When the Stars Come Out (36 page)

around.

But Dean, unable to read her mind and unwilling to try, simply

smiled and said, “It will be fine, Kitty. And in any event, it’s too late to back out.
Hollywood’s Hottest Stories
is already promoting this interview. How will it look if I don’t appear?”

Significantly more heterosexual
, she thought, but actually said,

“Dear, this is
my
side of the camera we’re talking about. You know the agenting side, and I know the acting side. And I think we

should stick to what we know.”

Dean smiled at her and walked away.

“Where are you going?” she demanded, as she followed him out

of the kitchen.

“To the interview, of course,” he replied over his shoulder.

“Didn’t you hear a damn word I said?!”
Kitty stopped, suddenly appalled, as she realized that she had not only walked into the foyer, she had walked directly into Mary Hoyt at the crew from
HHS
, who were waiting for her outside the sunroom.

Instinct took over. She tittered and, speaking directly to Mary,

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R o b B y r n e s

whom she had quickly sized up as her most important prospective

ally, said, “Please excuse my language. I don’t know how this hap-

pened, but a mouse found its way into the kitchen and I was trying to get Dean to kill it.” She took a few steps toward Dean and took his cheek in one hand, squeezing, she knew, a bit too hard. “Dean

is such a darling he wouldn’t even kill it. Isn’t that right, darling?”

“Mmmph,” he mumbled.

“I got upset, and I apologize for my language. I’m just . . . so

frightened of mice!”

Her nails pushed just a bit deeper into Dean’s cheek and, again,

he mumbled an agreement. She finally let go of him.

“In any event, I’ll just call an exterminator after the interview.”

“I can kill it for you,” said the gay-looking guy in the pink shirt.

Kitty flashed him that famous smile and didn’t commit. It was

easier that way.

Watching
HHS
a few days later, as Kitty Randolph and Dean Henry began their interview with Mary Hoyt, Quinn said, “I’m surprised she let him on camera.”

“Why is his cheek so red?” asked Noah, but no one answered.

“So,” Mary said on screen, “for the past few weeks America has

been buzzing about the autobiography written by your former hus-

band, Quinn Scott.”

“Can I stop you for a second, Mary?” Kitty didn’t wait for an an-

swer. “I was probably old enough to know better when I married

Quinn, but in those days, well . . . we just didn’t know enough about gay people. Not like today, when they’re all over the place.” She

laughed a laugh that said “just kidding.” “And I felt bad—
deceived
, even—to learn that Quinn had taken advantage of me like that.”

“Huh?” said Quinn, but Jimmy shushed him.

“My heart was broken, Mary, and it took me a long time to re-

cover. However, you may not know this about me, because I come

off as delicate and vulnerable, but I’m a survivor. When Quinn

walked out I told myself, ‘I will survive.’ And I did.”

The blonde interviewer nodded sympathetically, then changed

course.

“So tell me,” she said. “Your ex-husband’s autobiography paints

a picture of Kitty Randolph that is anything but delicate and vul-

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

239

nerable. He claims that you’re manipulative, greedy, and, well, ‘the

“B” word.’ Do you care to comment?”

“The ‘B’ word?” Kitty asked.

“Bitch,” said Dean from his perch at her side.

“Oh . . . Uh, I guess all I can say is this. Quinn is the person who had sex with men in our bed while we were married. Quinn is the

person who tricked me into marrying him, even though he was a

homosexual. And, after all these years, Quinn is the person who

wrote all those nasty words.” Tears appeared in her eyes and her

voice cracked. “I was faithful, I married him because I was in love, and, even thirty-six years after we divorced, I have been discreet and not attacked him.” She looked straight into the camera, her

eyes still glistening. “Now you tell me which one of us is manipulative, greedy, and the ‘B’ word.”

“Any other thoughts?” asked Mary, as she handed Kitty a tissue.

“Are you angry at him?”

“No,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “No, despite everything, I’m

not angry at Quinn. Because I don’t remember things the way he

does. In fact, I’m quite certain that some of this never happened.”

