Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva

by Victoria Rowell

  “Over here! Maeve Fielding’s been shot!” the stage manager yelled.

  “Ohmagawd. Sorry, Emmy, we have to end it here.”

  “Not yet. Maeve has ice for blood. She’ll live.”

  “Hurry!”

  “I just wish the fans would keep the show and our personal lives in perspective. My name is not Gina; it’s Emmy. And Shannen, soon to be ex-Mrs. Roger Cabott, is not Justine Lashaway Fink. And one more thing,” she said, staring into the lens. “To all the number one wannabes flockin’ to the Golden State from NYC, stay off from my turf.”

  Running back into the booth, Jules directed, “Cue the organ music.”

  “Are you serious, Julius?” asked the sound technician.

  “You heard me. Cue it! And call post, tell ’em to slap some slow motion on it before it goes to air.”

  The cast and extras stampeded across the loose sod to where Maeve had been pushed by Phillip earlier. The lifeless legend was wedged between the potted ficus and overturned plastic geraniums.

  “Get an ambulance over here now!” the stage manager yelled.

  Shedding hopeful tears, Phillip crouched down next to the EMT, asking, “Is she dead?”

  * * *

  After they finished being questioned by LAPD Shannen remembered. “Oh Javier,” she cried, racing upstairs, “I left Mrs. Jones in my dressing room watching us on my monitor, she must be petrified.”

  Calling out, “Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones . . .” Shannen and Javier burst through the doorway, finding the room empty.

  A note, scribbled on the back of a script page, was on the coffee table.

  Shannen baby, Thanks for everything, but I gotta get outta here quick in a hurry. Things is dangerous round here. Weren’t kiddin when they said California is the wild, wild west. Expectin an earthquake and got a dang shootout instead! Thought it was part of the scene at first, but your husband ain’t on my story. That gun is real and so is them bullets and I have a lotta livin to do. Dont worry, always kept my bus ticket in my pocketbook and one of them nice guards called a cab to take me to the station. Like I said, show business is for freaks and strange folk. You can send my suitcase US Postal Ground. Thats what the $20 is for. Come visit anytime.

  Have a blessed day—love,

  Grandma Jones

  CHAPTER 44

  Malibu Field Trip

  The next morning, I climbed into the “We Do It One Day at a Time” activity van with the TT gang for our weekly field trip. Destination? Über-expensive Malibu Country Mart.

  With Rihanna and Justin warbling “Whyyouwannabringmedown” on the radio, Rock drove everyone off the compound, gossiping about the shootout on the R&R set the day before. The sensational news was splashed across the cover of every newspaper.

  Erroll commented from behind the L.A. Times, “I can’t believe you worked with these people, Calysta.” The front page featured a large picture of Shannen, Javier, and Wolfe, the caption reading, “Heroically saving the day, Wolfe Hudson commented, ‘It vas nothing . . . I’m a Viking.’”

  “This Alison person sounds like an absolute loon,” he continued, reading on before licking his pointer to flip the page, adding, “Oh, look, Dylan, there’s a wonderful review on your new album.”

  Dylan, wearing a Nine Inch Nails T-shirt, always dozed off in the backseat the moment the sober buggy moved.

  “This would never have happened on The Daring and the Damned,” Gretchen chirped, reading over his shoulder.

  “I’m just glad Shannen’s okay,” Jerome commented.

  Earlier, I’d felt a weight had been lifted after talking with Grandma Jones and Veronica’s visit yesterday; now all that was dampened by the shock of knowing Shannen’s life had been threatened by that predator Roger. Thank goodness Wolfe and Javier were bubblers with balls and used them.

  Kelly Lava spiraled around in the passenger seat, looking over her Ray-Bans, and ordered, “Okay, everybody, settle down. Dylan, do you have your seat belt on?”

  “Uh-huh,” he grunted.

  “We’re almost there and I want to make sure you’re all clear on the buddy system. The strip mall is spread out, so everyone’s only allowed in one section at a time and always with your TT buddy. Today’s pairings are Gretchen/Calysta, Dylan/Dolly, Jerome/Erroll, and Chad, since Toby had to stay back on behavioral probation, you’ll be accompanied by Rock.”

