Satan's Sisters

by Star Jones

  Riley nodded. He relaxed noticeably, relieved to have gotten that bad news over with.

  “Do you have any thoughts as to whom you might like to add to the show?” Maxine asked him. She smiled to herself, waiting for him to mention his wife’s name.

  “Well, I have a few thoughts, but I’m still pondering,” he said. “Of course, as I told you before, Ginny has been driving me crazy about it. But with all due respect to my wife, I don’t think she’s what the show needs right now. Not by a long shot.” Maxine saw a hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. She sensed that he was laughing at the ridiculousness of his wife. Maxine was glad to see that she wasn’t the only one laughing at Ginny.

  “On another topic, have you, uh, heard anything else about the, uh, Missy Adams book?” Riley said. He looked uncomfortable. Of course Maxine knew about his affair with Whitney—she’d gotten a tip from a waiter at the Inn at Minetta Lane a couple of years back when she had gone there for tea at the adorable and famous little tea salon attached to the Inn. Yep, buddy, she thought, I know you’re doing the do with Whitney the WASP and I’ll bet our favorite little Southern belle knows too. Even though Maxine was nervous about what Missy had on her, she couldn’t help but think that it served Riley right for putting that fake bitch on her show. If Missy included anything in the book about Riley’s affair with Whitney, things could get incredibly uncomfortable for Mr. Network President. His job could even be in jeopardy—not to mention his longtime marriage to Virginia Roberts-Dufrane, a marriage that had as much to do with his rise to the network presidency as did his talent and square-jawed good looks. Ginny’s grandfather, Burl Roberts, had been a high-ranking executive at CBS for many years and had acted as a rabbi of sorts for Riley as he rose through the network TV ranks, making phone calls, patting backs, and greasing Riley’s path whenever necessary. When Burl died a few years earlier at the ripe age of eighty-five, Maxine had gone to the funeral, along with practically everyone else in the industry over fifty. She could never forget the image of Ginny clutching Riley’s arm much too hard as he led her to the front of the church. Ginny’s father, a red-faced alcoholic who looked almost as old as his father, Burl, was there too, clearly in desperate need of a drink.

  While she didn’t have any info yet—Just what the hell was Lizette up to, anyway?—Maxine did have some intel that Riley might find interesting. She had stumbled across it the previous night while looking through her diaries at home. It was some information she had heard about three years earlier, from one of her Saudi friends. He had told her some very disturbing information about Eric Harlington, Whitney’s husband. It was so disturbing that Maxine had tried to block it out. But she knew that if it was true and it ever bubbled to the surface, or God forbid Missy knew about it and put it in her book, there was no way that Whitney Harlington could remain on her show. Maybe it was time to go back to the diaries, time to put that information to use. She looked across the table at Riley as she picked over her Dover sole. The fish was divine as usual, but Maxine’s mind was racing.

  Heather Hope hung up the phone and sat back in her chair with a big smile on her face. One of the production assistants at The Lunch Club had told her everything she wanted to hear: Maxine Robinson was in a tizzy over the bombshell that Heather had dropped on the show the day before. That was the whole point in going over there and saying the things she said—to make life miserable for that evil so-and-so who ran The Lunch Club like her own personal fiefdom. Of course, Heather had established her own fiefdom at Heather’s Hope, but she liked to believe that her show was used to improve people’s lives, not to allow her to continue to stay relevant and accumulate more power, the way Maxine used The Lunch Club. It wasn’t like Heather walked around every day nursing a grudge against Maxine—she didn’t believe in grudges, because the only person they really hurt was the holder of the grudge, not the target. But given the chance to shove Maxine off her high horse, if just for a minute, Heather would take it every time.

