by Josie Brown
“Home-wrecker? Moi?” Kat fairly spat at him. “Don’t be ridiculous! The public knows what a darling I am. Besides, everyone craves a good love story, and that’s the hook we have here. Right, lover?” Her long fingers closed tightly around Nathan’s wrist, like a shackle.
But for once, Nathan didn’t kowtow. Slowly, he disentangled his arm from her clench. “Kat, I said I’m leaving her, and I am. But that doesn’t mean I want to see her crushed. And darling, neither should you.”
Sam couldn’t help but smile. Finally, he’s found his balls!
From the uncomfortable coughs emitted from the others, that very thought had crossed their minds, too.
Kat zeroed in on Nathan, like a cat on a mouse. “Quit treating her as if she’s your wife,” she hissed. “She’s now the enemy, remember?”
“No, she’s not our enemy. And, by the way, she is still my wife, until the divorce is worked out. So, if we truly want this to happen”—she, like everyone else in the room, caught the emphasis there—“then we’ve got to make sure that she isn’t hurt in the process.”
“With that in mind”—Sam jumped in—“we should show her as much goodwill as possible. Nina looks up to me, sort of like a big brother, since I helped launched Nathan’s career. Nathan, if you don’t mind, I’d like to assist her in finding suitable legal counsel. That way it doesn’t come off as if she’s been steamrolled in this whole event.”
“You’d do that, for me? For Nina? Sure, Sam, I think she’d appreciate that.” A kaleidoscope of emotions crossed Nathan’s face as he thought about Sam’s offer: relief, gratitude, regret…and, for just a nanosecond, suspicion. The one that won out was relief.
None of this was lost on Sam—or Riley, for that matter.
“That’s a great idea!” Kat simpered. Like fans watching a tennis match, all heads bobbed her way, intrigued at this latest volley. “Sure, go ahead, Sam, play Mr. Nice Guy for what it’s worth. That way, we’ll know exactly what her moves will be, and we can counter them.”
Her smile sent chills down his spine.
“Oh, but one thing: Don’t get her too good of a lawyer, okay? Because if she wins, you lose.”
Sam’s first call was to Lavinia Hannigan, one of the town’s premiere celebrity divorce attorneys, renowned for her barracuda tactics on behalf of her star-studded clientele.
“Why the wife? Why not Nathan and Kat?” Lavinia sniffed.
Jeez, another egomaniac. Okay, let’s see if this will assuage the pain…“Hell, Lavinia, no one doubts that you’re the best in the game. And that’s all the more reason Nathan feels you should be representing his wife. He’s one of those do-gooder types, and he never wants it to be said that he took advantage of her. Of course, Kat’s totally upset about that. Says that you should be swinging for our team. But since you are the best game in town for these things, Nathan insists that the soon-to-be ex should get first shot at you. Hell, with all the negative press they’ve drummed up over this affair, a decent settlement should be a slam-dunk for you, right?”
Lavinia grunted, still not convinced. “So, who’s going to represent Kat—I mean, Nathan?” she asked warily.
“Howard Cross.” He winced as he said the name. The dude was known to be a pig—albeit a pig who had a proven track record for securing the best divorce settlements for his clients—or better yet, ruining their ex’s opportunities for one.
He also happened to be Lavinia’s biggest courtroom nemesis.
“Humph! Well, now, isn’t that just dandy. He gets to stand next to Kat when the cameras are rolling, while I huddle with the homely ex? I dunno, Sam. I’ve gotta think about that one. Besides, I don’t think you’d be doing Mrs. Harte any favor having me on her team. I’m also representing Howard Cross’s wife in her divorce proceedings against him. For that reason alone, he’s sure to come out swinging. So, good luck in finding someone who won’t get on his bad side—if there is such a person.” She hung up abruptly.
Sam sighed. If anyone could beat Howard, it was Lavinia. But he’d have to make it worth her while, sweeten the pot. No prob. He’d call one of his network buddies at CNN and see if he could land her a regular spot as a legal expert. Everyone wanted to be a star. Okay, sure, if she’d consider taking Nina’s case, he’d make her one, too.
