Jennifer Aniston Has Nothing to Hide
If we’re being literal, the hills above western Los Angeles are actually the only place where Jennifer Aniston is the girl next door. That’s what people called her for a long time. The girl next door, which is a ’90s euphemism that means she’s unintimidating, approachable. But here, along avenues of impermeable iron gates, among houses hidden behind hedges grown to make sure you know your place, the vibe is pretty intimidating. To live here, one assumes, you have to have achieved a certain kind of Olympian status, like having been among the most beloved figures in American pop culture for 30 years.
This is what I’m thinking when the gates to her house swing open and I enter onto a pea stone car park. Pruned trees, gurgling fountains, 500-foot-tall front doors. Then suddenly, there’s a lot of barking and Aniston’s familiar voice, somewhere inside, reprimanding her dogs. When she opens the door — ripped jeans, tank top, barefoot — Aniston looks like she could be the owner’s out-of-town friend crashing here for a few days.
She welcomes me into the house, which looks like a comfortable art gallery and smells like a box of new shoes transported in a Louis Vuitton steamer trunk full of gardenias. “Excuse my frazzledness,” she says, seeming pretty unfrazzled, as we walk into her kitchen. “I just had a whole thing happen at work.” She’s in the middle of filming the third season of The Morning Show. “I just [found out I] have a few pages to learn of a huge interview scene.”
“Our interview can be a dry run,” I propose.
“Yes, this will be my dry — exactly. That’s exactly right.” Aniston at her most Aniston. It’s that thing she does. She murmur repeats — part bumbling professor, part conspiratorial best friend.
Immediately, she’s welcoming: “Can I make you a shake? I’m having a shake.” I am not about to refuse a homemade shake from Jennifer Aniston. Sure. Great.
“I want to introduce you to my dogs.” She opens the door to where they’ve been relegated. “Clyde is amazing, but Chesterfield gets barky. You have to ignore him. Even if he licks your hand and you’re like, ‘Oh, there’s my in,’ he will jump and it seems scary.” I do as I’m told: aloof and indifferent. I could be a French waiter.
“Okay, I’m making us a shake. Here we go.” I lean against her kitchen island and watch as Aniston begins to assemble the ingredients. Back and forth to the refrigerator, in and out of cabinets, collecting little containers of powders and a thing of nuts and then ground-up some- things and there’s a banana and then shavings of something elses. Am I okay with chocolate-flavored things? “Yep, but I’m a vegetarian so just no bacon, please.”
“Ha! I’m not going to put the bacon in! I’ll leave out the bacon. I’ll leave out the bacon.” Murmur, repeat, perfect timing.“Let me blend this. Hold on.” She blends. Chesterfield — a big white husky? shepherd? lab mix? — starts barking. She pours two tall glasses of smoothie. “Whoa, I hope you like sweet things,” she says. “Cheers.”
We move to the living room — and step into two sides of Jennifer Aniston. There’s a wall of artwork and floor-to-ceiling windows. But there are also dog beds, a giant sofa with a slipcover, and a really casual vibe. She’s not a coaster person. Aniston sits on the floor and Chesterfield jumps on the couch next to me.
Earlier I was texting a journalist friend of mine. I told him I was interviewing Aniston and I asked him to give me smart things to say. “One thought is this,” he texted. “No one’s ever going to be famous the way she is. That kind of mass-fame phenomenon burning so bright for so long, it’s just not achievable today. She’s like a silent-film star among a generation of TikTok dipshits.”
I read her the text. “Whoa. Oh, that just gave me chills,” she says. “I’m a little choked up. I feel like it’s dying. There are no more movie stars. There’s no more glamour. Even the Oscar parties used to be so fun….”
There’s something that’s distracting me. Yes, I do have the feeling that whenever Jennifer Aniston fades into posterity (something that doesn’t seem imminent; she has two new movies coming out, and the third season of The Morning Show), the station of movie star will be diminished. But it’s not that. It’s her hair. Her hair is the second most famous thing in this house. You could say her hair was the second most famous thing on Friends. I can see the nuances, the parts of each strand that change to gold as she moves her head. It’s a little unsettling. Like seeing your own reflection in Tom Cruise’s aviators.
About a year ago, Aniston launched a hair-care line, LolaVie, with a simple and ambitious mission: “Create a product that is good for the environment, good for our hair, take out all the crappy chemicals, and have it perform,” says Aniston.
