Last week in London, the skies turned red with blood and the streets bloated with the stench of burning fashion magazines and smashed perfume atomizers. Agents, replacing their couture with ashes and sackcloth, dashed child Gap models and precocious television stars from the tops of buildings, while supermodels howled at the moon and the CK1 billboard in Piccadilly Circus cried tears of blood. (Meanwhile, in New York, fabulons raised an eyebrow, paused for reflection, and then returned to their morning cappuccino and grapefruit halves.) The world readied for the apocalypse as Stonehenge split asunder, the Red Sea parted then feathered, and Bryan Adams recorded a techno-dance hit.

All at the announcement that Hugh Grant and Liz Hurley, after thirteen long years of tabloid-stealing romance, had actually broken up. Now, their relationship was certainly not based on a foundation of devotion and monogamy -- anyone remember Divine Brown? -- which is precisely why this news hit the worldwide media with the force of an unworldly tsunami or an Oprah's Book Club selection. Couldn't these two beautiful people simply coast along in their lax, casual affair a bit longer for the cameras? Why break up now?

Sources around the couple claim this is merely "a trial separation" and that the two are still close friends. In the past several months, both have been linked briefly with other people, and perhaps the constant scrutiny of the paparazzi -- finding infidelity anytime Liz was casually with another man and Hugh with another woman -- finally took its toll. Most recently, Hugh has been reportedly cozy with young London book editor Zoe Manzi; he claims there's a friendship there but no love connection. Meanwhile, Liz has been conspicuously palling around with billionaire Ted Forstmann. Again, Grant has claimed those two are merely friends. (Still, I could never trust anybody who could actually buy me.)

Of course, there may be a third person who's coming between the camera-ready couple, namely Hugh's mum, Fynvola Grant. (Doesn't her name look like a typo?) According to the Daily News, she has become very ill from a bout with cancer, and Hugh wanted to devote more time to her instead of jet-setting with his glamour girl. And it doesn't help that ol' Fyn has reportedly never really liked Liz. (Must have some extremely high standards, I guess.) As we know, English lads are always tied to their mum's apron strings; heck, you could say the same thing about American boys and their mums, er, mommies.

So how will this affect the realm of the fabulous? Suddenly, I suspect, Liz will be getting phone calls from young stars from every walk of entertainment life while Hugh will retreat a bit into the private sector. (Flashbulbs and red carpets were always more Liz's thing.) The British press will now focus even more attention on boring faux-royal couple Posh Spice and David Beckham, while we Americans will wonder if the breakup will in any way affect the box office gross of the Grant vehicle "Small Time Crooks." And just as in any tragedy, life goes on...

The Non-Commitments

Not only is Hugh Grant finding company in loneliness and isolation this week; a host of megastars seem to be proclaiming their distance from commitment. George Clooney, fresh and sobered up from his debauched single spree in Cannes, proclaims in the new issue of Playboy (I get it for the articles, no really, I actually do) that he plans neither to marry nor to have children ever. He believes the only reason to get married is to sire tots and he has no interest whatsoever in spreading the Clooney genetic material to another generation. Which means that Nicole Kidman and Michelle Pfeiffer, who each bet the star $10,000 that he'd be a dad by age 40, will have to forgo that shopping spree, since George is 39 and clearly not daddy material.

Also shunning the euphoria of wedded bliss is my Midwestern homie Brad Pitt, who is actively ignoring the possibility of near-future nuptials with Jennifer Aniston. Despite Jenny's efforts, Brad has been telling cast members of his latest film "The Mexican" -- a cast that includes legendary altar-bolter Julia Roberts -- that Jenny's been "hassling" him on the issue and that he has no intentions of marriage. Brad, this kind of talk is hardly what we want drifting back to Jenny's ears, is it? Unless some serious couple counseling is approached soon, expect the sun to set on these two pretty folks very soon...