  “Great,” he murmured disappointedly.

  “Yay, Calysta, we’re buddies!” Gretchen said, grabbing my arm excitedly. “We’re going to have such a blast. This place is bananas, it has all the shopping you could possibly want and a Nobu, they have the best shrimp and lobster roll with spicy lemon sauce.”

  “I’m familiar,” I said, still worried about anyone spotting me toolin’ around in the TT druggie van or clumped together like kindergarten camp kids connected with a leash. For good measure, I pulled on my shades and tucked my chin.

  Just as the door of Strutters Skin and Nail Care came within reach, I saw my neighbor, Kat, approaching me with shopping bags and her two squirming kids.

  “Calysta, hi,” she said politely. “Haven’t seen you in spin class forever. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, I’ve been working a lot lately.”

  “Calysta, don’t drop behind,” Kelly snapped.

  Kat took in the motley crew ahead of me and arched an eyebrow. “You’re not with them, are you?”

  Cringing, I replied, “I’m doing some volunteer mentoring. Gotta go.”

  As I scampered away, Gretchen hooked her arm in mine, babbling, “After we get our pedis, and by the way I’m getting the deluxe silk-wrap airbrush French with rhinestone charms, we have to go into Malibu Shaman next door, they have the best crystals and dream catchers, and the metaphysical books are to die for. Of course we’ve gotta stop by the Makeup Hut, I’m all out of orgasm pink lip gloss. And Juicy just got new stuff in yesterday! Also, we just have to stop by John Varvatos and get something for Toby to cheer him up. And maybe something for my husband, even though I’m super mad at him right now, he says he’s not bringing the kids to the next weekend.”

  Gretchen briefly took a breath to select her toe charms as I stepped up into the vibrating spa chair.

  Erroll took the seat to my right while Gretchen, yammering away like a bell clapper, attempted to bookend me on the left. Mercifully, a nail technician stopped her, saying, “Sorry, ma’am, that chair’s reserved,” leading her next to Erroll.

  “Great, now she’ll be talking my ear off,” he said out of the corner of his mouth.

  I told the pedicurist, “Traditional, no polish,” and blissfully slid my feet into the hot bubbling blue water, the spine of the chair massaging my tight back.

  The creamy leather supported my head while I closed my eyes . . . forgetting.

  “Hello, Beulah.”

  Startled, I stared face-to-face with reptilian Randall Roberts.

  “What are you—”

  “Such a unique name,” he continued; then, waving away the nail technician, “Not now.” He turned back to me. “Did you know in Hebrew it means ‘married’? I see why you changed it. I paid a visit to your hometown this weekend, saw the sights. That Jacob at Pride-All is quite the tour guide. Saw Church of the Solid Rock, haunting. Even stopped by your grandma’s place, quaint. And that neighbor Miss Whilemina sure is a busybody.”

  I was no longer able to feel the exotic lady buffing my heels; my pedicure went from pure pleasure to walkin’ on hot coals.

  “Speaking of your grandma, what’s her name again? Ah yes, Candelaria. Spotted her holding court on set yesterday. Sweet lady, frail though, heard she ran off and left town after that unfortunate fiasco with Roger Cabott. Imagine that’d be enough excitement for any woman her age, what’s she pushing eighty? Hope nothing else scares your grandmother into . . . say, a heart attack, with her high blood pressure and all,” Randall wickedly whispered, never breaking eye contact. “Yeah, that Greenwood sure is charming. Gotta wonder how you turned out so co
rrupt?”

  Grandma taught me “the best defense is no defense,” so if you weren’t sure you could win, keep your mouth shut.

  Randall reached into his jacket for a newspaper clipping and extended it to me.

  As I reached, he teased, “Now, now, not so fast. You already know what it says. Here’s what we’re going to do. There’s an important vote tomorrow morning to change the balance of power of The Rich and the Ruthless and The Daring and the Damned, and I’ve learned that you’re an integral part of it. It’s in both our interests that you cast your vote to sell in my favor,” he warned, refolding the paper. “I think you’ll agree.”