Then she says, “I hate social media.” This is unexpected. What do you mean? “I’m not good at it.” This seems…counterintuitive. As you may be aware, about three years ago, Aniston joined Instagram. She opened an account, posted a photo of the cast of Friends, and in the following hours, the platform rushed to accommodate so many thousands of Jennifer Aniston followers that it crashed. Is that what she means by not being good at it? Like, is it hard because you’re too popular? Like in a job interview when they ask you your biggest weakness and you say I guess I work too hard sometimes?
“It’s torture for me. The reason I went on Instagram was to launch this line,” she explains. “Then the pandemic hit and we didn’t launch. So I was just stuck with being on Instagram. It doesn’t come naturally.”
I ask her about this. How, to people like us, who came of age before InstaChat and SnapTube and FaceTik, social media can seem unnecessarily punitive, like checking in with the meanest girl from high school every 10 minutes to confirm you’re still a loser.
“I’m really happy that we got to experience growing up, being a teenager, being in our 20s without this social media aspect,” she says. “Look, the internet, great intentions, right? Connect people socially, social networking. It goes back to how young girls feel about themselves, compare and despair.
“I feel the best in who I am today, better than I ever did in my 20s or 30s even, or my mid-40s. We needed to stop saying bad shit to ourselves,” says Aniston, scolding her future self: “You’re going to be 65 one day and think, I looked fucking great at 53.” Something in her tone makes me think that this isn’t a typical “I’m proud of my wrinkles and gray hair” platitude. This goes deeper.
“I would say my late 30s, 40s, I’d gone through really hard shit, and if it wasn’t for going through that, I would’ve never become who I was meant to be,” she says. “That’s why I have such gratitude for all those shitty things. Otherwise, I would’ve been stuck being this person that was so fearful, so nervous, so unsure of who they were.” She finishes her smoothie and reaches out to Chesterfield. “And now, I don’t fucking care.”
Maybe I look confused. She explains.
“I was trying to get pregnant. It was a challenging road for me, the baby-making road,” says Aniston, of a period several years ago.
On the scale of dumb things to say, this is the moment when I really hit it out of the park. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah, nobody does,” she replies graciously. “All the years and years and years of speculation… It was really hard. I was going through IVF, drinking Chinese teas, you name it. I was throwing everything at it. I would’ve given anything if someone had said to me, ‘Freeze your eggs. Do yourself a favor.’ You just don’t think it. So here I am today. The ship has sailed.”
We sit quietly for a minute, maybe sad for all the ships that have ever sailed. I almost want to apologize to Aniston for being a journalist. This doesn’t feel like any of my business.
“I have zero regrets,” she says. “I actually feel a little relief now because there is no more, ‘Can I? Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.’ I don’t have to think about that anymore.”
Back then — and for years — there were headlines swirling through pop culture that Aniston wouldn’t have kids. That she wasn’t interested or she just wanted to be a star or whatever idea was selling that week.
Adding to the personal pain of what she went through was the “narrative that I was just selfish,” she says. “I just cared about my career. And God forbid a woman is successful and doesn’t have a child. And the reason my husband left me, why we broke up and ended our marriage, was because I wouldn’t give him a kid. It was absolute lies. I don’t have anything to hide at this point.”
I have flashes of every magazine rack, every airport newsstand. Those “Jen Has a Baby Bump!” or equivalent headlines were everywhere (including Allure). We all felt entitled to the cellular happenings inside her uterus. We consumed those headlines, then dropped them in the trash and got back to our lives. But she couldn’t.
“I got so frustrated. Hence that op-ed I wrote [for The Huffington Post in 2016, slamming the media for its obsession with her being pregnant and its treatment of women, generally]. I was like, ‘I’ve just got to write this because it’s so maddening and I’m not superhuman to the point where I can’t let it penetrate and hurt.’”
Chesterfield is back on the couch, trying to curl up on my leg.
“I think my mom’s divorce really screwed her up,” Aniston says when I ask her about growing up. “Back in that generation it wasn’t like, ‘Go to therapy, talk to somebody. Why don’t you start microdosing?’ You’re going through life and picking up your child with tears on your face and you don’t have any help.”
Chesterfield nudges deeper onto my lap. Aniston pulls him off. “Come here, baby,” she says. “I know you want to, but you just can’t lick people.” It’s one thing to be a dog person, but Aniston is next level.
“I forgave my mom,” she continues, getting back to her human family. “I forgave my father. I’ve forgiven my family.” (Aniston was estranged from her mother for years.)
