I was so embarrassed!”
“He must love it that you’re such a fan.”
“You think I’d
tell
him? I don’t even
mention
Stephen around my dad.”
I asked if he was out to his parents. He blushed and said he was not. He’d been on the verge some months ago but then Dad
had decided to run for governor and this had sapped him of his nerve. I offered my sympathy, ceding that there were easier
things to be than the gay offspring of an archconservative politico. We parted with a friendly hug and he beseeched me to
come back to Vici, promising to comp me as many drinks as he dared. I said I would and soon Gilbert, Claire, and I took to
going there Fridays after work to rinse off the sauerkraut with nice cold martinis.
I grew fond of the place. I liked the odd clientele and the memories it stirred of Stephen and the promise that had smoldered
in his eyes in our little love booth. I also liked Billy’s charming habit of introducing me to his regulars, never once, bless
him, failing to mention what I was up to just lately.
“Sweet boy, Billy,” remarked Claire. “Saves you
so
much trouble.”
T
HE PROMISE THAT HAD
simmered in Stephen’s gaze had, of course, been firmly predicated on my persuading Lily not to tell the world of his teenage
discovery that strong, hairy thighs make swell earmuffs. At first I couldn’t think of any reason to suggest this that didn’t
risk exposing me as a double agent. I finally decided to appeal to her vanity by arguing that the Stephen revelations might
prove so explosive as to monopolize public discourse about the book, siphoning the spotlight from Lily to her already overhyped
nephew. Did she really want to risk being upstaged in her own memoir?
Alas, in attempting to exploit Lily’s vanity I’d underestimated its staggering magnitude. To Lily, the idea that any hullabaloo
about Stephen might eclipse interest in herself was absurd, resting as it did on the altogether spurious premise that Stephen
was more interesting than she was.
“He’s only in a few chapters! The rest of the book’s all me and far more compelling. Let’s not forget I reveal some pretty
juicy secrets! That affair I had with the boy who played my student on
Sorry, Miss Murgatroyd!?
We’d best brace ourselves for
that
tempest! No, I don’t think there’s any danger of people forgetting who the real star of the book is. By the way, I
adored
the new scenes for
Amelia.
At this rate we’ll be ready to shop it in time to take advantage of all the heat I’ll be getting.”