“Really?”

“Quinn hasn’t been well,” she said. “I haven’t seen him, but mu-

tual friends tell me that the last few years have been hard on him.”

“What the fuck is she talking about?” asked Quinn, staring at the

box.

“And I really, truly think that he’s being manipulated into saying all these horrible things, all in the interest of making money for other people.”

“Other people?” asked Mary. “Who?”

“Oh, I don’t know, and really shouldn’t speculate. Maybe his

publisher . . . maybe his writing collaborator . . . who knows?”

Noah pointed to himself. “Me?”

Bart nudged him and whispered, “Manipulator.”

“Interesting,” said Mary, and she did, in fact, look interested.

Which annoyed the hell out of Quinn.

“Let me add something,” said Dean, tilting his body slightly to-

ward the camera.

“That’s her husband?” asked Jimmy. “Is
he
gay, too?”

“
My
gaydar just went off,” Noah agreed.

On screen, Dean continued. “I really want your audience to

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R o b B y r n e s

know what a great woman I’m married to, Mary. She’s just as beau-

tiful now as she was when I first laid eyes on her as a small boy, watching that screen as she stole the picture from Judy Garland in
The Mabel Normand Story
.”

“That was the gayest sentence I’ve ever heard,” said Jimmy.

“And can we laugh at the fact that he just indirectly mentioned

how much older she is than him?” added Bart.

“Oh, yes,” said Quinn. “I wish you would. Because if she’s going

to beat the crap out of anyone more than she’s beat it out of me,

that would be Dean Henry.”

Kitty turned off the television set and turned to her husband.

“And
that
, dear, is precisely why I don’t want you to do interviews.”

“I thought it went well,” said Dean.

“You thought it went well? Which part, Dean? The part where

you told the camera that you had a schoolboy crush on me? Or the

part where you came off like my
second
gay husband?”

Dean didn’t respond. It was safer that way.

Kitty stood and began pacing the room. “So far, this counter-

offensive isn’t working. He goes on TV, I go on TV. He goes back

on TV, I go back on TV. Back and forth, back and forth. Sometimes

I think that all we’re doing is giving him more publicity.” She threw herself down in an armchair and the room fell into a tense silence.

After several minutes, Dean found the courage to speak.

“Maybe we should give up.”

Her eyes flashed and nostrils flared. “Give up?!”

“He probably would have dropped from the radar weeks ago if

we’d ignored him.”

“Darling, have you forgotten that this isn’t about Quinn Scott?

This is about
my
reputation. And I am
not
going to ignore him.”

Dean sighed and slumped a bit deeper into his chair.

A few days later, Quinn took a phone call. When he cradled the

phone, he looked at Jimmy and, shaking his head, said, “Well, isn’t that the damnedest thing.”

“What’s that?”

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

241

“That was the guy who produces Q. J.’s show. They were having a

meeting this morning and thought . . . well, they asked me to be a guest star.” He slowly stroked his chin. “Sixteen years without work, and now they want me.”

“Do you think Q. J. . . . ?”

“Doubt it. Maybe, but I just don’t think the boy has that much

pull. Not to mention the fact that, remember, we’ve barely had any contact since he was a toddler. I can’t imagine Q. J. rallying to my defense right now, after all these years.”

“So what did you tell him?” Jimmy asked.

“Hell, yes, I’m going to do it. It’ll be wonderful to be on a soundstage again.”

“I’m surprised Kitty didn’t try to stop it.”

“Me, too. Me, too. She must not know about it yet.” He sighed

and sank back on the couch. “But when she finds out . . .” The men looked at each other and smiled. Then they burst into sustained

laughter.

“She’ll go wild,” said Quinn, when he finally caught his breath.

“She’ll be bouncing off the walls. Katherine and that little mouse of a husband of hers. I wish I could be there to see it.”

“But you just know she’s going to try to stop it,” said Jimmy, a

note of sobriety in his voice. “You remember what nightmares she

made out of your last few roles.”

