When the Stars Come Out (34 page)

strained. She was not amused. “Please call me Kitty,” she said. “Just Kitty.”

“So you’re a star.” Margaret looked her up and down. “Have I

seen you do dinner theater or something?”

Kitty’s strained smile flickered.
Who did this little obnoxious hick
think she was?
She let the thought out and was then able to ignore it.

“I think you’re confusing me with someone,” said the actress.

David leapt between the women, partially blocking their view of

each other, and nervously said, “Ms. Randolph—er,
Kitty
—this is Margaret Campbell, the best-selling author.”

“Really? Very nice to meet you, dear. I had no idea you were still writing.”

His back was to her, but David knew Margaret Campbell well

enough to know what she was thinking, and he felt her eyes pierc-

ing him en route to Kitty’s fragile smile.

“Uh, yes, she is,” said David. “Her most recent book will be re-

leased in two months. If you’d like, I can get you an advance copy . . .”

“That won’t be necessary. I only read serious literature.” She

took a few steps away from the door, the better to keep all three of them in sight. “Mr. Carlyle, let me tell you why I’m here, although I suspect you can figure it out.”

“Please,” said David, wanting the meeting—no, the
day
; no, the
week
—over.

“I understand that this company will be publishing my ex-

husband’s autobiography. And I don’t want that to happen. It would be . . . so traumatic for me.”

“Yes, well . . .” David took forever to finish his thought, but finally gathered up the nerve to blurt out, “It’s being printed, the publicity has started; I’m afraid it’s out of my hands right now.”

“That’s too bad,” she said. “Because there are arrangements we

could make, if you happen to think of some way to stop its release.”

“Such as?”

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

225

“Well, it’s no secret that I’m not pleased with the publisher of

the first three volumes of my autobiography. Possibly, we could

reach an agreement for Palmer/Midkiff/Carlyle to publish volume

four.”

“Really?”

Again, she flashed that sweet, sweet smile. “Well, not if you’re

going to publish Quinn’s book, of course. But if that didn’t hap-

pen, I’d certainly have my literary agent contact you.”

“So what you’re saying,” said Margaret, and David let out a moan,

“is that if David kills the book, you’ll screw him over.”

Kitty Randolph no longer made an effort to smile. It was enough

of an effort for her to keep the ugliness off her face. “Mr. Carlyle,”

she said, “Do you think we could talk without these other people

present?”

David shook his head. “Given the circumstances, I think wit-

nesses are appropriate.”

She sniffed. “Very well, then. You will have your witnesses. And

here is what they are going to hear: if Palmer/Midkiff/Carlyle re-

leases my ex-husband’s book of lies, I will own this company within the year.” She locked her gaze on Margaret Campbell. “And the

first thing we’re going to do is cancel
her
contract.”

“Let me ask you something,” said Margaret, rising to the verbal

challenge. “Have you ever been fictionalized?”

“Excuse me?”

“Look out,” David whispered as an aside to Noah. “This could

turn into
Godzilla Vs. Mothra
.”

“I mean,” Margaret continued, “has anyone ever used you as a

fictional character? Because I need a model for a nasty old bag who fucked her way to the top of Hollywood, and I think you’d be perfect.”

“Now, Margaret,” said David, trying again to squeeze between

the two women in the office, which was growing smaller by the

minute. “We don’t need any unnecessary provocation.”

“Oh, let the gnome speak,” said Kitty haughtily.

“Really, both of you!” David was growing visibly upset. “Can’t we

deal with each other like adults?”

David was poised to say more—exactly what, he did not know—

when his phone rang. Without a second thought, he leapt at the

226

R o b B y r n e s

temporary reprieve and grabbed the receiver. No doubt he was

about to have a long conversation. Even if it was his dry cleaner

calling.

“David Carlyle,” he said, and his expression immediately dark-

ened. “Yes, Lindsay, yes . . . Thank you, I know . . . No, I don’t think that’s advisable. And in the future . . .” David glanced at Kitty

Randolph from the corner of his eye and stopped himself. “Never

mind. We’ll talk about it later.”