Kathy/Cathy

Michael Douglas and Catherine Zeta-Jones have been remarkably low key recently, haven't they? No rumors of Majorca or drug busts involving Mike's children; why, you'd think the duo were actually enjoying their private life! Yet, even as a potentially beautiful offspring cooks in Cathy's Easy Bake oven, Hollywood is already buzzing about a new project involving the two lovestruck stars, namely a return to the "Romancing The Stone" franchise that make Douglas a believable action star. Sources say a third film, following the sequel "Jewel In The Nile," is being prepped, with Kathleen Turner, who's been focused on stage work like "The Graduate" and the Broadway-bound "Tallulah," being ousted and replaced by Zeta-Jones. Could be a fun idea, except the world can hardly believe Mike and Cathy are a couple in real life; can we believe them in a movie, and in an exotic rain forest to boot?

Quote Of The Week

"Love is like a rose, and I'm getting thorny!"
-- Blurted out by a potential suitor of model Kylie Bax as she walked by him at a floral-themed GQ party at Lotus last Tuesday. Not surprisingly, the model did not turn her head.

Seen!

--And you thought I only covered hip, downtown events! But there I was at the launch party for Maximum Golf magazine, a new extreme golfing publication with the sensibility of Maxim and the old Details. In addition to mingling with dozens of sporting stars whose names escape me -- they were all well-dressed, tall, and broadshouldered -- I also spotted upon the celebrity putting green Donald Trump (fastened to his trophy girlfriend Melania Knauss) and Maury Povich (sans Connie Chung). The event was hosted by Issac Hayes, who was unfamiliar to a shameless, young companion of mine. "He's Chef," I explained, drowned out by the crowd. "He's Shaft?" repeated my young friend, to which I replied, "Uh, sort of."

--Just how far has "Xanadu" sensation Olivia Newton-John fallen? So far that she was actually seen falling upon the floor of swanky nightspot, Rue 57. The "Physical" songstress then picked up her humiliated self and ran to a bathroom, where an attendant boldly asked for her autograph. On what? A paper towel?

--Would Notorious B.I.G. please die already? His birthday was celebrated at Aria last week, hosted by Puffy Daddums (sans Jenny Lopez) in lieu of the birthday boy's nonappearance. There was even a cake with candles, but when no otherworldly wind came to blow them out, they were extinguished by helpful blows from Jay-Z and Li'l Kim.

--The birthday of a living entertainer -- namely George Clooney's legendary aunt-slash-paper towel shiller Rosemary Clooney -- was celebrated on the Upper West Side last week at Patsy's, around the former favorite table of Frank Sinatra. Toasting Rosey were Helen Gurley Brown, Al Pacino, Beverly D'Angelo, and a telegram from Rudy Guiliani. George, however, was nowhere to be found. (I'm sure he called to wish her well.)

--Across town, Eminem celebrated the release of his naughty new "The Marshall Mathers" CD with a party at One 51 that included disturbing blowup dolls of 'N-Sync, the Backstreet Boys, and Christina Aguilera as decoration, hung in effigy apparently, and manifesting the Em's opinion of the teen stars. (I'm not sure why he hates them so much; from glancing at the crowd at his CD signing in Times Square last week, I'd say he and the teen popstars share most of the same fans!) The Eminem-approved revels included Missy Elliot, Aaliyah, Maxwell, and Denzel Washington.

-- Speaking of Aguilera, some Seventeen Magazine sources say the young pop queen stuffs her face with food. The New York Post reports that during a nine hour photo shoot for the magazine, the micro-diva wolfed down plus-sized meals from McDonalds and Wendy's, not to mention two slices of pizza and a cafe mocha from Starbucks while claiming that she thought that working in a fast food drive-thru sounded like a "cool job." As a former member of the fast food drive-thru workforce, I would like to remind Christy that drive-thru employees don't have make-up people and personal assistants; they get fat from just looking at greasy french fries and burgers much less eating them. I recommend she stay on the stage unless she wants to challenge Mama Cass Elliot in the pantheons of rock icons.

--I seriously just watched six straight hours of "Sex And The City" this weekend, so the following sighting thrills me to no end: planted at the bar at restaurant 212 last week was none other than Mr. Big himself, Chris Noth, actually enjoying a cocktail called the "Sex And the City."

Next week, the legacy of the Hugh/Liz split continues as I attempt bravely to propose some dating options for these two lonely hearts. That's right, tune in next week for Gregoire: Celebrity Matchmaker!

Until I'm horribly disparaged in a mocking lyric of an Eminem song,

Gregoire

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