  Leaning in closer, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he said, “Tomorrow you will vote to sell Barringer Dramatic Series, making me king of the soap opera world, and in return, I won’t spill the beans about this messy business with Pastor Winslow . . . I mean, your murdered daddy. Otherwise . . .”

  I could only manage a small nod and concentrate on not flaring my nostrils.

  “Sir? Are you ready?” the pixie technician asked.

  “You know, on second thought, I don’t think I’ll get a service today. Give my friend here a manicure. I want her hands to look real pretty when she’s strokin’ that Montblanc tomorrow,” Randall said cockily, throwing down a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.” He winked, walking out.

  “Where do you think you’re going, Calysta?” Kelly asked.

  “My buddy’s still gettin’ charms glued on her big toes. I need some fresh air, the fumes are makin’ me nauseous.”

  “Okay, but don’t go far and come right back. I’m timing you.”

  Soon as I got outside I flew across the street to Howdy’s Taqueria.

  “What do you got pre-mixed?” I asked, out of breath and still shaking.

  “We’re running a special on margaritas,” the hostess replied.

  “Gimme a pitcher.”

  Seated at a nearby table with two empty carafes, toasting with drinks of their own, Dylan and Dolly laughed out loud, waving. “Ovah here, Calysta.”

  The van stank like a tequila distillery as Kelly furiously ripped us a new one. “I hope you all realize this sets you back to square one. I can’t believe the blatant disregard you’ve displayed for the rest of the TT family. The fumes alone in this van could cause a relapse and TT would be held liable. I’m not naming any names, but when we get back I want urine from every person in this van. After supper, Mr. Quigley will discuss disciplinary action.”

  Looking over his shoulder to inhale my Jose Cuervo breath, Erroll whispered, “It’s bad to admit, but I have such alcohol envy. Next time, take me with you.”

  Dylan and Dolly drunkenly giggled in the back ignoring Kelly’s tirade, while the rest looked out the child-locked windows. Mad. I was scared to death Randall had somehow dredged up my past.

  Self-sabotaged, I was marched to my room by moody Kelly, who didn’t leave until I supplied her with a measured cup of wee-wee.

  An hour later, there was a knock at the door.

  “House of Ruby, come in.”

  Lying across my Barbie canopy bed three sheets to the wind, I stared upside-down at stone-faced Kelly Lava standing over me, who suddenly looked Chinese. I burst out laughing. Then laughed some more. I laughed so hard my face hurt. Then she went Linda Blair ballistic on me.

  “We’ll see how funny you think it is when you find yourself sitting at Tranquility Tudor tonight instead of going out to the Brentwood meeting with the others, forfeiting a stop at Starbucks. Reading chapters from the Big Book with Dolly, Dylan, and me, then journaling about what you’ve done and going to bed without snack!” she shouted, slamming the door behind her.

  Through an oncoming migraine Randall’s threat stuck like chewed gum on the bottom of a shoe. “You will vote to sell Barringer Dramatic Series, making me king of the soap opera world, and in return, I won’t spill the beans . . .”

  About to fall apart like a two-dollar suitcase, I reached for Augustus’s letter under my mattress, clutching it like a lifeline and not having to open it to know what it said.

  “. . . the future of my shows rests in your capable hands . . .” I recited, slowly straightening my spine. After all, I’d only had four margaritas. I told myself Get a grip, girl, show up and show out. I would fix this and fix it tonight.

  CHAPTER 45

  The Daring . . .

  Woozy but determined and Big Booked to death, I crawled out of my bedroom window in skips, dressed like a ninja, creeping low to the ground to avoid TT’s prison camp lighting. Fueled with enough caffeine to kill a cow, I used my homegirl technique to scale the stucco wall, makin’ a mad dash into a waiting Rover.

  The bass rocked D’s ride as he listened to Drake, the unmistakable scent of sinsemilla giving me an instant contact high.

  “Thanks, D.”

  “Anytime, babe,” he said with a broad dimpled smile. “But can a brotha get some sugah?”

  Derrick didn’t know I needed to plant that kiss more than he needed to receive it.