Who among us hasn’t tried — successfully or not — to forgive our family? You in the back, put your hand down. You’re lying to yourself. Families are things to be forgiven.
“It’s important,” she says. “It’s toxic to have that resentment, that anger. I learned that by watching my mom never let go of it. I remember saying, ‘Thank you for showing me what never to be.’ So that’s what I mean about taking the darker things that happen in our lives, the not-so-happy moments, and trying to find places to honor them because of what they have given to us.”
One of the things her parents’ divorce gave her was motivation to leave. “My house was not a fun house to live in,” she says, about her family’s apartment in New York City. “I was thrilled to get out.”
After graduating from LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts in New York City, Aniston worked as a waitress at Jackson Hole diner on the Upper West Side, and at an ice cream place in Lincoln Center. (“I’d make a shake and if there was leftover…? I finished it. Why waste this? I was rounder then,” she says, arching her eyebrow.) Eventually, “I moved to California.” She arrived in Los Angeles “the summer of 1989, which was yesterday,” she says. “I walked into a party in Laurel Canyon. This girl says, ‘Come with us. We’re doing a circle.’ I was like, ‘What’s a circle?’ It was all women and they saged you before you went in. Then a talking stick, I’m sure with feathers on it. The women call in the four directions, and I’m like, ‘What the fuck is going on? Am I in a cult?’ Hours later, woman after woman, just speaking, sharing thoughts and fears, worries. How incredible women are for each other. That’s how I got into that world, which I guess would be called Woo Woo. It was very Woo Woo.”
The women of the Woo Woo circle remain her closest friends. She met the woman who would become her producing partner that night. All around Aniston’s house are framed photos of these women — hiking, traveling, smiling, sharing their lives, this close-knit coven of old friends. Students of Friends (and whatever you think of them, they are legion — just witness the cultural juggernaut that was the Friends reunion last year) will know that the show’s premise was about that time in life when friends are family. Aniston is a case of life imitating art.
“I remember in high school doing a Chekhov play,” she says. “It wasn’t funny, and I was making it funny. And my teacher said, ‘Why don’t you just be funny because you have it in you?’ And I was like, ‘How dare you? I’m a dramatic actress!’ Turns out, it was the thing that saved my life, comedy. It was a salve to make people laugh.”
“There are people who say that watching Friends has saved them during cancer diagnosis, or so many people with just so much gratitude for a little show,” she says, her eyes glassy with tears. “We really loved each other and we took care of each other. I don’t know why it still resonates; there are no iPhones. It’s just people talking to each other. Nobody talks to each other anymore.”
“It would be wonderful to come home and fall into somebody’s arms and say, ‘That was a tough day.’”
Well, we’ve come this far. “Would you ever get married again?”
“Never say never, but I don’t have any interest,” she says. “I’d love a relationship. Who knows? There are moments I want to just crawl up in a ball and say, ‘I need support.’ It would be wonderful to come home and fall into somebody’s arms and say, ‘That was a tough day.’”
Smoothies long gone, Aniston gives me a tour of the house. Imagine soaring views and spiritual shrines tucked into corners. We walk into the dining room with its majestic table, heavy art books, charcoal walls. A few paint swatches are affixed to the wall. All in identical shades of charcoal. I don’t get it.
“You can’t see the difference?” she says. You’d think I just told her how much I love the emperor’s splendid new clothing. “Really? You can’t see how blue this one is?” This is paint swatch gaslighting. Paintswatching.
“I would love to be an interior designer. I love walking into a house that’s being torn apart and finding ways to put it back together,” she tells me, escorting us into her own personal metaphor.
“I feel like I’m coming through a period that was challenging and coming back into the light,” she says. “I have had to do personal work that was long overdue, parts of me that hadn’t healed from the time I was a little kid. I’m a very independent person. Intimacy has always been a little here,” she extends her hand an arm’s length in front of her. “I’ve realized you will always be working on stuff. I am a constant work in progress. Thank God. How uninteresting would life be if we all achieved enlightenment and that was it?”
Coming out on the other side is what she calls “a little mosaic. It gets blown apart and then somehow gets put back together into this beautiful mosaic.”
I think of all the gossip and schadenfreude, all the hysterical tabloid exclamation points, the clickbait. I think of all the crap the world has thrown at Aniston — and I feel like she must have a really good therapist if she can find a “beautiful mosaic” anywhere in it. But maybe that’s the point. We all break. Then the benevolent forces of the universe sweep in and collect our broken parts, our flaws and jagged edges, and turn them into works of art. Maybe that’s why our 40s feel more powerful than our 20s: The universe needs time to assemble our mosaics.
