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Jumping Jack Cash

You can’t always get what you want, but Jerry Hall reportedly got what she needed in her split from Mick


Sometimes paradise is not all it appears to be. On July 11, Jerry Hall frolicked on a sunny Saint-Tropez beach with James, 13, Georgia, 7, and Gabriel, 19 months, three of her four children with Mick Jagger (Elizabeth Scarlett, 15, was not in sight, although she had met her mother in France two days before). “Jerry wore a cowboy hat to give them a few giggles,” says an observer on the beach. “But when she was alone, she looked tense. I saw her try to go to sleep, but she would just toss and turn as if she could get no rest.”

Getting satisfaction is another matter. On July 9, Hall, 43, agreed to an annulment from her famously unfaithful partner, who turns 56 on July 26, and who will reportedly pay her $15 million and allow her to keep their $8 million, 26-room London mansion.

Hall, who became involved with Jagger in 1977, capitulated to his claim that their 1990 Hindu wedding on Bali was invalid due to incomplete paperwork, thereby avoiding a messy divorce. “She’s very happy,” insists a friend. Hall began divorce proceedings against Jagger in January, shortly after unwed Brazilian lingerie model Luciana Morad, 29, claimed to be carrying his child.

In fact, Hall, who had reportedly requested a $50 million chunk of Jagger’s estimated $230 million, did about as well as British precedent allows—the kingdom’s top divorce reward was $16 million. She reportedly has $40 million and continues to earn income from her modeling.

Jagger, meanwhile, has his own reasons to lose sleep. According to a source close to Morad, he recently had a blood test to determine if he’s indeed the father of her now 2-month-old son, whom she named Lucas Jagger. “If the test is positive, and he doesn’t agree to a settlement she thinks is fair,” says the source, “she’ll take him to court.”

Uneasy Rider

It was scary-funny when Jack Nicholson took a golf club to the car of a motorist who was bothering him back in 1994. Things weren’t at all humorous in the early morning hours of July 8, when Nicholson, 62, accompanied by an unidentified 29-year-old female, attempted to make a left turn in the Hollywood Hills and crashed his black 1999 Mercedes into an oncoming 1999 BMW driven by Attila Hegedus, 24. Remarkably, although both cars were nearly totaled, no one involved—Hegedus also had a passenger—was seriously injured. According to police reports, officers at the scene saw no reason to test either driver’s alcohol level. “The only time police do that is when there are symptoms or signs that a person might be driving under the influence,” says LAPD Officer Charlotte Broughton. Says department spokesman Mike Partaine: “There was no driving under the influence. Primary cause was an unsafe left turn [by Nicholson’s car] and excessive speed on the part of the other driver. Basically, it was a simple accident.” Police also dismissed a report in Britain’s Daily Mirror that they had provided Nicholson with preferential treatment by offering him a ride home. “He lives a few blocks away, that’s all,” says Broughton. “That’s just a courtesy they offered him.”

Odor Ads: A Fragrant Violation of Decency?

Subtle, or even particularly tasteful, they’re not. Candie’s, the folks who brought you Jenny McCarthy sitting on a toilet to sell shoes, is at it again, this time with a TV ad pitching the company’s new unisex fragrance. The “Anywhere You Dare” campaign, rejected by the WB network and New York affiliates of ABC and NBC, features a writhing, black-lingerie-clad Alyssa Milano and a goateed stud-muffin. Two print ads—one shows the man perfuming Milano’s cleavage, the other presents her standing before a medicine cabinet stocked with perfume and condoms—have also been turned down by youth-oriented magazines Seventeen and TEEN PEOPLE (a sister publication of PEOPLE). Explaining the WB’s position, a spokesperson said the network does not accept condom advertising and was put off by “the overt sexual innuendo and the large array of condoms displayed.” Pure hypocrisy, sniffs Candie’s marketing man David Conn, noting that Milano stars in one of the network’s biggest hits, Charmed. “Many of the WB shows are very suggestive in nature,” he says. “There’s a double standard.”

