When the Stars Come Out (35 page)

the demands of its members.

In his office, David Carlyle read the unfavorable review of

Quinn’s book in
Publishers Weekly
, then tossed the magazine aside.

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what
PW
wrote, or the
Times
, or the
Post
, or any other reviewer. He knew that this book was review proof.

David Carlyle was a happy man . . . so happy, in fact, that for the first time in weeks he could put the Kitty Randolph confrontation

out of his head.
She
had been banished.

Or so he—and everyone else—thought in those first euphoric

days.

*

*

*

232

R o b B y r n e s

Four days after the biography’s official release date, Margaret

Campbell—Grande Dame of the American Mystery, according to

People
—stood in Elaine’s, the famed Manhattan restaurant and celebrity magnet, before 125 guests culled from society, journalism, and publishing, and raised her champagne flute, wishing it were a

tumbler of her beloved bourbon.

“I don’t know why I have this honor,” she began, in a southern

accent exaggerated slightly for the night. She had her own charac-

ter to play, after all. “Actually, I do know. It’s because I’m the bestselling novelist Palmer/Midkiff/Carlyle has ever published, and

ever
will
publish.” The crowd chuckled, as she knew they would.

She continued. “I have the honor tonight of introducing a man

who has just set the publishing world on fire. Four days ago, his autobiography hit the bookshelves, and now it’s hard to find a copy. He has shaken up Hollywood, and a lot of reputations are never going

to be the same.” The crowd laughed, knowingly and collectively.

“Ladies and gentlemen, on behalf of PMC I’m proud to intro-

duce . . . Quinn Scott!”

A flurry of flashbulbs erupted as Quinn made his way through

the applauding crowd, shaking hands as he pushed his way to the

front of the room where he was greeted with a kiss on the cheek.

She faded to the background as he motioned for silence. Once they

complied, minutes later, he cleared his throat and began speaking.

“So this is a book party,” he said, and the industry professionals gave his throw-away line a laugh, since they liked nothing better

than self-reference. “I really have nothing to say that isn’t in the book, except to thank you all for coming. This has been a remarkable experience.” He took a step to the side, as if prepared to cede his spot at the center of the party, then stopped. “I must be getting old; it almost slipped my mind that I owe a few people some thanks.”

His eyes found Jimmy in the crowd. “My companion, Jimmy

Beloit, has meant the world to me for all these years. I hope this book does him justice, because it can’t really be put into words.

Oh, and thank you, Margaret Campbell, and, of course, David

Carlyle and all the folks at PMC. Thank you.”

He scanned the room, finally finding Noah, who stood against a

wall with Bart. “And there’s Noah Abraham over there. With my as-

sistant, Bart Gustafson. Cute couple, aren’t they?” Bart blushed.

“You know, when Noah first approached me about writing a book I

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

233

told him . . . well, I can’t really repeat what I told him.” Another laugh. “But I’m glad he kept after me and worked with me, because

he was right. I
did
have stories to tell.”

By now, the 125 guests—as well as most of the restaurant staff

and Elaine herself—had heard the stories, even if they hadn’t actually read the book. The minute the book was released even the

most respectable newspapers had a field day with Quinn’s revela-

tions. Not really his homosexuality, which was considered tame in

the days of tell all, tell all the time. As David and Noah had accurately predicted, that revelation generated next to no interest.

The buzz came, as they knew it would, from the stories about the

real Kitty Randolph. Just days after the book’s release date, she was already beginning to supplant Joan Crawford in the public mind as

the epitome of the self-involved, wicked bitch. And the media

couldn’t get enough of it. When word came that even
The New York
Times
was planning a story—tentatively titled, “In the Age of Confession, Can a Star Ever Keep Her Secrets?”—it was clear that the

limits of media obsession with Quinn’s book knew no bounds.

Quinn finished his brief remarks and was mobbed by the party

guests, the literati and glitterati elbowing each other to get close to the elderly retired actor who had lived such a quiet existence for decades.

The book party had been covered by
Entertainment Tonight
,
Hollywood’s Hottest Stories
, and even the morning news shows, not to mention
People
,
Us
,
New York
, and, of course,
Haute Manhattan
. A reporter and photographer were there from
The Advocate
, prepping a story on Quinn and his book for a late September cover. Photographs

were posted on the
New York Social Diary
Web site, and then copied and posted by dozens of gay and literary blogs.

And Kitty Randolph had watched, read, and browsed every word

and image.

She had tried—
oh, how she had tried—
to stop the Quinn Scott publicity machine, but she faced a rude awakening in the realization that, in the modern days of high-speed Internet connections

and hungry mainstream journalists, her power was limited. She could threaten, but she couldn’t control—especially with the media, the

bloggers, and the public savoring every juicy detail of her life.

234

R o b B y r n e s

Now when she turned on the television or radio, she could be

fairly certain to hear someone eventually describe her as a lush, a negligent mother, a control freak. It was almost too much to bear.

Even the hosts on late-night talk shows—shows on which she had

appeared so many times, and always with a smile on her face—were

getting laughs at her expense.
Well, screw you, Leno! Johnny would
have never treated me that way!

When she found Dean in the kitchen one morning a few days

after the book launch party, Kitty confessed her frustration.

“It’s ridiculous! I can’t believe that not only did someone pub-

lish Quinn’s lies, but every entertainment show in the country is

giving him airtime.” She spun to face her husband. “And
you
can’t seem to do a damn thing about it.”

“Neither can you,” he said, under his breath.

“What? What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“There has to be some way we can stop this. We’re just not think-

ing hard enough. We have to be creative.”