After he hung up, he pasted on a cheery smile and slowly turned

to again face the glowering Kitty Randolph.

“I do apologize for the interruption, Ms. Randolph.”

She waved him away. “I don’t want your apologies, Mr. Carlyle.

You know what I want. Since you aren’t receptive, you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

“The First Amendment . . .” he began, but she stopped him.

“I don’t give a flying fuck about the First Amendment, Carlyle. I

care about something more important: my good name.” She

yanked the door open then stopped, slowly turning back to them.

“Tell me why this story has to go public after all these decades. Why do you feel you have to humiliate me now?”

David took a deep breath to regain his composure before an-

swering. “Because Quinn Scott has an interesting story to tell.”

“Quinn Scott has nothing to tell,” she said. “He’s a has-been, and if it weren’t for me, he’d have been a never-was. I made him, and I broke him, and I’ll break him again, along with the rest of you. I’m only surprised he had the balls to do this.”

“You made him do it,” blurted Noah, and he instantly regretted

it.

“Excuse me?” She began to close the door again.

“Never mind.”

“No,” she demanded. “Tell me what you meant.”

Noah braced himself against a credenza. “He didn’t want to

write the book. But then you had to be petty, and cut Jimmy Beloit out of the dance sequence in
When the Stars Come Out
, and, well . . .

this is the result.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “What’s your name again?”

“Noah. Noah Abraham.”

“And how do you know this?”

Now that Noah was on Kitty’s radar screen, he gained some brav-

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

227

ery he could afford to lose when she was focused on everyone ex-

cept him. He let go of the credenza, took a step forward, and said,

“Because I collaborated on the book with Quinn.”

She cocked her head and smiled, strangely appreciative for his

confession. “So you’re the ghostwriter.”

“I’m the ghostwriter.”

“I see. So this is just one big act of revenge by the homosexuals, is it?”

Shocked, the men looked at each other, jaws open. Even Margaret

Campbell, still surly in her chair, seemed stunned.

“You
do
band together,” Kitty continued. “You’re loyal to each other, I’ll give you that. So Homosexual Quinn is upset that Homosexual Jimmy is cut from a movie, so he works with Homosexual

Noah to write a book out of vengeance, and then Homosexual

David publishes it. And all the homosexuals pat each other on the

back in congratulation because they’ve ganged up on an old

woman. Very classy.” She turned to Margaret and added, “And their

lesbian friends seem eager to help, too.”

Margaret was surprisingly calm. She even smiled as she said, “Old

lady, if I were a lesbian, you would turn me straight.”

Kitty Randolph again opened the door and angrily spat out,

“You’ll be hearing from my lawyers.” Then she turned to the room

for one parting shot, delivered directly to Noah.

“By the way, Jimmy Beloit was a very bad dancer.”

And with that, she was gone.

It took perhaps thirty seconds for anyone to speak, but finally

David said, “Well, that’s that.”

“That’s that,” Noah agreed. “She’s not happy.”

“We knew that going in,” said David. “I just didn’t think she’d be paying us a personal visit to express her displeasure. It somehow

seemed more . . . frightening.”

“Frightening,” Noah agreed.

“And ‘homosexual’ this and that? A bit anachronistic, wouldn’t

you say?”

Noah shrugged. “She’s a product of her times, I suppose.”

David turned his attention to Margaret, still sitting in the corner.

“You were quite well behaved. For you. Thank you.”

“She’s nothing. I could have destroyed her, if I wanted to.

Actors . . . they can’t keep up.”

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R o b B y r n e s

“Still, thank you for your support.”

“Think nothing of it. I did it for one reason and one reason only.

Because your ass belongs to
me
, David Carlyle. Not her,
me
. And don’t you forget it.”

“I’m sure you won’t let me.”

“Exactly.” She turned her attention to Noah and said, “Now that

the drama is over, would you excuse us? David and I have some-

thing very important to discuss, and I’m sure David doesn’t want

you to see him cry.”