  “Whew . . . nice.” I exhaled. “D, honey, I kinda ‘slipped’ today, you know, snuck in a few cocktails and I’m, um, sort of on punishment at TT so I have to get back before they find me missin’.”

  “Don’t worry, shortie, I gottchu,” he said, chowin’ down on a Lay’s.

  This may be a random thought for sure, but one worth sharing; I loved the way black men ate their chips, especially Derrick.

  He knew how to put style into crunch, first snappin’ the bag open, gently tossing the crumbs to the bottom. Then pluckin’ out a fat chip, never lookin’ down . . . piggybackin’ his index and middle finger like spoonin’ lovers, he placed a Salt ’n’ Vinegar on the tip of his dexterous tongue, lettin’ it rest there for a nanosecond like a meltin’ snowflake before flirtatiously retractin’ it . . . crrrunchhh between his African-white teeth. This was always a turn-on for me. He did this over and over till he got to the last. Selfish with his chips too. Better ask if you wanted that hand back.

  With a mint-flavored toothpick parked in the corner of his mouth he asked, “Turn here, Calysta?”

  “Huh?”

  “Turn here?”

  “Yeah, right,” I covered.

  I was trippin’ comparing eating chips to sex. I should’ve been thinking about making amends to Derrick like I told Kelly I would earlier, when she grilled me on what badness I’d done in the past.

  “Derrick, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

  “Lay it on me.”

  “Well, remember how I used to get when you’d flirt with the ladies while you were seein’ me?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well . . .”

  “C’mon, girl. Can’t be that bad.”

  “Okay, but first pinkie promise me you won’t get mad.”

  “Pinkie promise.”

  “I’m the one who spray-painted ‘2-Timer’ on your car.”

  “Think I didn’t know? You’re the only one who could’ve tagged my bronze rims with pink glitter spray paint.”

  “I’m sorry. Forgiven?”

  “Like I could resist.”

  Winding up Benedict Canyon to Augustus Barringer’s estate, I felt my heart race as I thought about seeing him and the vote tomorrow.

  “I thought you mainly drank champagne.”

  Not wanting to tell him the truth, I said, “I’ve been feeling kinda lost not having much control over my life lately.”

  “Wanna take a detour?”

  “Nah.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah, got a lot on my mind.”

  “Okay, but don’t say I didn’t offer. Honeys been blowin’ up my phone. Guess since money’s tight, folks be lookin’ for more economical recreation. Timin’s a little off, though. Been on a chick de-lite diet for the past few. Break my fast for you, Calysta,” he said, turning up Young Jeezy.

  “Thanks, but my sex drive’s on hold.”

  “Wow, okay. Already to
ld ’em when I resurface I ain’t takin’ nobody out to Yang Chow’s, just Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles. They say I can whet their appetite a different way, ‘romance the D stone.’ Yeeaaah baby, I am pop-u-lar. Keep tellin’ ’em I’m ovah-extended as it is and they say that’s a good thang. Had to scramble my digits . . . again.”

  Giving him a look, I asked, “Can we change the subject, and how ’bout some classical?”

  “You got jokes.”

  “No, I’m serious. I’ve got a splittin’ headache. Plus, I’ve been listenin’ to Bach during collage therapy and it’s kinda sooth—”

  “Listen babe, I ain’t no DJ, but I’m gonna break a brotha’s habit and give you what you want. Got some old school tucked away, Barry White, little Marvin . . . whatchuwant? That’s some classical shiz if you ask me.”

  “Any of it’ll work. After the mess at R&R, I . . .”

  “Yeah, what’s up with that? I heard Maeve took some metal, is it true?”

  “Yeah, that’s what Shannen said.”

  “Daaamn.”

  “My grandma was visiting the set too and was so freaked she took a cab to the bus station by herself and headed back to Mississippi.”

  “A bus?”

  “Yeah, she don’t fly.”

  “Oh, she old school, they do it like that.”

  “Mm-hm, but I can’t help worryin’. I better hear from her tomorrow.”

  “I think this is it,” Derrick said, as we pulled up to an iron gate and a security guard.