Not So Model Home

CHAPTER 18


The Hottest Memorial Service of the Season

Funerals and memorial services. Most people dread them. The cast, however, was preparing for Keith’s as a red-carpet event. Suits from Europe were arriving daily, made from previous measurements held at couturiers’ headquarters in Paris, London, and Milan. Personal makeup artists swarmed Ian’s house, mixing with the ones hired by the production company. And the reason for all this: This funeral was going to be filmed as part of the show. Like the carousel spinning out of control in Strangers on a Train, the show had taken on a life and power of its own. We had succumbed to its powers, and it made us do things we never would have considered. And we had to look good while doing it. But before you think that all I was going to do was lob stones at the others, I, too, was getting dolled up for the affair. Look at me . . . calling a memorial service an affair. I might have come under the spell of the show, but I intended to call a spade a spade.

Rows of chairs were set up in front of a raised platform with a podium on Ian’s expansive grounds. There were speakers, a sound system, engineers, and banks of lighting. And all of this for us? Hardly. Yes, there were going to be all the usual luminaries from the haute couture hair world, but everyone was gearing for the possibility that Ellen DeGeneres might put in an appearance as a show of support for Ian and loss of the son he didn’t knew he had. While I knew Ellen was very supportive of gay causes, I felt the rumor concerning her appearance was just that—a rumor. The reality was, no one really cared about Keith, or more accurately, fewer even knew him. They were there for Ian. And the cameras. Not necessarily in that order.

Jeremy pulled us all together before attending the service and instructed us to reach down inside ourselves and try to bring up emotions.

“I want tears, sadness, empathy!”

He might as well have been asking the guys to operate a large hadron collider.

“Remember, the cameras will be on you at all times. The show’s ratings are going through the ceiling, and today is another episode that is going to push it out of this world. After the memorial, we’re going to assemble at a local restaurant and we’re going to turn up the heat. I want to hear what you’re feeling, and I want you to really let the fur fly! Okay, get out there and make this show a smash!” he said like a football coach at a deciding season game.

The cast filed out to the cameras and lights, filtering down toward the front to their reserved seats between members of the Mitchell and Sassoon hair dynasties and models, models, models. There was the shaking of hands, hugs, laughter, and to top the whole circus off, trays of drinks floated up and down the aisle propelled by waiters in tight black suits. There’s nothing like liquor for throwing gasoline on the fire. There was a signal from the podium and we were all advised to take our seats by the master of ceremonies. I won’t bore you with all the details of the service, but since almost no one invited knew Keith, the eulogies were centered on Ian (for his loss, presumably), which caused him to erupt in frequent outpourings of tears that ran outside his oversized and overdecorated sunglasses that engulfed most of his face. The audience was a sight to behold. The hair fashionistas sported outrageous hair styles and bad clothing while the second-tier L.A. clubbers wore sport jackets with jeans, high-top Converse sneakers, and a straw pork-pie hat—their idea of “dressing up.” Everyone was busy whispering, networking, or texting.

The drone of testimonials was making me fall asleep when I was startled by a man carrying a flat wooden cage filled with a half-dozen white doves who passed down the aisle and headed for the podium. Just as it seemed that the eulogies would never end, they did. There was a lot of mumbling and fumbling; then Ian stepped up to the microphone. Ian, knowing that the cat was out of the bag, couldn’t exactly relate stories of all the good times they had together. So he confined his tribute to the subject that he knew and loved best: himself. He talked about the regret of never being the dad that he should have been, which, by the time he was finished, hadn’t left a dry eye in the house.

“We’re now going to release doves symbolizing Keith’s spirit, which we hope will soar free and up into the heavens. Fly free . . .” Ian managed to choke out through a rush of emotions, “. . . little spirit!”

A few seconds passed and the cage was raised high and the door opened. The doves, confused and startled, no doubt, by the fact that they had probably been raised in cages all their lives and were now suddenly free, flew straight up in a pack of fluttering, battering wings, bumping into each other as they struggled to find a clear direction in which to fly. What happened next, no one on earth could have foreseen.

From out of the leafy palms and eucalyptus branches came a Cooper’s hawk like an F-16 fighter, hitting one of the unlucky birds in midair with such force, there was an explosion of feathers and a shower of blood that hit Ian like a well-aimed red-paint baggie thrown by a member of PETA. The hawk struggled to gain altitude with its shrieking prize in its talons and slowly it rose into the trees and disappeared. It was like watching a horrific car wreck in slow motion. This was not a good omen. Even worse, dozens of celebrity gossip stars caught the event on their smartphone movie cameras in glorious color. This little episode would be on the Internet before you could say “Mel Gibson.” A few hours later when I checked the Web from the relative safety of my home office, I was proved right.