“I didn’t want to partner with someone until some of that work was done. It wouldn’t be fair,” she says. “I don’t want to move into a house when there are no walls.”
“You felt like you had no walls?”
“It was terrible,” she says.
We walk outside. Aniston’s backyard is a small botanical garden with olive trees, a dusty path to the chicken coop, and a feeling of total privacy. Across the yard from the main house is a small cottage that’s about 90 percent windows. “Welcome to the Babe Cave,” she says. “This was Justin’s office.” (Aniston and her ex-husband Justin Theroux split up in 2017.) “You can imagine he likes things black and dark.” After he moved out, “I lightened it up, stripped it all. He came over [the other day] and was like, ‘What the fuck did you do?’ I said, ‘I brought the light back in, buddy.’”
The view, the furniture, the palpable calm — you could write the story of your life in a room like this.
“I’m going to do that one day,” she says. “I’m going to stop saying, ‘I can’t write.’” We walk back out to the garden. “I’ve spent so many years protecting my story about IVF. I’m so protective of these parts because I feel like there’s so little that I get to keep to myself. The [world] creates narratives that aren’t true, so I might as well tell the truth. I feel like I’m coming out of hibernation. I don’t have anything to hide.”
“If you were writing the story of your life,” I ask, “what would you call this chapter?”
“What would you call this chapter?” Murmur, repeats. We look out at Los Angeles, blurry in the late afternoon smog.
She smiles. She’s got it. “Phoenix Rising.”
The top 10 women celebrity crushes we all have
Look, we all know we are more interested in looking at female celebrities than male ones (except you Ryan, calm down). Here are the top lady crushes most women have:
10. Emma Stone
Emma Stone burst onto our radars as the quirky, offbeat comedy star with a difference. Yes, there’s no denying that she’s beautiful but she’s also a little different, funny and not your typical Hollywood starlet. They say you can’t have it all…
9. Olivia Wilde
Not just a pretty face, Olivia took the stage name Wilde after the one and only Oscar, a testament to her brains too, perhaps? No, mainly because her real name is Olivia Cockburn. No, it is. Not only does she act, she also models, writes, acts and directs. Oh and she just did a shoot with Glamour where she showed just how beautiful is is to be a breastfeeding mum. Swoon.
8. Miranda Kerr
Miranda started out as a Victoria’s Secret model (no surprise there really) and rose through the ranks to become one of the most famous Supermodels of recent times. As if that wasn’t quite enough, she’s also a fashion icon and has the worlds cutest baby with Orlando Bloom. Life envy much?
7. Christina Hendricks
Christina, or as most of us will know her, Joan, the steely star of Mad Men, is as famous for her acting skills as she is for her curves and she never looks as good as when poured into another of those fabulous vintage costumes. Not bitter at all…
6. Mila Kunis
Mila is another classic case of being the girl that every man wants and every woman wants to be. Not just content with being hot, smart, funny and oh yes, engaged to Ashton Kutcher, she’s also a serious film actress when the time calls for it. *Sigh*
5. Jennifer Lawrence
Who doesn’t love Jennifer Lawrence? She proved herself as a worthy actress from the get go and her popularity has been on an upward spike ever since. The fact that she appears to be so grounded, normal and funny only helps to increase our admiration (and love) for her.
4. Alessandra Ambrosio
Brazilian born Alessandra is a Victoria’s Secret model (no surprise there) and there isn’t really much else to say here, so just look at the image below and feel the awe rise up around you. If you aren’t blessed with her genes, you can always use party casino research to understand how you can win elsewhere – right?
Pretty much every sane girl in the world would agree that Rihanna is one of the hottest females ever. She appears to have it all. The looks, talent, money, men (well…), lifestyle, friends. So thank you Rihanna, we officially want to be you right about now.
2. Blake Lively
Blake, the tall, beautiful Gossip Girl star has since moved on from teen dramas and married the equally beautiful Ryan Reynolds. With legs up to her armpits, the most lusted after hair in the business and a wardrobe full of clothes that merely highlight how goddamn hot she is, Blake, we applaud and really want to be you.
