George Rush - Scandal: A Manual

S everal kind people aided, abetted or resisted throwing a monkey wrench during the construction of this book. Skyhorse publisher Tony Lyons and senior editor Jennifer McCartney indulged the delusion that anyone would care about the ravings of two recovering gossip columnists. Jenn showed remarkable intelligence and poise under pressure. Judith Regan, publishing visionary and valkyrie, showed that it is possible for one of our columns unwilling subjects to become a friend. She contributed invaluable pro-bono guidance and butt-kicks.

Were also beholden to resourceful Rush & Molloy reporters Shazia Ahmad, Zoe Alexander, Kasia Anderson, Lisa Arcella, K.C. Baker, Marcus Baram, Sari Botton, Sean Evans, Caitlin Feurey, Morgan Goldberg, Patrick Huguenin, Baird Jones, Cristina Kinon, Rebecca Louie, Marc Malkin, Spencer Morgan, Deborah Newman, Lola Ogunnaike, Jo Piazza, Riana Positano, Michael Riedel, Karen Robinovitz, Chris Rovzar, Suzanne Rozdeba, Lauren Rubin, Dakota Smith, Heather Stein, Leah Sydney and Ben Widdicombe, as well as to our columns editor, Lance Debler. Thank you all for your nerve and your verve.

George Rush and Joanna Molloy

I f the bodies of George Rush and Joanna Molloy should ever be found floating in the East River, the lineup of suspects could rival any red carpet. Which celeb had finally gotten fed up with reading the swill those two wrote in the New York Daily News? Russell Crowe? Sean Penn? Robert De Niro? Perhaps even Police Commissioner Ray Kelly should be asked about his whereabouts on the night in question. But if we could speak from the morgue, we might advise detectives to check first for blood on the spiked heels of Sarah Jessica Parker.

We had a little history with SJP, to put it mildly. Years before it became a life-support system for fashionable women (and the gay men who love them), we witnessed the conception of her show, Sex and the City. In 1993, our pal, Candace Bushnell, started doing a column for the New York Observer. It was a thinly veiled diary of her life. Everybody knew that Mr. Big was Candaces boyfriend, leather pantswearing Vogue publisher Ron Galotti. Stanford Blatch was her manager Clifford Streit, whod drop droll asides when wed all be out at Nells or The Odeon or Bowery Bar. The following week, his bon mots would show up in Candaces column. Clifford used to say, I dont mind if my friends use my lines, as long as they let me know in advance.

Carrie Bradshaw, Sex and the Citys narrator, was, of course, Candaceonly a tamer version of Candace. We never saw Carrie light up a joint in a restaurant while a police sergeant sat a few booths away. We never saw Carrie pee into a mens urinal because she didnt want to wait in line for the ladies room. Candace could drink Carrie under the table. But Candace also got up the next morning and wrote. Give her credit: she worked hard and almost single-handedly created modern chick lit.

Candace could be touchy. Once, we were checking out a tip about a guy her producer and friend, Darren Star, was dating. Candace was afraid the item would blow Darrens deal to turn her Sex and the City columns into a TV show. We ran the item. Happily, HBO still green-lit Darrens show.

Flash forward. Five years into the show, we kept hearing that all was not kissy-kissy on the Sex and the City set. After poking around for a few weeks, we ran a column headlined Sex Without Love: A Four-way Feud?

They play the best of friends on HBOs Sex and the City. But off-camera, we hear that relations among Sarah Jessica Parker and costars Kim Cattrall, Cynthia Nixon, and Kristin Davis have grown as chilly as those Cosmopolitans theyre always guzzling.

When they sit down to shoot a scene in the coffee shop or a bar, they can barely look at each other, claims a source. They never go anywhere together, unless they have to promote the show. They barely talk.

Several sources claim Parker is at the root of the frostiness.

She makes about $3 million from the showmore than double what the others make, says a source. Though she now oversees the show as an executive producer, according to some, Parker is threatened by the popularity of Cattralls character, saucy bed-hopping Samantha.

Sarah is jealous that Kim has got so big, says another source.

We included several paragraphs of denials from spokespeople, who insisted there was no friction. Nevertheless, SJP did not let this assault go unanswered. She went to Liz Smith, who handed her entire Newsday column to the actress as a hankie:

It was horrible to wake up after working twenty-hour days, as we all do, and have to read such nonsense, Sarah [told Liz]. Kim, Cynthia, Kristin, and I are all friends, personally and professionally, and I know we will go on being friends forever after.... I find the report has the old sexist overtone, about women cat-fighting.... Do James Gandolfini and Michael Imperioli fall in each others arms when they arent working on The Sopranos?

When the column ran, the Daily Newss editor in chief, Ed Kosner, messaged us: Given the vehemence of Sarah Jessica Parkers blast in Liz today, are we comfortable with our sourcing?

We had to go into Eds office. We told him we had four good sources who personally knew the cast members. In our next column, we ran a response to SJPs response. We called her a talented and hardworking actress. We also observed that the lady sounded as if she were protesting too much. We noted that the Sopranos cast actually did hang out together after work.

Two years later, Parker still hadnt forgotten. One night, HBO pulled out all the stops for a gala celebrating the final season of Sex and the City. The dinner was at the American Museum of Natural History in the Hall of Ocean Life, where a giant blue whale hung overhead. Parker was wearing fishnets, aquamarine pendant earrings, and a magenta dress that beautifully served up her cleavage. I spied her standing by a diorama of Polynesian pearl divers. Ignoring my instincts for self-preservation, I swam through the crowd and introduced myself.

Mr. Rush, she said sternly. Youve been very hard on me over the years.

Well not lately, I said. Correct me if Im wrong, but...

You indicted my professional reputation, she went on. Let me tell you something, Mr. Rush. I love [my costars and crew].... You should spend a few moments with me before you write something thats not really based on anything but made-up allegations.... Ive never lied about my personal life, my work, the way Ive cared for three hundred people. Your article was one of the most painful things that ever happened to me. For thirty years Ive been working and no one has said Ive done anything bad.

Every so often, I tried to slip in a word. Then she started getting personal.

Its a very peculiar job you have, she said. Why dont you write longer pieces about people? Youre so much more dignified. Youre better than this, Im certain. You must want better.

I said, Were actually regarded as one of the more fair columns....

My driver reads the Daily News every day, she said (lest anyone mistake her for a subscriber to our working-class rag). He couldnt believe it. I care so deeply about my relationship with people I work with. You can ask a million people. I work harder than anybody. I work ninety hours a week. My reputation means the world to me. Always remember that! Because I couldnt lie to you. I couldnt face myself.

It was a self-righteous rant that kind of corroborated the original story. But it had a touch of playfulness. After she got all that off her chest, she handed me an olive branch. It was invisible, but I ceremoniously put it in my pocket.