When I was almost three months pregnant, Dean and I hosted a book signing at InvenTORI for the Fabulous Beekman Boys, the city boys turned farmers turned reality stars and lifestyle brand whose soaps and other products we were going to carry at InvenTORI. It was so fun for me to do an event where it wasn’t all about me.
There had been some speculation in the tabloids about my being pregnant. It was true that I had a little belly, but I planned to wear two pairs of Spanx and a cute frock. The paparazzi would see me and be amazed at how trim I was, and I’d buy myself another month in hiding.
Then, in the days leading up to the party, I popped. By the night of the event, none of the dresses I’d planned to wear still fit. No problem. I found a black shift dress with ruffles. I’d wear it with high-ass heels. My legs would steal all the attention away from my camouflaged belly.
Two hours before the party I got an e-mail from the Beekman boys. They are famous for wearing wellies. They wear their tall rubber boots everywhere—on their farm, with suits, to black-tie events. They would be wearing them to our party and they wanted us to wear them too. There went the high-heel scheme. Now I’d be wearing a shift dress with tall flat rain boots. Well, I thought, at least the dress is black and the boots are Missoni.
The next day, all over the press, there were pictures of me bending over in my dress with a circle around my belly and the headline “Tori Spelling, obviously pregnant.” And I thought I had everyone fooled.
It was time for me to come clean. I’d been down this pregnancy-reveal road a couple times already, and while I knew my news wasn’t going to change anyone’s life, I still wanted to keep it private for as long as I could. It was such an intimate, personal truth. I lived such a public life. Before I announced it on Twitter, I had a moment. This is it. My last moment holding on to something that’s mine and mine alone. I posted my tweet and the news was out.
Soon after we came out, Mehran and I were on a flight home from some business trip. I hadn’t had a sip of wine in my first trimester, but I was so nervous about flying that I wanted a little glass of wine to help calm my nerves. But I was pregnant, and there are conflicting opinions about whether any alcohol whatsoever is okay during pregnancy. Even though I had my doctor’s sign-off on a glass of wine every now and then, I didn’t want to be judged. When the flight attendant offered us drinks, Mehran ordered a glass of sauvignon blanc. I gave him a piercing look.
“And a glass of the . . . pinot noir?” He glanced at me. I smiled approvingly. He knows I’m a red-wine girl. “I want to taste both, I have a craving for red as well,” he said.
“I’ll have a ginger ale, please,” I said, smiling virginally.
The flight attendant brought our drinks. As soon as she walked away, Mehran handed me the red and we quietly clinked glasses. Victory. (Disclaimer: lest I sound too boozy, the in-flight glasses are the size of shot glasses with stems.)
When we were done, the flight attendant returned, the two bottles cradled in her arms. She offered Mehran a refill, and he accepted. Then she said, “And would we like another glass of that delicious pinot noir, Ms. Spelling?” She winked conspiratorially. Busted.
NOT EVERYONE WAS so accepting of my apparently controversial stance on occasional wine while pregnant. But in my second trimester I craved red wine and would once in a while drink half a glass at dinner. I remembered the press giving Gwyneth Paltrow a hard time for drinking a Guinness while pregnant, so I always had Dean or Mehran order the wine and I’d sip from theirs.
That summer we went to Vegas for an appearance. Dean, Bill, Scout, and I had dinner at a super-fancy steak house owned by Mario Batali. The waiter came over. After he welcomed us, he swept my wineglass off the table with a flourish and walked away with it.
It pissed me off. Who was he to decide that I didn’t want wine?
Scout said, “I hate wine. You can have my glass.” He slid his glass over so it was in front of me.
The waiter came back to hand us menus. When he was done, he looked down at me, grabbed Scout’s wineglass from in front of my place, and walked away with it! The first time was understandable. He saw that I was pregnant and figured I didn’t want a drink. Now it was personal. But of course I couldn’t confront him. For the rest of the night I took furtive sips out of my friends’ glasses, seething. It was a cruel world where my secrets were not mine alone anymore, and a pregnant gal couldn’t even get a drink.
