Nine Women, One Dress(5)
I was in a limo heading down Lexington Avenue to the premiere of my latest movie at the Ziegfeld. Hank, my agent, was screaming at me on the phone, making it very hard for me to think. Since his normal talking voice starts at the level of a scream, when he actually screams it’s like he’s screaming through a megaphone.
The fiasco that had him screaming began twenty-four hours ago, when I walked in on my fiancée having sex with her personal trainer. Apparently the trainer-trainee cheating scenario has become commonplace. The lethal mix of innocent touching and tweaking and body-clinging spandex often leads to much less innocent touching, tweaking, and body clinging. After the shock wore off I did what any actor in my shoes would do in that situation: I called my agent. Hank labeled the whole thing boring, adding to my mounting insecurity with this gem of a comment: “The last thing I need is ten percent of boring.”
He claimed that as well as being boring, I would look bad if the truth came out. Can you believe that? She’s unfaithful and I’m the one who’d look bad if the story were to break. He said it implies that I can’t satisfy her. “Sex symbols do not have fiancées who cheat with trainers.” He instructed me to keep the whole unfortunate occurrence among the four of us and attend my premiere tonight alone. When people ask where she is, as they will, because she is a Victoria’s Secret model with celebrity of her own, I should “just say she’s under the weather instead of under the trainer.”
Truth? While it felt really crappy to walk in on that scene, part of me feels like I dodged a bullet. It was tough being with her. One star is hard enough to hide on the streets of New York—it’s almost impossible for me to have dinner without interruption, or even see a movie. Try hiding a star plus a Victoria’s Secret model. Especially one with no desire to be hidden. And two egos like ours would never have made for a happy family life. We both suck so much oxygen from a room that our children would’ve needed nebulizers just to breathe. Throw in my deep-seated trust issues, stemming from my parents’ horrific marriage, and we were doomed from the start. I need a nice girl; a pretty girl, yes, but not one whose pretty is bankable. A girl I can trust with both my heart and my ego. And while my ego is bruised, I’m happy that it was bruised in private. So sure, it sucks to be cheated on, but now I’m free to find the right girl.
I felt like the worst was behind me. Until I woke up this morning and the worst was on the front page of the New York Post.
Jeremy Madison, GAY.
Seriously, that was the headline. I was enraged for so many reasons. First, over my complete lack of privacy. Second, that GAY is still news—front-page all-caps news, no less. Third, that it wasn’t bad enough that she cheated on me and lied to me. To cover it up, she chose to lie to the whole world about me! Apparently she had no problem appearing barely clad on the pages of a magazine but wanted to appear saintly in her “real” life.
Since no one told her I was going to remain silent—though Hank claims he told her agent, who promised to tell her manager, who was supposed to tell her publicist—she had obviously felt the need to get her story in the press first. The article went on to describe how she had been my supposed beard, covering for me to protect my multimillion-dollar career. (Enter Tab Hunter and Natalie Wood, once nicknamed Natalie Wood and Tab Wouldn’t!) She cried about how difficult it was to be engaged to a closeted gay man. Night after night of rejection left her feeling ugly and empty, and she had to fill herself with…well, we all know what she filled herself with.
The reason my agent was just screaming at me is that I was refusing to take a shill to the premiere and refusing to make a statement. I don’t think my sexual orientation or anyone’s sexual orientation is news unless they want it to be.
I told my agent that I’m not interested in talking to the press.
His response: “I’m glad that talking doesn’t interest you, because if you don’t talk now, pretty soon no one will want you to talk at all. At least not onscreen opposite a leading lady for the ten mil you got for your last film!” He stopped screaming for a split second and said, relatively calmly, “Did you wear the pink tie I sent over?”
I laughed. “So we’re embracing the gay angle now? You want me to wear a pink tie?”
“No!” he yelled. “I mean yes. Yes, it’s October first, breast cancer awareness month—I told you this, the whole cast is wearing them.” I had totally forgotten. He continued, “Are you looking to give the press more evidence that you don’t like breasts? You are to walk into that premiere with a woman on your arm and a pink tie around your neck or so help me god you will never work in this town or the other town again!” He hung up.
I looked out the window at the street sign—63rd and Lexington, just a few blocks away from hundreds of ties. I alerted the driver. “Sir, I need to stop at Bloomingdale’s to pick up a pink tie.”
I entered the store at around six-thirty, with only half an hour to go until the premiere. My plan was, I would walk down the red carpet at the last minute, alone, and avoid an inquisition from reporters. As I reached the tie counter my phone rang again. This time it was my publicist, Albert. He comes across much tougher on the phone than in person. Face-to-face he’s a bit of a mush.
Our conversation unfolded like the setup for a meet-cute in an eighties romantic comedy script.