“Face, it Bertrand, chartreuse just isn’t your color. And frankly, for that matter, the thought of you stuffing that sausage of yours into a size 6 thong isn’t doing it for me.”
O was cranky, and it showed. Usually her weekly conversations with Bertrand the Cross-dresser were hour-long gabfests in which he minutely described his latest purchases from Victoria’s Secret and some of the raunchier exotic lingerie catalogs, while she oohed and ahhed jealously. Then O was expected to describe (also in minute detail) how she would bite these satin and lace trifles off his supposedly hot bod before voraciously devouring what was underneath. Tonight, however, she was in no mood for his little fantasy, which was why she gave him a brutally honest opinion on how that touchy shade of green would fare against his sallow complexion.
The four-minute silence at the other end of the line was proof positive, at least in her mind, that most people couldn’t handle the truth.
“Well, little Miss Too-Cute-for-Words, if that’s how you feel, then don’t let me waste another minute of your precious time!” (Click.)
Ouch.
The next call she got was from Mrs. McGillicutty. “Hell’s bells, O! Bertrand just asked for his money back! Is it that hard to tell the guy he looks sexy in a leather bustier and fishnets?” The dispatcher’s Fiersteinesque croak made Nina wince. “You know, sweetie, I’ve already gotten several complaints about your attitude these last couple of days. You’re blowing your client retention rate to smithereens. What’s happened to that sweet gal we all know and love?”
Nina gulped. She had no defense. “I’m sorry,” she murmured feebly.
“Yeah, well, so am I. But I’m still going to have to dock you my cut on his call. Sorry, kiddo.”
McGillicutty’s reality check was the only reason she took one last call.
Just her luck: Hugo.
“Don’t scold me, sweet thing, for staying away so long.” Of course, the truth was that he wanted to be scolded.
She sucked it up as best she could, under the circumstances. “Boohoo. I cried myself to sleep each night, just waiting by the phone in hopes that it was you.”
“Yeah, well, I know you better. Still, it’s mighty sweet of you to say.” Obviously, her sarcasm went right over his head. “Seriously, I wish I could have called earlier, but I’m having a bitch of a time on this project of mine. I’ve got a diva witch prima donna and a scared shitless novice I have to coddle, and they’re both driving me crazy.”
“Heck, how can you complain, with all the publicity you’re getting? You know as well as I do that you’re going to be laughing all the way to the bank with this one.”
“I’m not in it for the money. You know that.” He sighed heavily. “This is my art, and those two are quickly turning it into a piece of crap! They go at it at every break, like a couple of humping hyenas. How am I ever going to get this picture finished? They’re killing me!”
“You’re telling me,” she muttered. She wanted to scream at him, to tell him who she really was and what he and his damn movie had done to her life so that he could put things in perspective; better yet, so he could feel sorry for her instead.
But she didn’t.
Sorry? Did she really want him to feel sorry for her? Hell no. She was doing a great job feeling sorry for herself.
And that was the problem. Now, at the worst time in her life, she needed to be the strongest she’d ever been…
And to keep her mouth shut about her own predicament. After all, whatever info he spilled on the diva witch prima donna and the scared shitless novice might come in handy, when the time was right.
So instead, she said all syrupy sweet. “Gee, Hugo, from what you’re describing, you’ve got a po
rn set on your hands. Well, you know what they say: When life serves up lemons, maybe it’s time to make lemonade…”
“Lemon—what?…Huh.” Her answer took him by surprise. “Jeez, that…that may not be such a bad idea…” With a few small changes in the script and some cinema verité sleight of hand, maybe, just maybe, he actually had some pretty tasty lemonade on his hands.
It would be a new kind of cinema: intelligent and erotic, all at once.
Cinephallia, as it were.
The sex-starved film buffs who worshipped at his feet would just lap it up—no pun intended.
In fact, he’d coin the term—as if he’d thought it up right then and there, spur of the moment—in his upcoming interview with Cineaste. The reporter would love that.
“Look, gotta go. And, gee, O, thanks!” He hung up before she could answer him.
Crap, she thought. That was only, like, about a quarter of his usual call time!
Her candor was costing her too much money. Tomorrow she’d work on that.