Come on, you had to have known that Beyoncé would be our number one. It’s Beyoncé for gods sake. A stellar career, the most amazing figure on the planet, riches and an ability to rock a leotard like nobody else, there isn’t much to do apart from just look on in wonder.
via our content partner CT
In defence of Cassie from Euphoria
I am a Cassie Howard apologist. Yes, even after last night’s episode of Euphoria. I sympathise with her, even if I don’t condone her choices, or even enjoy watching them most of the time. The problem with being a Cassie stan – as is the case with any of the characters in the Euphoria universe – is that every week the show tests that stance, pushing our problematic faves to new depths of debauchery and dubious morality. Cassie’s character in particular has practically become a meme in itself, with TikTok asking itself, week-on-week, how she can possibly fall any lower in our estimations. Of course, she does it anyway.
Some have speculated online that Cassie is a character foil for Rue, both of them addicts, with the show telling the story of their desperate needs. For Rue, the object of her addiction is opiates, for Cassie, it’s love. Rue’s backstory illustrated to the audience how her life up until now – her family trauma, a healthcare system that over-medicates its children – had primed her for addiction to drugs. In the same way, Cassie’s – growing up with an alcoholic mother and absent addict dad, being se**alised at a young age by older men – primed her for a dependency on male validation. But it’s undoubtedly harder to root for Cassie in spite of her flaws the way we rally for our flawed protagonist Rue to finally get her shit together.
Maybe that’s because Cassie embodies so many of the things we hate, or at least the things we ridicule; the things we collectively recognise are objectively incredibly annoying. Her problems pale in seriousness compared to the others – she’s not self-harming or addicted to opiates or dealing drugs or framing innocent people for crimes they didn’t commit – and so her struggles seem so cheesy, so silly. Cassie’s main dilemma is that she’s sleeping with her best friend’s ex-boyfriend. And she makes such a big deal about it. She falls into a depression spiral and treats her friends badly and dr*inks too much. She throws herself at a man who clearly doesn’t want her. She gets messy and throws up at a birthday party. When she’s exposed by Rue, she deflects the blame with pani*cked vindictiveness. Cassie is completely wrapped up in herself and her struggles, to the point where she doesn’t seem cognisant of the power and privileges she still possesses.
It’s easy to dislike her, I would ar*gue, in moments like this, because it’s relatively easy to see ourselves (or at least our teenage selves) in her messiness. While the problems faced by characters like Cal Jacobs or Ashtray might be so far away from our own lives that we can safely say we’d do it all better and never let ourselves get in those dangerous situations, Cassie’s cheugy, messy emotionality and teenage angst are uncomfortably close. It’s no surprise then, that Cassie has become an emblem of equally painful-to-follow toxic female characters, like Fleabag or the unnamed, but similarly self-indulgent protagonist of Ottessa Moshfegh’s book My Year of Rest and Relaxation. Cassie is in her Fleabag era, but unfortunately for her, there is no Hot Priest-shaped respite for viewers, only Nate Jacobs. And while we do get moments of being able to say “finally, go girl give us something”, like when Cassie walked out of an argument with Nate after saying she was crazier than Maddie, the show almost always instantly subverts them with having Cassie crawl back for more abuse. Annoying to watch? Perhaps. Realistic? From a lonely 17-year-old, sadly yes!
Even when she’s dealing with more serious problems, Euphoria is never far from reminding us of Cassie’s ridiculousness. When she asks Lexi whether she looks different, shortly after finding out she’s pregnant with McKay, Lexi becomes a stand-in for the audience, lashing out at her sister and pointing out how absurd she sounds. For the audience, the dramatic irony is even more potent: we know that while Cassie is experiencing her own personal trauma, she was also totally unequipped to deal with McKay’s (who had just experienced a violent hazing at the hands of his fraternity brothers, and was coming to the crushing realisation that he would never be a professional athlete), which many viewers interpreted as an unwillingness to engage with it too.
Euphoria’s total disregard of character development for McKay – he appeared in the first episode of season two, and has been missing in action ever since – compared to its almost lecherous lingering over Cassie’s every move, has been singled out as one of the show’s many problematic recent decisions. And while online rumours have speculated over whether that was down to actor Algee Smith’s views on vaccinations, the fact remains that Euphoria’s choice to ignore McKay’s struggles in favour of Cassie’s make her OTT breakdowns even more painful to watch. That much is fair: but the fact audience complaints are directed at the fictional character herself, not the polarising showrunner behind those decisions (Sam Levinson), a little more unfair imo!