On the Bright Side,
Julia Roberts Knows I Exist
Life went on: my morning sickness gradually faded; we continued filming for our show; Stella and Liam trotted off to preschool every morning. Dean and I had struck a nominal peace with the paparazzi who continually lurked outside our house. (Any time we moved, no matter what name we did it under, a self-proclaimed stalker website immediately published our new address and photos of the house, and offered copies of the key for sale. Okay, I’m exaggerating about the key, but it wouldn’t have shocked me.) We knew most of the lurkers by face, and usually they were pretty respectful. Once or twice when they had started to follow us, Dean leaned out the window and said, “Please. We’re taking our kids to school, and we don’t want people to know where it is,” and they left us alone.
There was one morning when a cameraman I didn’t recognize started to follow me. I tried to lose him while being safe, but the kids were in the car so there was no way I could pull any fancy moves. I finally thought, This is bullshit. I turned down a side street and pulled over. The photographer parked behind me. I got out of the car, locked the doors, and walked toward his car. He immediately hopped out and started taking pictures.
I said, “Look, I’m driving my kids to school. Please respect that. If you want to take a picture of me, that’s your prerogative, but please don’t let it affect my children. Just let me take them to school. I’ll be right home after I drop them off. Follow me then—I don’t care.”
He said, “Okay. Thanks for being so reasonable about it.” Then he got in his car and drove away. See? Everyone shares a universal desire to protect the children. It gave me a slightly warm feeling.
But a few months later, in June of 2011, I changed my tune. I was about five months pregnant with Hattie, so I had a belly. Dean was off at culinary school for the day—he was taking a final cooking test to pass a course—and I was driving Liam and Stella to their preschool. I saw someone follow us from the house. At first I thought, I’m sure he knows where we’re going. He’ll stop at some point. But he stayed with us all the way to school.
Was this paparazzo about to take pictures of my children and their sweet, homey preschool? This was unprecedented. The kids’ school felt like sacred ground. We lead a pretty public life, but so far the press had never reported the name of the kids’ school or shown pictures of them there.
Legally, the paparazzi can’t trespass, so once we were on school property, we’d theoretically be safe. The drop-off at the preschool was an open, circular driveway with a parking lot on one side of it. It’s also against the law for the paparazzi to take pictures of private property, even if they’re standing on public property, but they violate that all the time. The driveway was sort of outside the main gate of the school, and I was worried that he’d decide it didn’t count as private.
Indeed, as I nosed into a parking spot, the photographer jumped out of his car and started running toward us, taking pictures as he came. There was a huge sign over the entryway saying the name of the school. If he took pictures of the kids as they passed under that sign, everyone would know where they went to school! Fuck. I had to get out of there, and fast.
I threw the car into reverse. I was going to back out quickly, zoom out of the lot, lead him away, and try to persuade him to leave us this modicum of privacy. However, things didn’t go as planned. In my panic, I hit the gas too hard. The car leapt backward—straight into a stone wall.
We hit that wall very hard. I was thrown back, then forward. My heart was pounding. Oh my God. Liam and Stella, in the back
seat, immediately started chirping, “Mom! You hit the wall!”
I turned around. “Are you guys okay?” They looked comfortable and cheerful in their car seats. They were fine, but they were very excited about the drama of the moment and continued to discuss the amazing news that we’d hit the school.
As I sat in the front seat, still stunned, people started running out of the school. The head of the school. The office staff. But then the most amazing thing happened. A group of moms were standing outside the school. They had witnessed the accident, and all at once, as a group, they started running toward my car. They descended on the paparazzo, who was starting to take pictures of the rear end of my car, smashed up against the wall. (Talk about adding insult to injury.) The moms pushed between him and my car, waving their arms in the air to block his shots. I heard them yelling, “Get out of here! We’re going to get you!” Tears of gratitude sprang to my eyes. They weren’t even moms I was friends with, but they had formed a mom lynch mob in my defense. My heroes! The photographer yelled at them, determined to get his shot regardless of what had just happened, but finally he gave up and left. Moms in sweats unite! Go mom warriors!
