The Pre-Grammy Conversation
It’s February 7th, and Keith walks out of his bedroom at NK’s Darling Point pile, with his bags packed.
NK: What are you doing?
Keith: Hey baby…I was just finishing up packing. Are you ready yet?
NK: Ready for what?
Keith: It’s time to get going …either today or tomorrow … to the Grammy’s, baby. They’re a couple of days from now and I’m up for an award.
NK: An award…what for? Did you get nominated for the Umbrella song…I love that song.
Keith: No baby…remember? For Stupid Boy….best country male performance.
NK: Country…God, that makes me queasy.
Keith: I know you don’t really like my music, Sweetheart, but it’s something I’m proud of. I thought you said you’d come over, we’d go to the Grammy’s, and then you’d spend a few days on the road with me before the Oscars.
NK: Well, I’ve changed my mind.
Keith: We could see the kids. I was talking to Connor and he’d love to go Go-carting.
Keith: Connor…your son.
NK: I talked to Casper on the webcam last night … and he said nothing about Go-carting. And Ivanka wasn’t even at home to talk to me. I can’t believe that child was so inconsiderate as to be out when I called by webcam. Does she think I have nothing but time?
Keith: Well to be fair, baby, she didn’t know you were going to try to call.
NK: Whatever…I’m still not going.
Keith: Aww…baby. Please come with me. It’s important to me.
NK: Surely you’re kidding? There’s nothing over there for me til the Oscars at the end of the month. I have shopping to do HERE. I have more beige baby outfits to get. Surely you don’t think I plan to fly all the way over there just to hold your freaking hand at a music awards show. It’s absurd. I went to that pathetic country award show last fall and was just totally embarrassed with all those hicks.
Keith: But Nic, I’ve gone out to all the events you and Wendy wanted me to. I put those stupid white tennis clothes on … I looked like a freak.
NK: You looked like a complete dork. But it wasn’t about you.
Keith: And we flew all the way to Melbourne to watch 20 minutes of a tennis match…20 minutes.
NK: Someone in the crowd LOOKED at me…right in the eyes. I’m pregnant now. Surely you don’t think I should put up with that kind of impudence in my delicate condition.
Keith: Nic…I really want to go to the Grammy’s. It’s my thing. This is about music…my music.
NK: It WAS your thing. I’m your thing now. I’m your baby mama.
Keith: Look … I know you’re pregnant and if it’s my baby, I’m sticking this out…but I still want to be involved in my music … please baby.
NK: You are serious, aren’t you? You think I should put my health and the health of this baby in jeopardy for you?
Keith: Of course not … never. But you exercise like crazy. Flying in your private jet isn’t going to put this baby in harms way.
NK: Of course I exercise…I can’t afford to gain any weight. The only weight I am planning to gain is for these puppies (opens her shirt and squeezes her boobs together)…I should have held off on the implants and just gotten knocked up. This way, they are both getting bigger…not just the right one.
Keith: I told you not to do it…the implants never worked out, Nic. OK…you’re exercising at least 3 hours a day plus doing yoga. You’re going out day in and day out, trying to get the paparazzi to take your picture. They run when they see you coming now. You’ve flown several times in your private jet. I don’t think it’s a hazard for you to fly over to the US with me...honestly, the doctor said it was fine.
NK: Look…shut the f*ck up and respect me. I’m the mother of your child.
Keith: I still can’t figure that out. You say you got pregnant in October, but I don’t remember us having (shivers and makes a face) sex for months and months.
NK: Who said it was conceived that way? I don’t need sex… I needed your man juice. You made that deposit earlier this year…and the rest, as you might say, is history.
Keith: So you went ahead with fertility treatments without telling me.
NK: Why do you think you are entitled to know? Now get the nail polish out.
Keith: No…please…not that. God…not that. (Keith gets pale and sweaty)
NK: Yes…it’s time. (she pulls her sweaty slippers off and flops her size 11 ½'s up on the bedside table.)
Keith: Please Nic…please…not the toe nails.
NK: Get to it. And get the Grammy’s out of your empty head.
Keith: OK…as long as I get to keep my boat. I love my boat. (head hanging, shaking the polish bottle)
NK: Good … get to it. The boat is yours…as long as you play nice. (Keith makes a face, as the odor of her feet wafts up filling his nose)
Keith: Yes .. baby…I’ve chosen a distinctive tan color today…it’s a nice change from the usual shade of beige that you love.
NK: That’s just great…tan. I bet I have a new dress I can wear to the Oscars to match a nice tan toe nail varnish. And when you’re finished, you can get my pubic wig out and get it ready. (Keith shivers again but doesn’t miss a stroke)