Dr. Love to the Rescue

It wasn’t brain surgery, but Courtney Love, touring Canada with her band Hole, knew first aid July 8 when she came upon three accident victims on a highway near Calgary, Alta. Clad in pajamas, Love took Chris Rogers, 26, his wife, Darlene, 28, and Darlene’s mother, Diana Covill, to the band’s bus, checked for bruises, dispensed bandages and offered hot tea. A regular Florence Nightingale? “She was extremely helpful,” Royal Canadian Mounted Policeman Daryl Bedard told the Calgary Herald. Love invited the family to a concert, but they did not accept immediately. Said a Love assistant: “They’re into gospel music.”

He’s Got the Beat

There will be some moderating of the Elton John lifestyle, thanks to a pacemaker installed July 9 at London’s Wellington Hospital. “I can’t do the limbo,” John, 52, told Britain’s Mail on Sunday. “I can’t do the Macarena.” At least not for a few weeks. “Sir Elton will need to rest for about a month to allow the wires attached to the pacemaker to become embedded inside his heart,” says John Barrett, Wellington’s chief cardiac nurse. Meanwhile, John says that he feels fine. “I’m a bit stiff, a bit sore, but everything went really well [in surgery],” he told reporters. “The only long-term effect is that I have to carry a card explaining why I set off alarms when I walkthrough airport security.” His show will go on—concerts canceled at Leeds Castle in Maidstone, Kent, and the Harewood House, a stately home in Leeds, earlier this month due to his dizzy spells have been rescheduled for later this summer—with the help of strong family genes. John’s grandmother had a similar operation in her seventies, the pop star noted, “and she was gardening three or four days later.”

Hello Once More, Newman

It takes a special kind of star to establish an identity with only one name. Think of Cher. Madonna. Or…Newman! The mendacious mailman continues to torment Jerry in reruns of Seinfeld, while Wayne Knight, Newman’s alter ego, has moved on to the sitcom Third Rock from the Sun. Now Knight is spending the summer through Aug. 8 in the Broadway hit Art, where, from his dressing room at Manhattan’s Royale Theater, he spoke with Scoop of fans, fame, and yada, yada, yada.

Do Seinfeld fans still dog you on the street?

Well, I’ve been able to go back to taking the subway. But yes, people still come up to me and want to talk about Seinfeld.

What do they say?

They want to say it, “Hello, Newman” [Jerry Seinfeld’s strained greeting for Knight’s character]. You see some people trying to refrain from doing it, and they’re harming themselves.

Do they confuse you with other characters?

I’m following George Wendt in Art, so I don’t know if maybe you mean Norm [Wendt’s character from Cheers]. Someone yelled at me as I’m walking down the street, “Norman! Norman! Norman!” I don’t mean to be insulting, but I don’t even want to turn around if you’re yelling, “Newman!”

Will the Seinfeld cast members remain friends?

We’re friends, but it wasn’t like after every show everyone went out and hung out every week. I think [the fans] want to keep a world of these characters going in their heads, [hoping] to find them all one day in a diner, sitting there having a meat loaf sandwich. That’s probably not going to happen.

Do you miss the show?

No. Of course there are things you miss about doing it. There were very funny scripts and great guest casts, and you were always in good hands, and you knew you were doing something that was really top drawer.

Did the show end at the right moment?

The creative process of a show can’t endure eternally. Characters either have to grow up, change or do the same things over and over. So when you reach that wall, you should leave. Jerry was right in ending it when he did.



As sassy Fran Fine, Fran Drescher married the boss and presumably lives happily ever after now that her television series The Nanny has ended. Off-camera it’s another story. Drescher separated from her husband, producer Peter Marc Jacobsen, in 1996, reconciled in 1998, then split again. Now the estranged couple are selling their nearly 1,500-square-foot home, a 1923 Spanish-style residence surrounded by tropical plants in Los Angeles’s Hancock Park. The asking price is $589,000. For the money you get three bedrooms, a country kitchen and two bathrooms with steam showers and vanity mirrors. Not bad for a nanny—or the woman who played one on TV.