  Heather shifted in her seat behind an enormous hand-carved desk, which had been a gift to her from Steven Spielberg, so that she could see the shelf that displayed her Oscar. It wasn’t the real thing—she had gotten a replica made of her Academy Award to display in her office; the real one held a prominent perch in her living room at home. When she sat in her expansive office after doing another great show, Heather sometimes liked to gaze upon her Oscar, all polished and gleaming and inspiring. Walking up there on that stage in front of every luminary in Hollywood, hell, in front of the whole world, was undoubtedly the proudest moment of her life. The Academy Award was where it all began for Heather, when her career really took off into the stratosphere. It was also what led to her departure from The Lunch Club.

  Heather had been one of the original cohosts of The Lunch Club, hired by Maxine Robinson to add a touch of sweetness and warmth to the panel—attributes that Maxine wisely recognized she herself utterly lacked. Maxine and Heather first met when Maxine was the nightly news anchor at NBN and Heather hosted a local public affairs program in New York whose set was in the same building as the World News set. The two women struck up a conversation in the hall one day and became friends. Maxine started to watch Heather’s little show and was impressed by the class and humor she brought to the no-win task of interviewing local politicians and business owners, each one more boring and humorless than the last. Maxine knew right away that this funny, attractive woman with the winning smile was destined for greater things. Whenever she got the chance, Maxine would seek Heather out and compliment her on a job well done, and pass along helpful tips. Heather was floored by Maxine’s compliments and interest in her career. She even came to the wrongheaded conclusion that Maxine was a sweet, warm person and would argue with any one of her friends or colleagues who tried to claim otherwise. When Maxine was booted from the nightly news because of low ratings and an inability to connect with the audience, Heather sent her an enormous bouquet of flowers—a move that earned Maxine’s appreciation at a moment in her career when most everybody else she knew was quietly cheering her failure. Two years later, when Maxine got the green light for The Lunch Club, one of the first phone calls she made was to Heather. Heather was incredibly honored and grateful to be rescued from the dregs of local television.

  It didn’t take long for Heather to see the real Maxine, the one who wouldn’t hesitate to cut off a U.S. senator’s balls if she thought he had crossed her. (Heather knew Maxine’s third husband had been a U.S. senator, so perhaps Maxine felt comfortable handling a senator’s balls!) Heather was both appalled and fascinated by Maxine’s take-no-prisoners, relentless approach to everything she did. Hell, the woman was even competitive about the length of the shag in her office carpeting—Heather had overheard her on the phone once reaming out a network executive because Diane Sawyer had nicer carpet in her office! Heather vowed about a thousand times that if she ever got half as big as Maxine, she would bring a measure of humility and civility to her interactions with fellow humans. In other words, Maxine served as her constant model of what not to do, how not to be when you become a star.

  These days, because she knew how competitive Maxine was, Heather really enjoyed it when she bested her in competing for a big interview or covering a big issue. For instance, Maxine probably didn’t even know yet that Heather had just gotten a commitment from Troy Randolph, the bad-boy tennis superstar, that he would make Heather’s Hope his first television appearance after getting out of rehab for sex addiction. Troy had told Heather personally that Maxine had been calling his people almost every day to get the interview, but he thought he’d get fairer treatment with Heather than with “those mean old ladies” on The Lunch Club. Heather had laughed at that one. Mean old ladies. Clearly he was talking about Maxine and only Maxine. She wondered if Troy even knew that Heather had once been one of those “mean old ladies.”