Several minutes later, as he passed through the still-vacant re-

ceptionist’s office, Noah could have sworn he heard David cry out

from pain from somewhere deep inside the PMC network of of-

fices.

Chapter 10

Kitty had always been good at protecting her image. She was

publicly graceful with her fans, as well as her fellow professionals who were within listening distance. As her husband, I was one of

the few people privileged to see the real Kitty Randolph,

Even after our divorce, she was all-Kitty, all the time. Imagine

my guilt and shame when, one Christmas Day, her nanny called

me in tears to tell me that Kitty was passed out on her bed, and

she had forgotten to buy even a single present from Santa for

four-year-old Quinn Jr. . . .

T
he people at
Oprah
were not returning Lindsay Flynn’s calls, and that made her unhappy. So far, she had Quinn Scott booked on

most of the important talk shows, although, given various noncom-

pete clauses, some of the appearances were weeks apart. Still, she really had her heart set on
Oprah
, and continued to hound her contact on the show.

In turn, her contact, who now seldom took her calls, updated

Dean Henry at least every other day, and took great pains to assure him that Quinn Scott would never appear on the popular talk

show. Dean seldom relayed those messages to Kitty; they just sent

her into more spirals of rage. Given that her lawyers had washed

their hands of the case, her husband was now her only target, so he tried his best to keep to himself, spending hours on the terrace getting high.

But
Oprah
was one thing; it was quite another keeping Quinn Scott off every other talk show in the country, and Dean watched

helplessly as advance publicity for the book began to steamroll.

Damn satellite feeds! At its most difficult and inconvenient, all

Quinn Scott had to do was pop into any television studio in New

York and he’d be beamed to Oklahoma City or Tampa or Port-

land
. . .
and it often wasn’t even
that
hard. Too many interviewers were willing to make the trek out to the Hamptons to sit down with their subject, and he was only too happy to talk to them.

Gone was the taciturn Quinn Scott of legend. This new Quinn

Scott was welcoming, gregarious, and, worst of all, a great inter-

view. All that and the book wasn’t even out yet. Dean Henry knew

that Quinn was waiting to divulge the juiciest details until the publication date, and, the way things were shaping up, it wasn’t going to be pretty.

For now, the public relations juggernaut was only mildly embar-

rassing to his wife. So she had a gay ex-husband. Big deal. Half the women in Hollywood had a gay ex-husband, or even a gay
current
husband. Dean could tell. He could feel their eyes following him at the A-list parties, where he and Kitty, the ultimate Hollywood power couple, were a staple. He knew that they were watching him because W H E N T H E S T A R S C O M E O U T

231

they thought he was one of their own, which annoyed him.
Just because a man is fastidious and a good dresser
, he thought,
doesn’t make
him gay
. It was such an ugly stereotype.

No, Kitty could survive the “gay ex-husband” gossip. Maybe she’d

even be seen as stronger for it: having been victimized by Quinn

Scott’s deceptions, people would rush to sympathize with her. But

that was the easy part.

What worried Dean was what Quinn
didn’t
say in those prerelease interviews. He hinted, but he didn’t say.

And as Dean shaved in the master bathroom, the television blar-

ing nearby in the bedroom, he heard it again.

“I don’t want to get into all the details before the book is on the shelves,” Quinn Scott’s gravelly voice said, “but let’s just say that you’ll see a side of Kitty Randolph you’ve never seen before.”

The razor nicked Dean’s chin and, as blood oozed, he let loose a

stream of profanity.

Across the nation, hundreds of trucks rolled away from dozens

of loading docks. As they left the distribution centers, each carried a special cargo: carton after carton of
When the Stars Come Out
, an autobiography by Quinn Scott, with Noah Abraham.

As the ground activity was underway, there was also activity of

the electronic sort. Two days before the official launch date, preorders made
When the Stars Come Out
the top seller on Amazon, and the gay book club InsightOut had already reordered twice to meet