An A-list actor’s professional life was everything Nathan thought it would be, and more.
However, a superstar’s personal life was a living hell, and that was certainly disappointing to discover.
Sure, he could very easily get used to the on-call limo and driver, the ever-underfoot personal assistant (make that plural in Kat’s case, since Rain had two assistants of her own—essentially minimum wage fans with more time on their hands than brains in their heads—to whom to hand off the more mundane duties). And he had absolutely no problem with the team of pampering professionals (including a personal trainer, dietitian, stylist, hair designer, personal growth guru, and the lot) that seemed part and parcel with the life.
And certainly it was no stretch at all making himself right at home in Kat’s palatial fourteen-million-dollar Bel-Air manse, what with its ten spacious bedroom suites, in-home gym, poolside cabana, twelve-seat home theater, and requisite downtown view, all on five lush security-patrolled acres, no less.
Still, what was missing, at least how Nathan saw it pertained to Kat, was the means to this rewarding end.
The blood, sweat, and tears that came with the journey.
The fun of being part of a family—whether that be in an acting class, or one of the multitude of plays rehearsing on any given night in town, or, for that matter, on a film set—
—In none of which a superstar, like Kat, was ever included.
Most of all, what was missing was any thirst for that elusive role of a lifetime.
Because once you were a star, there was no more blood, sweat, and tears, or community.
Or elusive roles, for that matter.
At least, from watching Kat, that’s what Nathan deduced.
Yep, the phones were ringing off the hook—Sam’s, with directors begging to work with her; Fiona’s, for this photo opp; that media interview, or another one of a million promotional events; and Rain’s, who was in charge of funneling all this to Kat, who then, depending on her mood or whimsy, picked and chose the projects she wanted to do. More than likely, however, she chose the ones that fit her already-set-in-stone image. Afterward, Rain would memorialize the choice on the Official Kat Kalendar, which was scheduled down to the minute and two years out, and no less detailed than a Pentagon war room battle plan.
How different would it have been, he wondered, if Kat weren’t already a star, but just another starlet grasping for the next rung on the Tinseltown ladder, a “working actor” who was still schlepping from one casting agent’s office to another, or from one audition to another—or from one acting class to another, for that matter? Would she have held the same appeal for him? Would he have left Nina for her?
Would the public that now watched Kat ’n’ Nat’s every move still give a damn whether it was a “match made in heaven”?
No, not at all.
Her attraction—to him, and to her adoring public—was the fact that she was a star.
The way Katerina McPherson played the star game (or, as she explained during one of her too few prescheduled moments to luxuriate out by the Olympic-size pool, how everyone who was anyone played the game) was to keep to the playbook created for her unique publicly perfected persona—her brand, as it were.
That way, all the nail-gnashing guesswork magically disappeared.
Sure, it was okay to tweak your brand now and then, to stay fresh in the public’s mind. But seriously, what was the advantage in striving—and most likely, unsuccessfully—to be some film-to-film chameleon, à la Meryl or Cate?
After all, very few were that.
Hell no, warned Kat. Messing with the formula was asking for trouble. If some of the other A-list ladies wanted to be “actors,” well then, more power to them. She, on the other hand, would settle for being a mere star.
Either way, she’d get her hour of glory on The Actor’s Studio, thank you very much. And so would he, she reassured Nathan while giving him a massage. With her at his side—or straddling his back, as she was now—it was only a matter of time.
It was remarks like that one that kept Nathan up at night long after Kat—finally sexually sated, her face slathered with the wrinkle-reducing miracle serum du nuit—fell into a gently snoring slumber. Frankly, he enjoyed the struggle inherent to his profession. He wanted to compete for the meaty, offbeat roles. Nathan lived for the subconscious nod, that thoughtful contemplation, and, finally, that phrase every director says when you’ve nailed the role: “That’s it! I think we’ve got our guy…”
…Because he loved being an actor.
He just wasn’t that crazy about being a star.
As Sam had warned Nina, within forty-eight hours of Nathan’s divorce filing, the imminent demise of her marriage was bannered on the cover of every celebrity magazine, becoming fodder for public speculation and (in her mind, at least) pity.
