When the Stars Come Out (46 page)

mostly because they feared her—but none of them would zero out

their bank account for her. Of course, she had managed to sepa-

rate Q. J. from the movie—that had been easy, and even her idiot

son was sharp enough to realize the long-range consequences of

crossing her—but, still, the movie would be made. And she was just going to have to accept that.

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

307

When she walked back into the kitchen he could see the con-

cern on her face.

“Is something wrong at PorchStar?” he asked, trying to sound

like a concerned husband.

“I don’t know. Stan told me that Jason has scheduled a press

conference.”

“Jason St. Clair? About what?”

“I just hope,” she said, “that he’s not jumping on the Quinn Scott bandwagon.”

“What do you think . . . ? Oh.” Not many people knew much of

anything about their efforts to discredit Quinn on that television soundstage, but Jason was an exception. “You don’t think he’s

going to
. . . name names
, do you?”

“He’s an actor,” she said, in a voice that could cut glass. “Which means that he’s capable of doing something incredibly stupid at

any given moment. I don’t like it when my employees hold press

conferences. If Jason has something to say, he should say it through PorchStar. Don’t you agree?”

“Agreed.” His voice was weary. He didn’t agree; he had simply

given up.

“Then do something about it.”

Dean looked at her, confusion etched on his face. “Do what?”

“I don’t know,” she said, standing. “
Something
. Do
something
. For once in your fucking life, do
something
! Get Jason on the phone and talk some sense into him. If he wants more money, give him more

money. If he wants me to fire Q. J., tell him we’ll fire Q. J.”

“You’d fire your own son?”

Kitty rolled her eyes. “Of course not, you moron. I’m not giving

him more money, either. But tell him whatever he wants to hear

now
, and we’ll deal with whatever his problem is
later
.” When Dean didn’t immediately respond, she shouted, “Are you deaf? Do what I

tell you to do.”

And that is the moment when Dean Henry, who had dutifully

obeyed his wife without question for almost seventeen years, felt

the past few months of discontent bubble over. He summoned every

ounce of courage in his body, stiffened his neck in its brace, and said, definitively, and in a voice that could not be dismissed:

“No.”

Kitty spun and walked away from him, toward the foyer, adding,

308

R o b B y r n e s

“And please call me on my cell after you’ve talked to Jason. I want to make sure that this is done properly. Oh, and I’ll be having lunch with Cloris Leachman today at CarnivALLA, so I won’t be back in

the office until late afternoon.”

“Did you hear me?” Dean demanded, beads of sweat forming on

his brow.

She stopped and turned to face him. “Hear what, dear?”

“Did you hear me when I said ‘no?’ ”

“I’m afraid I missed that. And what did you say no to?”

Dean felt his resolve begin to falter. “Uh
. . .
Jason.”

“Oh yes, the ‘no.’ No, you don’t know what his press conference

is about. Yes, yes, I heard that. But now you’ll find out and—”

“No.”

Kitty’s face was awash in confusion. Dean was afraid he was going

to have to explain again, until confusion gave way to anger.

“Excuse me?”

“
No
.
No
, I am not going to get Jason to call off his press conference.
No
, I am not going to offer him more money, or Q. J.’s head, or anything he wants.
No
, I am not going to do whatever you tell me to do. Never again.”

She took three steps toward him, edging from the foyer into the

kitchen. He took two steps back, stopping when he felt the refrig-

erator door dig into the small of his back.

“Dean,” she said, her voice deceptively reasonable. “Dean, I don’t know what this is all about but
. . .
Is this because of the accident?

Did you get a head injury? Maybe one that is still undiagnosed?”

He shook his head, and the room was quiet for a moment until

Kitty said:

“In that case, are you
asking
for a head injury?”

“What do you mean?” he asked, but—after he dodged the vase

that was suddenly hurtling toward his head—he knew exactly what

she meant. The vase smashed into shards somewhere behind him;

following it came every other loose item at hand: the mail, keys, a small picture frame
. . .
With the exception of the keys, which glanced off his shoulder, he managed to avoid the onslaught.

When she was finished, Kitty stormed up to him and slapped

him.

“Never—
never
—say no to me again, Dean Henry. Or I will de-

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

309

stroy you. Now pick up that phone, get Jason’s agent and his publicist on the line, and demand that he call off this nonsense.”

Dean felt raw fear. He was afraid of disobeying Kitty, and he was

afraid of obeying her, and he was afraid of making any move what-

soever which, by default, condemned him to disobedience, which

frightened him into even greater immobility. He had never before

crossed the line with her, and now he had not only crossed it, he

had hit the point of no return before he even realized what had

happened. And it felt . . .

It felt strangely liberating. Dean Henry felt like a free man for

the first time in years. Seventeen years, to be precise.

While Dean was warily enjoying his epiphany, Kitty repeated her-

self, and added an additional threat.

“Call him. Do it or get out of my house.”

He blinked. “
Your
house?”

“
My
house.”

“
Our
house.”

“
My
house!” Her scream rattled the windows. “Call Jason St.

Clair or get out of
my house
!”

Get out of her house.
Finally, Dean thought, they wanted the same thing. And in a moment of peaceful determination, unfettered

from his usual emotions of fear, guilt, and shame, he calmly said:

“Do you know how much money I have in the bank, Kitty?”

“I beg your—”

“Thirty-two million dollars. And change.” Dean paused for ef-

fect, relishing the slightest tic that took hold under his wife’s right eye. “You know what that is, Kitty? That’s my fuck-you money.

That’s the money I know I can fall back on, which is why I can stand here and say: fuck you.”

“What?”

“Fuck you!”

“Fuck you!!”

“No, fuck you!!”

