Stori Telling

by Tori Spelling

  When Shannen left, I felt the same as everyone else, like I could breathe again. As soon as she was gone, we could all hang out comfortably, without anyone feeling left out or talking about each other behind our backs. High school had ended.

  I know being nonconfrontational seems harmlessly passive, but my case is extreme and it’s gotten me in plenty of trouble over the years. When it came to my relationship with Nick, although we fought, I couldn’t see the reality of the situation. I didn’t have a boyfriend; I had a money-sapping verbal abuser making a fool out of me on a daily basis. I acted as though I were trapped, but I learned that even I have a breaking point. The final straw came during one fight that wasn’t much different from all the other fights. Nick was screaming at me. He’d always let loose about how ugly and untalented I was. He said the same stuff now: “You’ll never get another acting job because they don’t hire people as ugly as you.” And then: “You know why I don’t stay home with you? Because you’re ugly.” This time something clicked. His words were familiar, and not just because he’d said them before. He sounded like the tabloids, the tabloids that were forever mocking my acting and appearance. I’d learned how to throw away those weeklies, and I was finally ready to toss him out too.

  He railed on, but I just shut up and waited for him to storm out the door. Then I called my girlfriends—Jenny, Jennifer, Melissa, and Jodi—and told them I was breaking up with him. They’d heard that from me before, but I swore this time it was for good. I told them all to drive to my house in separate cars. When they arrived, I was ready with a plan. I called a locksmith. We packed up everything he owned into garbage bags and threw them into their cars. The locksmith arrived and I had all the locks changed.

  Nick’s half sister happens to be Nicollette Sheridan. We drove to her house. It was eleven o’clock at night, and my friends started dumping all his stuff out on her front lawn while I sat in my car, numb. (I said I had a plan. I didn’t say it was a good plan.) In the middle of this pandemonium Nicollette came out of her house. She very calmly asked what was going on, and my friends told her that this was Nick’s stuff. She asked where I was, and they pointed to my car. By the time she knocked on the window, I was shaking and hiding on the floor of the backseat. I was such a chicken. I looked up at her and said, “I’m so sorry. Are you mad?” She said, “Mad? I told you to break up with him a year ago. Now come inside and have some tea.” So that’s what we did. We went inside. We drank tea. It was so civilized that I forgot all about her clothes-strewn lawn until we opened the door to leave. “What should we do about this stuff?” we asked. Nicollette said, “Don’t worry about it. I’ll get it to him,” and smiled warmly.

  I pretty much never saw Nick again after that. I ran into him once, and he showed me how he’d changed the tattoo of my nickname that he once had on his upper arm. It had said Toto, which is what my dad used to call me. Someone had suggested that Nick change it to In Toto, Latin for “in all.” Was I supposed to congratulate him?

  I never really thanked Luke Perry properly—for hating Nick enough to throw a few punches and for staging a bad-boyfriend intervention on the set of 90210. So thank you, Luke, for being a real friend.

  Not long after I evicted Nick, I myself got evicted. I was away filming a TV movie, and my landlord sold the apartments out from under me. My mother saved the day, putting all my stuff in storage. When I came back, I camped out with my parents temporarily. As it happened, my mother and I had recently, mostly out of curiosity, toured an apartment in a beautiful building, the most expensive building in the Wilshire Corridor. The Wilshire was over-the-top amazing. Each apartment had a private elevator entry, all the fanciest fixtures, and fabulous views. There was a twenty-four-hour concierge and parking valet, a gym, and a pool. In spite of my reassurances, my mother was nervous that I’d continue to see Nick. She offered me a deal. She said, “You know that apartment we loved? If you promise me that you’ll never see Nick again and that you and Jenny will live there together, I’ll buy that condo for you.” She always loved my best friend Jenny, and she wanted us to be roommates.

  It wasn’t a bad offer. I had no desire to see Nick. And Jenny and I wanted to live together anyway. And (did I mention?) the apartment was beyond luxe. But my first instinct was to say no. I didn’t want her to buy me anything. I was earning a living and didn’t depend on my parents, and why should I? Besides, I knew people would ask me if I owned it, and I didn’t want to have to say, Yes, Daddy bought it for me. I’d spent so much time fighting the assumption that everything was handed to me…. On the other hand, I was working my butt off, and there was still no way I’d ever be able to afford that condo.

  I told my mother that I felt weird just taking such an enormous gift. She was very understanding and asked what would make me feel better. I said, “I’d like to pay rent.” She said I didn’t have to do that, but I insisted. I asked her to come up with a number, and she suggested a thousand dollars per month. Jenny would pay eight hundred for a slightly smaller room. It was way under market, of course, but fine. We had a deal.

  The apartment was new construction, so although the floor plan was in place, the floors were still concrete and the final details were left for the owner to customize. We put in wood floors, moldings, and light fixtures. We picked out furniture with my mother’s interior designer. I’d never really decorated a place from scratch like that, but I knew what I wanted—I was into shabby chic at the time. It wasn’t my mother’s style. She was buying me everything, and I soon realized that all went smoothly if I picked a piece she liked, but if she didn’t approve, it was a no go.

