Going Off Script (26 page)

“Yes, I do,” he said.

Hate me if you must, but I couldn’t resist, and responded with a not-bad imitation of his famous catchphrase from
Diff’rent Strokes:

“What’chu talkin’ ’bout, Gary?”

I thought he might roll his eyes, at the most. Obviously he’d heard the same cheesy joke fourteen jillion times over the years. But I guess mine was the tipping point.

“Oh, man! Really? That’s it!” Gary ripped off his microphone and stormed off.

“I was kidding!” I called after him. “That was a joke! Sit down!”

“No!” Gary pouted.

“Are you serious right now?” I asked. This had to be a great act, joke on me. Gary was glowering.

“Do I look serious?” he said. End of interview.

His tantrum was egomaniacal, unprofessional, and 110 percent stupid, but I grudgingly had to give him some props. Gary’s political ambitions may have been dubious, but he let his true self show that day, and in the end, I had to salute his crazy flag.

Angelina Jolie is one star whose authenticity I find inspirational. Keep in mind, she was my first major celeb interview from my short-lived starter job at LOAD, so I’ve watched her evolve from wild child to UN goodwill ambassador, mother, wife, and now director and producer. Interviewing her for the Christmas 2014 release of
Unbroken,
her second movie behind the camera as producer and director, I could see that Angelina had changed yet again. There was a difference in her eyes, a soulfulness I had never felt before from her. This woman who could have any—literally,
any
—movie role she wanted in the world, chose instead to follow her own heart instead of public and industry expectations, and stepped off the big screen.

Sitting across from her, no longer an ingénue but a woman just shy of forty, I had never seen Angelina look so beautiful.
She radiated a sense of joy and accomplishment that no makeup, lighting, or camera angle could ever create. I envied her courage to reach beyond people’s expectations of her and take charge not of a single role, but of the whole epic story of one prisoner of war’s incredible survival. When you’ve spent so much time in front of the camera, being taken seriously when you step behind it is a challenge, far more so for actresses than actors.

Whenever I hint at my own hopes of expanding my producer role, the three Fs—my friends, family, and fans—shoot the idea down. Why wouldn’t I want to be on TV? Was I being forced off? Was I secretly being fired for someone younger? To which I have three responses:

Which brings me to Joan.

Joan would fly in from New York every Wednesday afternoon, then go to Melissa’s house to eat something, look at our binder full of pictures for that week’s
Fashion Police
show, and start writing jokes until she went to bed. She’d be up again at 3:30 in the morning and at E! an hour later, then in hair and makeup by 5:30. I would come in and see her sitting on the set by herself with the teleprompter girl, going over every line, making the tiniest adjustments until every word was perfect. This was a seventy-eight-year-old woman staying on top of pop culture. She had to know who Kesha was and why Justin Bieber was in the gossip columns again. She was the only grandmother on earth who knew the difference between Demi Lovato and
Demi Moore. Joan always did her homework. We’d all go on set at 8:30 and roll the cameras at 9:00. We’d wrap at noon, and Joan would go straight to LAX for her flight back to New York. Sometimes she would land at JFK and get in a town car to drive to Philadelphia to do QVC, or jump on another plane to go on a book tour, or fly to London to do a stand-up show. Joan was on fire 24/7. She was unstoppable.

I never once saw Joan yawn or say she was tired.

About every fifth show, she’d have issues with her voice.

“Joan, you have to get some rest,” I’d scold her.

“Stop, I’m good!” she’d rasp. She had her tea and her lozenges, and she would soldier on. I remember venting to her when my father, at seventy-five, signed a ten-year lease to open a new tailor shop. “It’s ridiculous!” I complained.

“No, it’s not,” Joan replied. “If you love what you do, why would you stop? He enjoys it. Just support it.”

