“Inspect it?”
“You know ... check it for damage ... holes perhaps?”
“Who in the hell checks condoms for damage right before they get it on in a drunken encounter?” Greg asked.
“So, you did not inspect the condom for damage?”
“No. I did not inspect the condom for damage. I wouldn’t even know what a damaged condom looks like. In truth, I rarely use the things.”
And so, in the next morning’s edition of the LA Times, on the front page, just below the fold, the headline read:
GREG SAYS MINDY PROVIDED THE CONDOM ON THE NIGHT OF CONCEPTION.
Condom-Gate was begun.
The very next day, the nominations for the 1995 Academy Awards were announced. As expected, the film Us and Them was prominent on the list. The film itself was nominated for Best Picture, Best Screenplay Written Directly for the Screen, and Best Editing. Fletch was nominated for Best Director. And, of course, Greg Oldfellow and Mindy Snow were nominated for Best Actor and Best Actress, respectively.
Mindy, who was still angry and steaming over Greg’s blatant lies about her giving him a condom—and the not-so-subtle implication that she might have sabotaged it—nonetheless gave a press release (delivered by Georgette) stating that she was honored by the nomination and looking forward to attending the ceremony.
“Will it be awkward for her to attend the ceremony with Greg Oldfellow?” Georgette was asked.
“Not at all,” Georgette replied. “Greg and Mindy are, above all, professionals and colleagues and costars. Mindy will be able to put aside any animosity that exists because of the pregnancy and related issues and stand side by side with Greg for the occasion.”
When contacted for his own statement, Greg once again fielded the issue on his own. “I am honored by the nomination and would like to thank the Academy for considering me,” he was quoted as saying, “but, unlike Mindy, I am unable to put aside my animosity. Quite frankly, I do not want to be in the same room with her. I do not even want to be in the same zip code as her. As such, I will not be attending the ceremony. My agent, John Stapleton, will stand in in my place.”
And that led to the next day’s headline, which was printed above the fold, in type even larger than the headline for the nominations themselves.
GREG, CITING ANIMOSITY TOWARD MINDY, REFUSES TO ATTEND THE ACADEMY AWARDS.
The day after the announcement of the Academy Award nominees, Jake Kingsley flew his Chancellor from Oceano to Palm Springs Airport. There, he rented a Lexus and drove to Greg Oldfellow’s mansion on the fifth fairway of the Mojave Springs Country Club—the winter house where Greg had pretty much been holed up since fleeing Los Angeles after the Mindy pregnancy story broke.
He parked the Lexus in the circular driveway just past noon. He left his luggage and his golf clubs in the trunk, knowing that Greg would throw a fit if he tried to carry them in himself instead of letting the servants take care of it. He walked up to the large double doors and rang the bell.
Jim, Greg and Celia’s long-time butler, opened the door less than twenty seconds later. He was balding, perhaps sixty years old now, and wearing the traditional butler’s uniform. He smiled with genuine warmth when he saw Jake standing there.
“Mr. Kingsley!” he greeted. “Welcome! Come right inside.”
“Thanks, Jim,” Jake said, stepping through the doorway.
“How was your flight in?” the butler asked.
“A little bumpy going over the mountains,” Jake said with a shrug. “Nothing too bad though. Celia wouldn’t have liked it much.”
Jim gave a melancholy smile. “No, I don’t suppose she would have,” he said. “I do miss having her around.”
“She’s a great girl,” Jake agreed. “I hope Greg is still kicking himself in the ass over screwing that up.”
“He is indeed,” Jim said.
“How’s he doing?”
Jim seemed to consider his answer for a few moments. He looked around as if to see if anyone else was in earshot and then, in a quiet voice said, “He’s drinking a lot more than normal. And he sleeps in a lot later in the morning.”
“Understandable,” Jake said. “Breakups suck, especially when they’re highly public.”
“I suppose,” Jim said. “Still, I worry about him.”
“He’ll bounce back,” Jake assured him. “Where’s he at?”
“In the entertainment room. Should I show you there?”
“No,” Jake said. “I know the way.”
“Very good, sir,” Jim said. “If you give me your keys, I will secure your luggage and park your car in the garage.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Jake said, handing over the rental car key.
While Jim walked out the door, Jake headed through the halls to the entertainment room, which was near the rear of the house. There he found Greg Oldfellow sitting at one of the barstools sipping from a glass of amber liquid on the rocks. He was dressed impeccably, as usual, in a pair of slacks, polished shoes, and a long-sleeve dress shirt. His gold Rolex watch was on his wrist and his hair was elegantly styled. His face, on the other hand, looked haggard and drawn. Jake actually winced a little as he took it in. The man looked five years older than he had the last time he had seen him only a few weeks before.
“Day drinking, huh?” Jake asked him as he walked up to the bar.
Greg seemed momentarily startled to hear his voice but then smiled as he saw him. “I’ve been doing a lot of that lately,” he said, standing up.
“It has its place in modern society,” Jake said.
“Indeed, it does,” Greg agreed. They shook hands warmly, like the old friends they were. “I’m glad you could make it out.”
“Hey, I’ve been wanting to kick your ass at golf again,” Jake told him. “What are you drinking?”
“Rye,” Greg said. “I’ve experimenting with various potables of late. I’ve started to develop a taste for this variety.”
“Yeah? Well, light me up. How much catching up do I have to do?”
“Only a little,” Greg assured him, walking behind the bar and pulling down one of the glasses.
He put some ice in the glass and then poured Jake a healthy slug of Celestial Hammer eighteen-year-old double malt. He then proposed a toast to friendship. Jake drank to that and smiled in appreciation as the smooth alcohol traveled down into his stomach.
“Good shit,” he remarked.
“For two hundred and eighty dollars a bottle, it had better be,” Greg said.
They took their drinks over to the couch and sat down.
“You just got back from the tour?” Greg asked.
“Yeah. I flew back to LAX two days ago, the morning after the second Seattle show. I figured I’d better start working on the next songs to promote for the albums.”
“That seems wise,” Greg said. “Tell me ... uh ... how is ... uh ... Celia doing?”
“She’s a bit of a wreck,” Jake said honestly. “Very sad about the whole divorce thing and very stressed about the whole Mindy Snow extravaganza in the media and all the pap following her around and snapping shots of her and yelling questions at her. Still, she’s professional as hell. She steps out on that stage every night and she fuckin’ sings and plays her best. To watch her onstage, you would not know that there is anything wrong in her life; even if all the audience knows exactly what’s going on.”
“I only wish I would have learned to appreciate that quality in her sooner,” Greg said morosely. “Tell me ... do you think there’s any chance, even a little one, that she might...”
“No,” Jake interrupted, though gently. “Not a chance.”
Greg nodded and took a large sip. “I was afraid that would be the answer.”
“It’s not so much that she hates you or anything,” Jake said. “Truthfully, she remains quite fond of you. And she knows that Mindy Snow engineered this whole thing. I mean, you have your share of the blame, of course. Nobody held a gun to your head and forced you to send Little Greg spelunking in Mindy’s cave.”