“I remember.” Quinn shook his head. “Poor Angela Lansbury.

But . . . look, Jimmy. My name is hot right now and Q. J. is my son, so the producers are playing it smart and looking for ratings. That’s all. If Katherine fucks with me, that means she fucks with
The Brothers-in-Law
. And
that
means she fucks with Q. J. Trust me on one thing: Katherine will never hurt him or his career. Never. Say what you

will about her—and I have—but she was always a classy actress, and for her to make guest appearances on Q. J.’s show must be so humiliating for her that it proves she has great maternal love.”

“If you say so.”

“I know so.” Quinn began the lengthy process of lifting himself

from the chair as he added, “This little guest spot, with my son, will be my moment of triumph, and there isn’t a damn thing Katherine

dares do about it.”

*

*

*

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R o b B y r n e s

Mark R. Cassidy had never intended to become a television pro-

ducer. In fact, his aspirations had once been far more modest.

Reared on a steady diet of
The Match Game
,
Password
,
To Tell the
Truth
,
Hollywood Squares,
and as many other celebrity-driven game shows as he could take in, Mark R. Cassidy was going to be a famous celebrity game-show contestant. Oh, there would be other facets to his career, of course, such as guest appearances with Merv Griffin and Mike Douglas, but mostly he was going to be known as that

funny guy in the center square. And it couldn’t get any better than that for Mark R. Cassidy.

But reality—in the form of rent, groceries, and, increasingly, bar tabs—reared its ugly head, and Mark had to face facts. Without preexisting celebrity of some sort, he really had no idea how he was

going to get the plum position sitting next to Brett Somers. And,

beyond that, he had no idea how to develop preexisting celebrity.

So without a way to get from Point A to Point B, which would even-

tually lead to Point C—Point C being the land of Wink Martindale,

Peter Marshall, and Gene Rayburn—he had no choice but to get a

real job while he waited for the fates to align. It was a tough blow for a twenty-three-year-old, but no one said life would be easy.

Twenty-two years later the fates had still not aligned, and Mark

R. Cassidy knew that destiny had passed him by. Now he was a fat

forty-five-year-old, prematurely embittered by the collapse of his unrealistic dream. Now he made his living spending sixty-hour

weeks overseeing second-tier actors through their paces on a string of forgettable situation comedies.
Hal & Shari
. . .
The Doug Stone
Show
. . .
Leaded & Unleaded
. . .
T. J. & Becks
. . . and, most recently,
The Brothers-in-Law
, which he not incorrectly considered the nadir of a mediocre career.

Mark R. Cassidy now knew a few things he had not learned from

Charlie Weaver and Charles Nelson Reilly, and that made him sad

as well as bitter. He now knew he would never win an Emmy; he

would never be known outside the lower rungs of his industry; he

would never find workplace satisfaction; and he would never,
ever
, play a round of
Celebrity Jeopardy
.

And so, embittered, he did what bitter people have done and

will always do through eternity: he took it out on his subordinates.

If Mark R. Cassidy was going to be miserable,
everyone
was going to be miserable. And he had his own unique way to spread the misery.

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

243

The “MRC Memo” had become a reviled standard on his sets.

The MRC Memo criticized everything from the temperature of the

coffee to horsing around by the writers—and, oh, how he hated

the writers—to untimely pregnancies, and while he had never actu-

ally recommended an abortion, he hoped his pregnant and im-

pregnable starlets would be smart enough to read between the

lines. His dictates were always reviled by cast and crew alike, and they were also almost always ignored, but they achieved their desired effect, because almost everyone on a Mark R. Cassidy set was as miserable as Mark R. Cassidy.

And that was even
before
the Monday morning staff meetings, which he had made so singularly unpleasant that, in anticipation of them, few people were able to have an even slightly pleasant

Sunday. Mark R. Cassidy had even managed to spoil the Lord’s Day,

and that made him slightly happy, in his own miserable, bitter way.

His bosses—those seldom-seen, seldom-heard-from suits at Porch-