He: "She always said, 'I made you what you are today.' It was too much for me."

She: "I want him to face up to what he did to me, as a man and as a responsible member of society."

What makes the blind item and "he-said-she-said" the sine qua non of gossip columns is the same thing that makes them unacceptable to so-called legitimate journalists. Gossip is hearsay; its deniability, at least in the beginning, is essential to its appeal. Knowing something isn't as fun as speculating about it, so when the "he-said-she-said" takes place in front of the camera rather than behind it, it undermines the titillation factor.

The two persons quoted above -- Rumiko Koyanagi (she) and Kenya Osumi (he) -- were, until Jan. 6, married to each other. For almost three years prior to their filing for divorce the tabloid press reported rumors of their marital rifts, keeping a lookout for every separate vacation and secret date and interviewing dozens of insiders, including parents, who related the he-said-she-said particulars.

The couple brought the whole protracted mess to a climax Jan. 14 when each party gave a press conference about the divorce, and elevated the he-said-she-said to a level of disclosure that pushed it beyond gossip into the realm of classical tragedy, complete with dialogue and stage directions.

For the 10 years they were married, Rumiko and Kenya were a great story even before the cracks appeared. Rumiko Koyanagi was one of the first idol singers. Raised by a single mother who made her take ballet and music lessons, she was tougher than the image her handlers foisted on her as a teenage singing star. When the career inevitably faded, she became a dancer, restarting at the bottom and working her way up.

She hired Kenya in 1989 as one of her "back dancers." They were wed 41 days after he auditioned for her. She was 36. He was 23.

Rumiko's career was revitalized thanks to the wide shows and women's magazines, which seized on her past as an idol and the difference in ages between her and her new husband. The publicity made them a professional item as well as a news item. Billed as Rumiko and Kenya, their dance extravaganzas were covered extensively and tickets sales were brisk.

As Kenya's quote shows, the marriage collapsed due to professional insecurities. He became a star simply by marrying the already famous Rumiko, and though he was a trained dancer, he could never be taken seriously as such as long as he was constantly being referred to as "Rumiko's handsome young husband" by the press.

He first asked Rumiko for a divorce in 1997, but she refused to grant him one. As rumors of their marital problems increased in the media, Kenya received more offers from producers to appear as a guest on variety and comedy shows -- alone.

Rumiko was dismayed by this development, since it meant Kenya could survive in show business without her. When she finally assented to the divorce, it was with conditions. She offered her errant husband (he has since confessed to extramarital affairs) a choice: either he gives up being a tarento and goes back to square one as a "back dancer"; or, if he decides to pursue his new career, he pays her 120 million yen over the next 10 years as "consolation money." (What has gone unremarked is that Rumiko owes Kenya, too, since it was her marriage to him that brought her back from obscurity.)

Technically, Kenya is still Rumiko's employee if no longer her soulmate, so the payments can simply be deducted from his salary. Despite the seeming impossibility of the conditions (show-biz pundits say that there is no way he can make that much money as a talent) Kenya has agreed to pay up. Obviously, being a star who is still hitched financially to his ex-wife is preferable to being a free and independent has-been.

The media immediately fell into, as one reporter called it, "Rumiko-bashing," saying that her terms were harsh and unfair. Kenya, on the other hand, was treated sympathetically. He was contrite during his own press conference, saying that he held his ex-wife in high esteem and still wanted to dance with her.

According to the dynamics of gossip, the story should have ended there. But this is Japan, where, when it comes to scandal, it's difficult to tell where caprice ends and stage-managing begins. It turns out that on the day Rumiko and Kenya gave their respective press conferences, Rumiko was taping the premiere installment of "Omoide Boroboro," a Fuji TV show in which Rumiko and veteran announcer Midori Utsumi interview people about their troubled pasts.

Even noncynics will question the coincidence in the timing of the two nominally unrelated events, but there are so many shows like "Omoide Boroboro" on Japanese TV right now that the odds for such a convergence are not as long as they might seem.

On the second installment, an "emergency live broadcast" aired on the evening of Jan. 24, Rumiko was not only co-host but the main guest (as a "regular person," according to Utsumi). A thumbnail dramatization of her career was presented, and Utsumi, who had earlier defended her friend to wide show reporters, did a good impersonation of a Devil's Advocate. "Do you really think you were a good wife?" she asked.

By the time her mother called on the air to give her encouragement, Rumiko had lost it. Tears streamed down her face, staining her pastel pink kyastaa suit. And then, right before the end of the show, the inevitable fax from Kenya arrived. He confessed his greater guilt and how he wanted nothing more than to dance with Rumiko at least one more time.

Stage-managed or not, Rumiko was undeniably beside herself with remorse, hands covering her eyes, body convulsing with sobs. Her life had been media-driven for so long that she was following the script to the letter and didn't even know it.