“Kat Nips New Lover’s Marriage in the Bud” gushed Us Weekly, while People heralded, “A Harte to Harte with Kat,” and In Touch screamed, “Kat to Nat: No More Nina!” as Star asked, “Nina Who? Nat Prefers Kat!”
Page Six was a lot less coy: “Hot Hunk Kisses Kat Hello and Wife Good-bye” ran alongside a photo of Nathan’s infamous Oscar kiss with Katerina, while Rush & Molloy proclaimed: “Nat to Nina: It’s Kat, and That’s That!” and Defamer.com mused: “Kat’s Li’l Kittens? Vegas Oddsmakers Say So…”
“‘Kittens’?” Kat fairly howled at that one. “Pray tell, why would Vegas bookies think that those odds would work?”
“Because I told them it would,” retorted Fiona. “I’d rather see you come off as a madonna than a wicked stepmother to Nathan’s kid.”
“Madonna? Who said anything about me being like Madonna? My fans don’t think Nathan is that much younger than me, do they?” Panic-stricken, Kat picked up a mirror and perused her face for any telltale signs of natural aging.
“No—I didn’t mean Madonna, as in the star, I meant a madonna, as in angelic mother icon.”
“Oh.” Kat put down the mirror. “Hmmm…Yeah, I think I could get into that. Kids are, like, so in right now. Everyone’s got a cute one but me!”
She frowned. This Fiona knew, not because Kat’s forehead was creased (as if it could anymore, what with all the Botox she’d had) but because the star’s inflated lips had turned down somewhat at the corners. “I mean, hell, I missed out on that whole chihuahua thing, and now I’m getting passed over on the kid thing, too! I never get invited to those hip baby showers, and none of those cute baby boutiques have me on their swag lists…Yeah, I could totally see having a kid around. But not if I have to do that whole childbirth thing. I’d rather pull a Nicole. You know, avoid stretch marks, or even, God forbid, a C-section.”
“Well, since, Nathan’s already got a kid, you could get away with that if you just adopted his.”
“Omigod! Fiona, you are a genius!” Kat ran up to her and gave her the one thing she assumed all of Team Kat coveted most from her: an air kiss.
Fiona pretende
d to be honored, then added cautiously, “Of course, his wife might not like that idea.”
“Bull! Who wouldn’t want their kid raised in the lap of luxury? She’ll fold eventually. What’s the brat’s name, Jason?…Jake? Damn! It’s just too bad he’s not a girl! Their clothes are so much more fun to shop for…”
While Fiona was force-feeding the celebrity press corps, Rain was given the task of dishing the minute-by-minute scoops of Kat poop into Serenity’s ear, who in turn wrote public sympathy notes to the star, something to the effect that “Despite having to deal with the trauma of all this nerve-wracking divorce brouhaha while filming what she’s told those nearest and dearest to her is ‘the role of my career,’ she is being a real trouper on the set, to the awe of the rest of her cast and crewmembers…”
At the same time, Riley was smearing Nina as much as he could to Baxter, whose next column began, “How nuts is Nina, Nathan’s soon-to-be-ex? Let me tell you, readers: Neighbors say she’s as fruity as they come! Seems that her crying jags are what drove our man Nat into the arms of his gal Kat in the first place…”
Within a week’s time, it was an all-out war between the two gossip gadflies. Day after day the public was barraged with late-breaking “Kat ’n’ Nat News Alerts”—both in print and online—as each columnist tried to one-up the other. At the same time, both were wondering where in the hell the other had found the so-called exclusive dirt that had just been flung.
The biggest scoop that week came in on the night of Sage Oak Academy’s sold-out production of My Fair Lady. Unfortunately the Hartes had reserved only two seats, and these were adjacent, as requested: a big mistake, considering that Nina and Nathan were now separated—and Kat insisted on taking one of those seats, too. Or, as she exclaimed to Nathan, she was just dying to see “our little boy.” (Unbeknownst to Nathan, that was what she called Jake whenever she’d forgotten the child’s name—at least it was her nickname for the kid when Nathan was in hearing distance. Otherwise, “little brat” was preferred).