“Fuck you! Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!” And then, capping her

four-“fuck you” performance, Kitty picked up the fruit bowl and

slammed it into the side of Dean’s face. The last thing he remem-

bered seeing was a single red apple rolling across the tile until it disappeared through the door to the foyer.

310

R o b B y r n e s

It was the second time that Raul the Gardener had to take him

to the emergency room that month.

Four dozen reporters. Twenty or so cameras. Not bad, thought

Kelly Rhule, Jason St. Clair’s publicist and number one fan, who

was certain that Jason would have fallen in love with her had she

not had the great misfortune of being born thirty-three years be-

fore him. Despite her pleading and prying, she had no idea what

Jason was about to announce, but he had good instincts and she

was confident that it would be great for his career, as well as remu-nerative for her.

Yes, for a former underwear model, Jason had great instincts
. . .

which, come to think of it, was one of the reasons he was no longer an underwear model.

Ordinarily, Kelly Rhule would never have allowed a client to call

a press conference without knowing the subject. But the way in

which he had kissed her cheek two days earlier and told her not to worry about a thing, that Jason had everything under control,

well
. . .
she melted. She giggled just reliving that moment in her head. He was such a sweet boy, and he had
such
good instincts. He was going to go a long way, and Kelly would be at his side through every step. If she couldn’t be his lover, she would be his surrogate mother, and what good boy doesn’t love his mother? If that wasn’t

the same as physical love—the soft sensation of naked flesh pressed together in a sweaty, animalistic frenzy, hair wild and eyes ablaze with passion . . .

She took a deep breath and thought,
If that isn’t the same, it’s the
next best thing
. Then she took another deep breath.

And, as she had known, they were all here: the trades and the

weeklies and the networks and the syndicated shows. As they shuf-

fled in and jockeyed for position, she waved to them, and they

waved back. In fact, she was waving to a late-arriving crew from

Entertainment Tonight
when her cell phone rang. She excused herself and answered.

“How’s my girl?” said His voice, and her heart fluttered.

“Everyone is here,” she said. “
Everyone
. Where are you?”

“Just pulling into the parking lot,” His voice said. “Let me pop

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311

into the green room and fix myself up, and I’ll be right out. Can

you hold them off for
. . .
mmm . . .seven minutes?”

“Of course,” she said, and she did.

Jason St. Clair pulled his Prius into a parking spot, sprinted un-

noticed through the lot to a back door, and slipped into what

passed as the green room, which—to start—was actually gray. And

which was also clearly a former locker room, into which someone

had squeezed a couch. But there was running water and a mirror,

and that’s all that mattered to Jason St. Clair. With a brush and gel, he worked some quick magic on his windblown hair, then brushed

his teeth and moisturized just enough for his skin to regain its elas-ticity, followed by a few quick dabs of makeup to hide the shininess from the moisturizer.

And then he was ready. He looked at his watch. Seven minutes

and twenty-seven seconds—not bad—then dialed Kelly’s cell

phone.

“I’m ready,” he said, when she answered.

She excused herself from a discussion with someone from
Variety
and walked out of the room through a side entrance, prompting

immediate conversational buzz, followed by near-silence, from the

assembled reporters.

“I heard he wants more money,” said the Associated Press enter-

tainment reporter. “One million per episode.”

“Yeah?” replied the stringer for
People
. “I heard he has cancer.”

“Really?”

The stringer’s voice fell to a hush. “Inoperable.”

Backstage, Kelly Rhule found her charge and said, “So, any hints

for me?”

Jason smiled his maybe-million-dollar-per-episode smile; cer-

tainly no less than $700,000 per, or they’d walk. “You—and the rest of the world—will know everything in just a few minutes. Can you

wait that long?”

“I guess I’m going to have to.”

Jason leaned down to the fifty-something woman, his most loyal

handler among a small corporation of loyal handlers, and planted

a gentle kiss on her cheek. She blushed; he knew she would.

“I’ll introduce you,” she said, walking out front through the cur-

tains, leaving Jason behind for one last opportunity to rethink things.

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R o b B y r n e s

Kelly looked out over the room from her perch on the stage, four

feet above the crowd, and tried to do a quick headcount. Seventy-

five? Eighty? It was a good number, and—if she were right, and Jason was about to read the riot act to PorchStar Productions—it was the right audience. She tapped the microphone and, hearing that it

was on, said:

“Thank you all for coming. I am Kelly Rhule, Jason St. Clair’s

publicist—”

In the middle of the crowd, someone yelled, “Kelly!!”

“Yes, well, thank you. But since no one else is here to see me”—

appreciative laughter—“I want to get right on to it and introduce

my client, and a great actor, Jason St. Clair.”

Jason bounded onto the stage. The press tried hard to be objec-

tive—they were there at his behest, after all—but most of the peo-

ple in the room still applauded his entrance. Jason thanked Kelly, led her to the stairs and down the six steps to ground level, then took over the podium.

“Here’s how it’s gonna work,” he said, smiling and oh so friendly, but determined. “I have a statement. I’m gonna read that statement, and then I’ll take a few questions. But not too many, because I have a feeling we’re gonna be talking for a while, and there’s no sense ruining a beautiful day in L.A., right?”

“Told you,” whispered the stringer for
People
. “Cancer.”

Jason towered above them, a Greek God with a microphone; a

perfect human being, from his hair to his skin to his muscled-but-

not-too-muscled physique to his “aw shucks” manner. As the sea of

admirers looked on, Jason took a piece of paper from his back

pocket, unfolded it, and began reading without sounding like he

was reading.

“First of all, I would like to say that the years I’ve spent as a member of the cast of
The Brothers-in-Law
have been great. They really have. I’ve met a lot of great people: the production team, Q. J.