I’d had a few fender benders, but this was by far the biggest accident I’d ever been in. I had hit the wall of the driveway so hard that I’d taken part of it down. The back of my car was crushed, and it was completely undrivable. We ushered the kids inside and saw them to their classrooms. Only after they were out of sight, and I was in the safety of the headmaster’s office, did I burst into tears.
The headmaster said, “Are you hurt?”
I said, “No, I’m just so sorry I did this to you. You have this sweet family school. You shouldn’t have to deal with this.”
The school was meant to be a haven. They didn’t deserve this intrusion. And a busted wall. The headmaster was gracious—he and everyone else blamed the paparazzo—but I was mortified.
A friend came to pick me up. We were going straight to the doctor to make sure the baby was okay. As I waited for my ride, my mortification turned to anger. I’d had some faith in humanity, but that guy ruined it. Everyone was just out for a cheap buck. I went on Twitter and wrote: “Paparazzi chased me w/the kids 2school. I was trying to get away from him and had a pretty big accident. Took down whole wall of school. He thn STILL got out to try to get pics. 10 school moms chased him away. Wht will it take? Someone dying for paparazzi to stop? Going to dr now to check on baby. I think its just shock.” That tweet was a big mistake. I didn’t do it to get attention—I did it to vent and prevent—but a media shitstorm ensued.
It was on every station. Paparazzi and the stars. Children and privacy. Where was the line? I agreed that it was an important issue. But as I watched the coverage I was increasingly horrified. Camera crews stood in front of the preschool. It was night, and the lights were on the reporter as she told the story. “Tori Spelling was in a car accident”—the camera zoomed in on the wall that I’d hit—“while at her children’s school.” The camera swooped up to the name of the school. There it was. The very shot I’d been so desperate to avoid. They were reporting on how the paparazzi violated privacy without realizing that what they were doing was actually worse. Some tabloid shot of the school would have come and gone, but now it was all over the national news.
On 20/20, at some red-carpet event, they were interviewing Julia Roberts. It was such topical news that they asked her opinion on the matter. She said something like, “Yes, I think it’s terrible.” Julia Roberts knew about my car accident! She knew who I was. Mystic Pizza was my fave. Every cloud has a silver lining.
I’m the Stalker
You Let in Your Front Door
Julia Roberts was impressive, but she was not on my Must Meet One Day list. Kelly Wearstler, designer extraordinaire, was, and I was about to have my big chance with her.
Two years earlier, Dean and I had spent an ill-fated summer in Malibu, when jury duty, travel, and my own neuroses got in the way of a relaxing vacation. After that experience, I had vowed I would never go to Malibu again. But as summer approached, my two internal voices went to war with each other. The Lucy voice, with its harebrained ideas, said, “Go to Malibu! The sunshine! The waves! The family all crowded together in a tiny beach house!” Then the Ricky voice chimed in: “You shouldn’t be doing this. Remember what happened last time?” Back and forth, back and forth, like a therapy session in my head. I should know better by now. Lucy always wins.
We rented a little house in Malibu: Dean, the kids, and me with my round belly. It was all we could afford, but I was glad the house was small. At home in Encino, our six-thousand-square-foot house was far too big. We were always in different rooms. Here we were all together, on top of each other, and I was in heaven. It didn’t hurt that this particular small house was snugly nestled on millionaire row—the Pacific Coast Highway is probably the most expensive highway in the world. But in my mind we weren’t leading a grand lifestyle. I did tons of cooking. The kids and I made plaster-of-Paris footprints and other beachy crafts. We were enjoying a cozy family life—cooking, crafting, and watching movies together. It was the life I wanted.
Actually, the life I wanted was right next door. Our immediate neighbor happened to be the fabulous Kelly Wearstler. I’ll confess that when we were looking for a summer place, we were shown two houses. The house that I picked worked well for our family, but I definitely factored in Kelly Wearstler’s proximity. I mean, Kelly Wearstler is one of my favorite interior designers. I’d loved her from afar for a long time. Spending a summer next door to her—I could see us chatting on the beach while our kids built luxury sand castles together.
I’d say, “Kelly, I love what you’ve done with malachite.”
She’d reply, “Thanks, Tori. What do you think the next stone in design is going to be?”