She would walk onto set with a huge basket full of mini chocolate bars to give to our small studio audience and spend fifteen minutes treating them to a one-woman show, even though we had a warm-up guy. She’d answer any question a fan wanted to ask. She couldn’t take a compliment. If I complimented her hair, she’d shrug it off and say it was extensions. Credit was always deflected to her glam squad or stylists for perfect makeup or a beautiful outfit. This went on for years. The very last time I saw her, just two days before she went in for routine throat surgery and never woke up, I remember Joan had her hair clipped back prettily on one side.

“Joan, you look beautiful today,” George remarked. “Giuliana, doesn’t Joan look beautiful?”

“Yeah, you really do. You look beautiful, Joan,” I agreed. I waited a few seconds for her self-deprecating reply, thinking to myself,
here it comes!

“Thank you,” she said and gave me a big, beautiful smile.

That day, we were having this conversation on set about tragic deaths in Hollywood. We were talking about actor Paul Walker’s car crash the previous winter, and how sad and shocking his sudden death had been. Everyone was still reeling from Robin Williams’s suicide just the week before, followed the very next day by the death of screen legend Lauren Bacall.

“We’re so lucky, knock wood,” Joan said. “We’re all so lucky. Never forget how lucky we are. We get to work with people we like. We genuinely love each other, not that fake Hollywood shit.” We agreed with her. We always did. It wasn’t ass-kissing. She was just right, and whenever we all had this sense of a shared vibe or feeling, Joan had this way of speaking up and giving voice to it. That sort of sixth sense is what made her such an amazing comedienne. She could, and would, say what everyone else was thinking.

She finished her work in L.A, then went to New York as usual. That night, she did a book-signing event with a Q and A. The following night, it was an hour-long stand-up show. The next morning, she went in for her throat procedure. I was selling my clothing line live on HSN in Tampa. Lisa, our
Fashion Police
executive producer, kept calling and calling, but I didn’t have my phone on the air with me. As I was walking off the HSN set, one of the show handlers approached me.

“Um, a couple of developments,” she stammered. “Joan Rivers is in a coma.”

“What?” My knees gave out and I hit the floor. I saw all the missed calls on my phone, and knew it had to be true. I got through to Lisa but was too hysterical to talk.

“Calm down! Giuliana, you need to calm down!” Lisa told me in her tough New York accent. “She’s in the hospital. Melissa is flying to New York with her son right now.”

I dialed Melissa, frantic for news. She picked up and told me she was still en route.

“Melissa, she has to be okay,” I cried.

“We don’t know. We just don’t know,” she answered. She sounded stoic but stunned. I knew she was holding it together for her son. Melissa and Cooper were Joan’s life; the three of them were a tight little family. Joan would know they were there no matter how deep the coma, and she would fight like hell to stay with them, I told myself.

I was a mess. I called George, and he was crying, too. Thus began what-the-fuck-is-going-on week. If that sounds irreverent, I promise you Joan would have approved.

Suzanne had been E! president for two years, and her impending exit was widely rumored as the parent company underwent a management overhaul. As the star of one of her biggest hits clung to life, she was determined to own the story, and I ended up being treated like a “get” instead of an anchor, a coworker, and, most important, a friend of thirteen years to the woman our mutual boss was now badgering me to cover. I was surprised and hurt by how shockingly insensitive my bosses were being. I kept thinking I could reason with them. No, I wouldn’t do a special, or be interviewed for one. Joan was going to make it. I wanted to get to New York and be there for her. Melissa and I had been texting back and forth when Melissa had any updates, and she was determined to remain positive. “Praying,” I texted her, “love you.”

“Keep praying,” she wrote back.

Duke’s second birthday was August 29, the day after Joan went into cardiac arrest while undergoing the endoscopy at her doctor’s office. I had made plans with E! long before to shoot the news from Chicago so I could spend the special day with family. Bill and the baby were already there, and I needed to be with them now more than ever. The network wanted me back on our set in L.A. immediately, but I stood firm, and they finally relented.

Then we got a glimmer of hopeful news: On Sunday, the doctors would know a lot more about Joan’s prognosis. They were going to start bringing her out of the medically induced coma to see if there was brain damage. Kelly, George, and I were still talking and crying together every day, and I was upset when they didn’t latch on to this new development with the same optimism I did. “Guys, keep praying. Keep visualizing her waking up,” I urged. I was on my knees praying for Joan every night before bed, and I convinced myself that Sunday was going to bring us the miracle we all wanted so badly.