One constant criticism of Levinson’s writing and of Euphoria as a show, even amongst its hardcore fans, is how over the top and ridiculous it is. How its storylines would never happen in real life (at least not all at once, to one friendship group, in the middle of the school year), and how none of the characters would pass dress code, and how it doesn’t make sense that there are no uggos, only hotties. It’s true that much of the show’s audience has never picked up a suitcase of narcotics and carted it around town on a bicycle, or secretly recorded all of the times we’ve cheated on our suburban wife, or dropped out of school to care for our ex-dr*ug baron grandmother. But you might have drunk too much at a party and thrown up. You probably debased and embarrassed yourself trying too hard for someone who didn’t want you, or ug*ly cried down the phone to people who think you’re being, honestly, a bit self-indulgent and annoying. Every week, Cassie acts out the kind of things you remember at two in the morning and cringe so hard at that it’s impossible to sleep. But it’s hard to admit you were more embarrassing than you currently are, and mortifying to watch someone else do the same, and so we’re like: No, Cassie fu**ing su*ks.
And she does, of course, but I would argue no more so (and in some cases, a lot less so) than any other character in season two of Euphoria. In last night’s episode [spoilers here!] Cassie tries to get out of being exposed for sleeping with Nate by calling Rue a drug addict, after Rue loses her temper with Cassie’s naive attempt to reassure her she can take rehab “one day at a time”. Was that advice cringey? Yes! Is Cassie’s response cruel? Yes! Is it worse than Rue calling Leslie a bad mom? Or Laurie injecting a dopesick 17-year-old with morphine? In the case of the former, I would say sleeping with your best pal’s ex is dubiously worse. But the latter? I mean, probably not! Judging by the episode’s response today on Twitter and Reddit though, that sliding scale of perspective is not a popular excuse for Cassie’s increasingly dumb behaviour. But, I digress!
Cassie know good and well she could’ve played that off better like baby you gotta learn how to LIE
— HOOD VOGUE is tired of poverty (@keyon) February 7, 2022
So yes, I am a Cassie apologist. But, I must caveat, no more so than I am an apologist for any of the other flawed, broken, ug*ly characters in the relentless, unforgiving universe that Sam Levinson created for them to live in. That’s the beauty of Euphoria. For all the criticism the series has received (some of it deserved, some of it TikTok hysteria) its success lies in its ability to make the audience empathise, even for a second, with a man like Cal Jacobs, who created a life of amorality and toxic masculinity to compensate for internalised homophobia. Or with a character like Jules, so lonely and hurt that she’ll cheat on the emotionally unavailable Rue with Elliott. Or Rue, so desperately addicted to drugs that she’ll attack her mother, sister and best friends. You might recoil at their choices but on some level you understand what drove them to those choices too.
It’s entirely possible, of course, that I will regret this appeal for moderation when it comes to burning Cassie Howard at the stake for crimes against humanity and friendship and fashion. There are still another four episodes of season two of Euphoria left, and with things looking bleaker than ever for the universe’s characters, who knows how much further she can sink. Sam Levinson has created a world with only two certainties: one, that we will complain every week without fail about his characterisation and then tune in to watch anyway. And two, that Nate Jacobs fu**ing su*ks.
Watch: Katherine Heigl flashes knickers as she strips off in middle of busy New York street
The 36-year-old comedy starlet can clearly laugh at herself, and her facial expressions were a picture when she got caught stripping off in the Big Apple yesterday.
Katherine was spotted shamelessly undressing and redressing herself, transforming from her neon pink and black cycling outfit to a more work-ready white pencil skirt and turtleneck top.
But the American beauty gave onlookers an eyeful when she unwittingly flashed her knickers during her rapid wardrobe swap.
While most would be left red-faced, Katherine had an excuse for her peculiar behaviour because she was filming scenes for her new CBS show called Doubt.
The mother-of-two was joined by her co-star Dulé Hill, 40, who played the perfect gentleman by clutching on to her handbag while she was otherwise occupied.
The crew are currently filming a reboot of the pilot episode, with Katherine being cast as successful defence lawyer Sadie Ellis alongside Orange Is The New Black star Laverne Cox who will play a trans Ivy League-educated attorney.
Meanwhile, Katherine’s husband Josh Kelley recently spoke out to defend her after she was branded “difficult” for blasting her own 2007 film Knocked Up.
I mean, it’s very interesting because somehow a bunch of haters just created a whole thing that she’s ‘difficult’,” he said. “That girl’s never been late, never missed a mark, she’s the least ‘difficult’ person in the world.
“I’ve been to every movie set since we were together, and everybody loves her. “So it’s really interesting how people can make s**t up and then it can get a heartbeat.”