“You must do tiger’s-eye, Kelly.”
“Tori, you are a genius.”
Then we’d air-kiss and frolic in the sand in matching BFF caftans. (Too seventh grade?) “So lucky,” we would say. “If we hadn’t been neighbors we might never have met!” Failing that, I would be excited just to say hi on the beach once or twice and bask in her fabulousness for a summer. We even had an in—my friend Cheyenne.
Cheyenne was our occasional masseuse (We’re mommy friends, I swear. We double date with our husbands. Does that make it sound less fancy? I’m not talking weekly massage! Just biweekly. Kidding), and she also worked on Kelly. I was always not-so-subtly probing to find out what she was like. Now that she was next door—well, I upped my game. Trying to be discreet, I offhandedly mentioned to Cheyenne that Kelly was next door, and that we both had kids, so if she ever wanted to have a playdate . . . Cheyenne could give her my e-mail. That’s right. I was that person.
All July I kept an eye out for signs of life at the Wearstler house, but for the first couple weeks we were in Malibu, it seemed to sit cold and empty. Then one day I heard laughter coming from the beach nearby. The Wearstlers had arrived. Their kids were running around on the sand. This was my golden opportunity, but I couldn’t rise to the occasion. I was too shy to look in their direction, much less to go over and say hi. Instead, I slunk inside and glanced back as the screen door closed behind me. I caught a glimpse of someone with a wide-brimmed hat and flash of long, golden hair. It had to be Kelly.
Days passed. If I was ever going to meet her, I needed a plan. I brought Mehran in on it.
“Why don’t you take a walk on the beach?” he suggested. “Or go to her door and introduce yourself. Borrow something—an egg. Or maybe a slab of agate.”
Mehran was full of potential meet scenarios, but I couldn’t execute. I was much more comfortable stalking from afar. The closest I came was one day when we were out on the beach and I noticed Kelly’s sons playing Frisbee nearby.
“See the two boys playing Frisbee?” I said to Liam and Stella. “You should join in!” But no. They just wanted to keep playing in the sand. Foiled again.
Then one day it fin
ally happened. I walked out onto the balcony and heard a pleasant voice calling out from the balcony next door. I couldn’t respond. I scurried back inside. Dean was standing there, looking at me.
“Isn’t that Kelly Wearstler calling you? Why aren’t you answering her?” he said.
“Um, I think she’s talking to someone else,” I said. “She’s saying ‘Cory.’ ”
Dean peeked out the window. “She’s standing right there,” he said.
I looked out the sliding door. There she was, waving and saying hi. I stepped back out onto the balcony. So nervous.
Kelly was standing on her nearby balcony. She had long blond hair. She was wearing a cuffed blouse, really short turquoise jean shorts, silver high-tops, and bangles. She held a parasol and didn’t seem to have any makeup on. I could tell that this outfit was something that she just threw on for a casual day at the beach. It wasn’t something she had carefully put together. I loved her throw-on look. I loved everything about her.
Kelly said, “You have kids my kids’ age, right?” Cheyenne had delivered!
“Yes, I think that’s right,” I said, so coy.
Kelly said, “Bring them over if you want.”
I said, “Now?”
She said, “Sure, just come in on the street side. I’ll meet you there.”
Here it was. The invitation I’d been waiting for. Not only would I meet Kelly Wearstler, I would get to see her beach house. With her in it. It was the chance of a lifetime. But I couldn’t do it.
“Dean, can you walk them over?” I said. But no, Dean claimed to be in the middle of making lunch. As if lunch mattered at a time like this.
Oh my gosh. Was I dressed okay? I was wearing maternity jean shorts, a short-sleeved white peasant top from Forever 21 in size 10, and short fringed Uggs. If I was going to go through with this, I thought I should change into something a little more worthy. But what if she’d seen what I was wearing and figured out that I’d changed my clothes? That would be the worst. Still, maybe she hadn’t noticed my feet. I threw on a pair of Missoni ballet flats as a last-ditch effort. I was unfashionable and hugely pregnant. But I was doing this.
Spelling It Like It Is Page 3