The kitchen was silent for a few minutes as Kitty tried to be cre-

ative and Dean tried to be invisible. But when it was clear that she wasn’t going to go away, he spoke.

“A counteroffensive.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’ve got to get yourself out in front of the public as much as

he’s getting out there. But you’ll be giving your side of the story.”

“People
know
my side of the story,” she protested. “I’ve been a star for half a century.”

“They have short memories,” he observed. “Right now, all they

know about you is what’s in Quinn’s book.”

She stewed about that briefly, then asked, “So what am I going to

say to make them change their minds?”

Dean had already been idly pondering that question for a few

days, so he was ready with an answer.

“Laugh it off.”

“There is nothing funny about this.”

He shook his head. “Here are your talking points: Quinn is an

old man who’s obviously in mental decline; he doesn’t really re-

member those things he’s written. Someone is taking advantage of

W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

235

him. They’re trying to make a quick buck through the false memo-

ries of a doddering old man and your good name.”

She put a hand on her hip. “And who are we claiming is manip-

ulating Quinn?”

“He had a coauthor, didn’t he? That sounds like a candidate for

the prime suspect to me.”

Kitty Randolph was not the sort of person who liked to give in-

terviews. Too many things could go wrong in an interview. Yes, you could try to connect with the person asking the questions, and

maybe they’d make you look good and overlook the occasional

flub, but, more commonly, they’d use every bad camera angle and

verbal tic.

Still, she had long ago accepted the fact that she had to give an

interview every now and then, especially now that she was seventy

years old. It was a cruel fact that, as rich and powerful as she had made herself, she had to trot the old bones in front of a camera at times just to prove that while she had perhaps aged a bit in her appearance, she had lost none of her allure.

But those interviews were on her terms, and she could take them

or leave them as she saw fit. She was, after all, Kitty Randolph, and if anyone wanted to behold the essence that was Kitty Randolph,

they had only to rent one of the almost two-dozen movies she had

made between 1957 and 2004, or even watch one of her semian-

nual appearances on Q. J.’s ridiculous television show,
The Brothers-In-Law
. Other than that, fans could wait and hope to catch her whenever she felt the whim to acquiesce to an interview request.

Which was at some undefined point between almost never and

next-to-almost never.

That was, of course, when the interviews were on her own terms.

But as in war, when even the most committed pacifist might take up arms in response to a first strike in order to protect life and liberty, Kitty had been forced into a series of interviews because Quinn, that gay ex-husband of hers, had fired the first shot. She could either let him and his smutty autobiography overwhelm her, or she could

fight back. And through forty-nine years in the entertainment in-

dustry, no one and nothing had
ever
overwhelmed Kitty Randolph.

236

R o b B y r n e s

Which is why she was sitting in the sunroom, cameramen and

lights coiled all around her, ruining the beauty she had created to surround her, as a crew member clipped a tiny wireless microphone

to the lapel of her ecru Dior dress.

She smiled at the crew from
Hollywood’s Hottest Stories
, one of the many syndicated entertainment shows that had long pursued her

but, until now, had not met with success. When they actually looked at her, rather than at whatever it was that they should be doing,

they smiled back. She now felt as if she had allies in this particular battle of the War Against Quinn. They would make her look good;

they would take her side. Even the gay-looking man carrying a clipboard, the one in the baggy pink shirt and loose khakis, would choose Kitty over Quinn, and that’s all that mattered.

A sunny blonde walked efficiently into the sunroom and ex-

tended her hand.

“Ms. Randolph,” she said, “I’m Mary Hoyt. I’ll be conducting

the interview with you and your husband.”

Kitty smiled and took her hand gracefully. “It’s a pleasure, Mary.

And please call me Kitty. I’m looking forward to . . .” She stopped, Mary Hoyt’s words finally hitting home. “Did you say me and
my
husband
?”

“Yes,” chirped Mary. “Mr. Henry.”

Kitty’s smile faltered for a moment, until she remembered that

everyone was supposed to love her and,
damn it
, they would love her.

“Dear,” she said, as sweetly as possible, “I’m afraid Mr. Henry

doesn’t give interviews. He’s an agent, you see, not an actor. He’s more a . . . ‘behind the scenes’ type.”

The blonde turned away and called to the gay-looking man in

the pink shirt.

“Alan, didn’t you tell me that Dean Henry would be sitting in on

the interview?”

“All confirmed,” he said. “Ms. Randolph and Mr. Henry will be

interviewed together.”

Kitty gently touched Mary’s wrist, pulling her closer. She was losing control, and she didn’t like that . . . although she couldn’t let the interview team know that, of course.

“Mary,” she said, “Who said that Dean would consent to be in-

terviewed?”

“I did,” said her husband, as he strolled into the sunroom.

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237

Kitty stood. “Darling, could I speak to you for a moment?”

Dean correctly guessed that it would not be a pleasant experi-

ence.

When they retreated to the kitchen, out of earshot of the crew,

she spat out, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Relax,” he said, trying his best to not only be casual, but also

not show fear. “I’m doing this for you. Look, you’ve got an ex-husband problem, so how better to combat that than with your current, loving, heterosexual husband, sitting next to you for the interview?

It’s perfect.”

“It’s ridiculous,” she said, affecting a pout. “And I don’t want you to do it. You come off as . . .” She paused and looked for the right word. “You come off as too doting.”

That’s not what she wanted to say. What she wanted to say was

that, compared to the masculine Quinn Scott, her fifth—but third

official—husband came off as a big wimp who had only married

the old lady for her money. And not only that, but she had seen

him on videotape before, and on camera he came off as downright

effeminate. She didn’t need the world to think that she was in the habit of marrying every homosexual who came along. The entertainment industry had enough women carrying that reputation