  On the wall above Heather’s Oscar was a large framed picture of her on Oscar night, resplendent in her yellow haute couture, hand-pluck
ed- and hand-dyed-ostrich-feather gown, gently attached to a light apricot-textured chiffon base, designed by Balenciaga. Yes, the gown had been a risk, but the designer had assured her that it would be wildly applauded by the fashion press and she would be called “fierce and fearless” in the 1965 vintage dress. Heather was called a lot of names by the fashion and gossip press, but “fierce” and “fearless” were not among them. Perez Hilton said she looked like “Big Bird in drag.” The idea had been to make the yellow a nod to her little independent film, The Yellow Rose of Texas, in which Heather played the tough, wise older sister of a poor struggling welfare mom in a hardscrabble town in the middle of Texas. The title of the movie actually referred to the young mom’s biracial daughter, whose African-American father had been shipped off to fight in Iraq. At the end of the film, the little girl froze to death during a harsh winter because the family’s heat had been shut off, with her wailing mother clutching her tightly in her arms and screaming, “Rose! Rose!” No one in America walked out of the theater with dry eyes. Critics gushed over the movie for “giving a vivid, painful face to white poverty in America” and over Heather for “bringing a rare humanity to a people who have been long ignored and forgotten.” Heather “went Charlize Theron,” as she told the viewers on The Lunch Club, gaining twenty pounds for the role and wearing prosthetic teeth and a ratty blond wig. Despite its modest budget and humble beginnings, the movie did huge numbers at the box office and earned Academy Awards for the screenwriter and the director, in addition to Heather. Heather remembered how much things changed between her and Maxine when she returned to the show the day after she won the Oscar. “Grandma” (as Maxine was called behind her back by the crew of The Lunch Club) was so jealous that the envy was practically leaking a viscous green from her ears.

  So what did Maxine do? She brought on a surprise guest to talk about Oscar fashion—none other than Perez Hilton! He hadn’t been on the grid—the listings the cohosts get about upcoming guests—and none of the ladies knew about it. When he walked out onto the set as Maxine introduced the segment on Oscar fashions, Heather literally almost fainted. Even Perez looked a little uncomfortable, throwing a glance at Heather and making sure he sat as far from her as he could on the couch. For the next ten minutes, Heather was speechless, in disbelief that another human being could be so cruel and heartless. The other cohosts were in shock too. As they flashed pictures of actresses up on the screen and Perez was asked to give his opinion, everyone waited for the shot of Heather. To Heather it felt like nobody on the couch was breathing, including herself. Those minutes sitting there, waiting for her picture to come up, were easily the most painful, embarrassing, nerve-racking moments of her life.

  But Heather’s picture never came up. The whole segment was one big taunt to Heather, engineered by Maxine, seemingly to keep Heather in her place, to knock her back down to size. The gossip columns were abuzz the next day with the curiosity of Perez Hilton coming on The Lunch Club but neglecting to discuss Heather’s dress, which was probably the most talked-about dress of the night. One television writer likened Maxine bringing Perez Hilton on the show to a Third World dictator beheading his closest rival. As soon as they walked off the set that day, Heather was on the phone with her agent, begging him to find her another job. The events of the next four weeks were a blur: in a state of outrage—a place Heather doesn’t visit very often—Heather gave an interview to People and called Maxine a “loon”; on the set, Maxine pretended she didn’t exist; there were rumors coming from NBN executives that Heather’s contract would be torched; and within a month she had been offered her own show on another network. While her anger at Maxine had subsided over the years, particularly as her own career took off so spectacularly, Heather had never forgotten how she felt, sitting there on the couch with Perez Hilton. And she had the picture above her Oscar to serve as a daily reminder if ever she needed it.

  Heather thought about her appearance the previous day on The Lunch Club, which was only the second time she had been back in the seven years since she had left the show. She wondered if Maxine ever was apprehensive about bringing her on. That look on Maxine’s face was priceless after she told the world about Missy’s book.

  It was time to check in with Missy. Heather’s old friend was still a bit fearful and apprehensive about all the dirt she was shoveling in her book, still unsure about whether publishing it was doing the right thing. Heather had had to give her numerous pep talks over the past months, to keep her eyes on the prize, which was Maxine’s head on a platter. Missy didn’t mind the stuff she was revealing about Maxine; she said she didn’t want to take down the other ladies on the show at the same time. But her editors at Patterson & White had encouraged her to be as sensational as possible—especially if they were going to justify the seven-figure advance they had paid her. Missy couldn’t give the money back, so she had to soldier on.