On Sunday, E! called and told me I had to be on set in L.A. the next day.

“That doesn’t make sense!” I protested. “I’m an hour from New York, where Joan is. I should report from there.”

“No,” I was told. “There may not be a good outcome and if she gets worse, we want our main anchor in L.A. fronting the story. We want you on set in L.A.” They wanted the gravitas our big, glossy set would convey.

I dug in my heels again. “I have to go see Joan and Melissa,” I insisted.

“This is how it’s going to work—” one of the executives started to argue.

“No!
This
is how it’s going to work,” I yelled back. “I am going to New York. I’m not coming back to L.A. You can deal with your damn L.A. set and I will report from New York, where I am headed to see my friends Joan and Melissa!” Click.

E! then appealed to my agent and manager to secretly have Bill convince me to go to L.A. Pam didn’t even bother—she knew Bill would never do that—and just told them he’d said no. The E! executives were getting nastier, she added.

“Tell them they can fire me,” I said.

“You know, they really can fire you,” Pam reminded me. “Technically you’re not performing your duties.”

E! had another idea. It was Fashion Week in New York, and I had already been scheduled to go for months. I assumed they were pulling all coverage out of Fashion Week, but I was wrong. The network said they were still moving forward with shooting the two
Fashion Police
specials, obviously without Joan. My fingers couldn’t dial Kelly and George quickly enough. Thankfully, the three of us banded together. We weren’t doing
Fashion Police
without its star. The network ended up changing the name of the broadcast from
Fashion Police
to
E! from Fashion Week
and recasting it with the always camera-ready Kimora Simmons.

After refusing to go to L.A., I went to New York to see Melissa and report for E! There were reports that Joan had been moved out of the ICU and was in stable condition.

“Happy to hear things are looking up, even though there’s a long recovery,” I texted Melissa on my way. “Praying every day.”

“Keep praying,” she texted back. “Please come by the hospital and say hi. I need it.” Her assistant later reached out and said Melissa wanted me to come by the hospital at nine that night. George was in town, so I called him. “They’re making me go to the
Fashion Police
Fashion Week party,” he told me miserably. I had refused to go and kept telling the producers how disrespectful it was not to cancel the party immediately. The network felt it was too late to call it off and maintained there was still hope Joan was going to come out of this.

“Just go for five minutes and come back out,” I advised George. “Don’t take pictures or smile for them.” He slipped away from the event and came to fetch me at my hotel to go see Joan. When I got into the car, I didn’t expect to see him crying hysterically.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“I don’t think it’s good, G,” he said.

When we got there, Melissa walked out of her mother’s room
and hugged us. I felt embarrassed that she was the one comforting us, but she was her mother’s daughter through and through, and Joan never liked unhappy people: it was her job, and her joy, to make them feel good.

“In the morning we’re taking her off the ventilator,” Melissa said bravely.

What? Wow, this is it,
I thought,
I’m here to say good-bye.

George went in first. I followed Melissa into another room to sit. They’d been there for a week, but Melissa was still so strong. Everything that came out of her mouth was kind, and honest, and sure. She was so calm under unbearable pressure. Then it was my turn to go see Joan.

“Are you coming with me?” I asked Melissa.

“No,” she said gently. “You go.”

“I’ll be really quick and respectful of your time,” I promised as she left me at the door.

Melissa turned around.

“No, you take as long as you want in there,” she urged me. “Talk to her, hold her hand. My mom would love it.”

Melissa had taken exquisite care to make sure her mother was comfortable. The room was filled with beautiful flowers and thoughtful decorative details by Preston Bailey, the celebrity event planner who had designed Melissa’s wedding and had become a close family friend. Joan lay beneath her favorite faux-mink blanket. I sat in a chair next to her and reached under the covers to pull out her hand and hold it in mine.