  There was no answer when Heather called. As she listened to Missy’s sweet Southern drawl on the outgoing voice-mail message, Heather started to panic, just a little. It was the first time Missy had failed to answer Heather’s call on the first or second ring. Usually it felt like Missy was sitting there clutching the phone and waiting for Heather to call her. Heather told herself now was not the time to panic. The woman was probably in the shower or something. But she couldn’t help but think about the utter embarrassment if the big Missy book reveal fell through. After all the ruckus she had raised. But Heather was basically an optimistic person, with more than enough self-confidence to convince herself that things would always fall her way. Heather knew that if Missy was wavering, she could figure out a way to stiffen her friend’s spine. She was absolutely sure of it.

  MOLLY WONDERED IF PEOPLE who were about to die could tell that the end was near, because she surely felt like she was about to punch her card. She didn’t even know how she had gotten through the show that morning. The last twenty-four hours all seemed like a hazy dream. Since Heather’s news about Missy’s book, Molly had dived off the deep end, pushed by her panic about Missy’s revelations. If Missy told the world about her pills, she just knew it would be over for her. She couldn’t remember how she got up that morning, how she made it to the set, how she got back home. She was now stretched out on the couch in her living room, trying to stave off the desire to eat or take the pills. In her confused, misguided effort to beat back the food cravings, Molly had been living on Xanax alone for the past day. Her body was literally crying out for food, protein, something, but in her dazed state Molly was misreading the signs as the food cravings that tortured her daily—rather than a starving body screaming for sustenance. She had once told a friend that food addictions were the hardest thing in the world to overcome because, while a crack addict doesn’t need crack to stay alive, a food addict still has to eat. Molly wondered if Maxine could tell that morning in how bad a state Molly was. If she could, she didn’t say a word about it. She also wondered again just how much Missy knew about what she was going through. After all, Missy still had many friends on the set. Molly tried to push herself up from the couch. She was ready to give in to the food craving and find something to eat in the kitchen. But she started to feel a heavy dullness settle over her. She recognized it as sleep, so she gave in to it. She let go, even though she was crouching next to the couch. She collapsed next to it, stretching out in the middle of her living room floor.

  Molly remained out cold on the floor for more than an hour. Luckily, her cleaning lady, Susanna, came in every Friday afternoon to give the place a deep clean—and Susanna had her own key. As soon as she saw Molly stretched out, she let out a scream and rushed over to her.

  “Miss Stein!”

  Molly heard muffled noises but assumed it was part of a dream, so she didn’t wake up. In a panic, Susanna grabbed the phone and dialed 911. Slowly, Molly finally opened her eyes, to find the round, pudgy face of her cleaning woman staring down at her, a terrified look on her face.

  “Miss Stein! Are you okay?”

&n
bsp; Molly sat up. She noticed that the cleaning woman, whose name she suddenly couldn’t remember, was holding a phone to her ear.

  “Who are you calling?” Molly said, her voice starting to rise in panic.

  “I call 911,” Susanna said in her heavy Portuguese accent.

  Molly bolted upright. “You called 911?! Oh my God!”

  Molly snatched the phone from the woman and pressed the Off button as she heard a voice calling out on the other end. No, she couldn’t have an ambulance rushing to her house, attracting all kinds of attention! Something like that could make its way into the newspapers. Maxine could find out and decide Molly needed to be taken off the show. It all could spell total disaster. Molly pushed herself up from the floor. She glared at Susanna, whose face was a mask of confusion.

  “You shouldn’t have done that!” Molly yelled. “What am I going to do now?! They’re still gonna come! You can’t stop them from coming, once you call. Oh God!”

  She put her hands to her head, trying to think. “We have to get out of here,” she said. In a rush, suddenly moving quickly, she started pushing Susanna toward the door. Susanna pulled back her shoulder in a gesture of annoyance, trying to keep this crazy woman from putting her hands on her. Molly slammed the door shut behind Susanna, then looked around the room, deciding what she needed to bring with her. But she had a hard time thinking clearly. Where could she go? She picked up her purse and scurried toward the door. She gave her place one more look, then she ran down the hall, already out of breath by the time she got to the elevator. There were only three other apartments on Molly’s floor; she hoped none of her neighbors emerged now to see her in such a state, disheveled, confused, panicked, looking a bit psychotic.