  Furniture-hunting for my grown-up apartment, I tried to show a little spine. I couldn’t afford that red Rabbit convertible when I was young, but now I had the means to assert my own taste, and I finally did. There was some piece I wanted—I think it was a dining room table. When my mother said she didn’t like it, I said that I’d pay for it with my own money. She said, “If you want to pay for it, you should pay for the rest. I was just trying to help.” The message was loud and clear: If you want to control what’s in your apartment, you buy it. And so, from then on, that’s what I did.

  When Jenny and I moved in, we soon discovered that our neighbors were an eclectic group of Hollywood types: Rodney Dangerfield, Charlie Sheen, Carol Burnett, former congressman Michael Huffington, and later Farrah Fawcett. I don’t remember a whole lot about the time I lived in The Wilshire with Jenny. I just know I didn’t leave the couch. Jenny was working for my dad as a casting director. I was on 90210. We both worked all day long. Every night when I came home, Jenny would be in flannel pj’s on the couch, TV on, delivery menus spread out on the coffee table. It was the height of Friends ’ popularity, and every Thursday night we watched it faithfully. Eventually we’d fall asleep in front of the TV, and around ten p.m. we’d wake up and go to our rooms.

  Even though our rent had been established to make me feel better about living in my parents’ apartment, my mother raised our rent every year. I’d get an e-mail from our mutual business manager notifying me of the increase. When I asked why, I was told that she had to raise the rent for tax purposes. In the ten years I lived there, my rent went from one thousand to forty-three hundred dollars per month, which was probably still under market value. But in all that time my mother and I never said another word about it.

  After two years in that apartment Jenny met a guy in New York. She up and decided to join him there. I was away filming a TV movie when she called to let me know that she was moving out in a week. Luckily, my friend Pete, who’s also part of the Valley group with Mehran, Jenny, and Jennifer, was living with his parents at the time, and the minute he heard what was going on with Jenny, he said, “I’ll move in with you.” I didn’t think hard about it. Problem emerged; problem solved. Pete moved in.

  Pete was just out of college and in the middle of medical school. He was one of my best friends, but he loved to party. And he loved the ladies. A group of us would go out to a club, a
nd we’d be ushered into the VIP section. There was always a certain kind of girl who was thrilled to be able to join us there, and Pete knew it. These were skanky, bottom-of-the-barrel girls. Low-end strippers with boob jobs and seven-inch stiletto heels, one after another. Some of them were hanger-on girls who paid attention to him because he lived with Tori Spelling. Pete would buy them drinks and, often, bring them home.

  Pete was all about maximizing his potential score. We’d go to lingerie parties at the Playboy Mansion. We’d dress up—not in skimpy slutwear—I’d go to the store Trashy Lingerie and pick out a matching nightgown and robe, and wear them with nine-inch stripper heels. Or I’d put together a cute outfit, but never a G-string and thong like some of the guests. It was a huge, great place for a party. There would be about a thousand guests, everyone in young Hollywood, with bars everywhere and tables of food. (I was obsessed with the little lamb chops served in frilly panties.) There was a huge swimming pool and the infamous stone grotto. I remember standing next to Leonardo DiCaprio and seeing Martin Landau and Scott Baio in a ten-foot radius. Anyone and everyone was at those parties.

  Thanks to Pete, there was no end of female visitors to my apartment. I never knew who would be there when I got home or woke up. One time I came out in the morning to find an unfamiliar girl sitting at the counter, eating a bowl of cereal. She looked at me as if I were a masked intruder and said, “Who are you?” I stammered, “I’m Tori. Pete’s roommate.” She said, “Oh. Well, you’re out of milk.” I thought, I am now, slunk back into my bedroom, and hid there until she was gone.

  Some girls would appear overnight and…stay. I wasn’t exactly thrilled to have a revolving door of unsavory roommates. Pete would say, “Oh, yeah, she was evicted. She’s just staying a couple days.” I’d peer through his doorway and see all of her clothes and shoes in his closet. Weeks later she’d disappear without a good-bye. Which I guess makes sense since there usually wasn’t much of a hello.

  My least favorite of Pete’s girlfriends had to be the one named Tori. (No, sharing first names did not bring us closer, but thanks for asking.) I saw a simple diamond pavé band at Fred Segal that I thought I’d like to wear as a pinkie ring. I have small fingers so I had it custom-made (I guess the old habits of my custom-made childhood died hard). One Saturday I came home to find this other Tori, who identified herself as Pete’s “girlfriend” (there were so many), sitting in my living room on my couch watching my TV. Pete was nowhere to be found. I joined her on the couch. After I while I glanced over at her. She was wearing a diamond pavé ring. On her pinkie. My ring.

  Far be it from me to actually confront her, but it was my ring and I wanted it back. So what did I do? I said, “I really like your ring. I have one just like it.” She was nonresponsive, seemingly riveted by a Who’s the Boss? rerun. I tried again. “Did you get that at Fred Segal?” I asked. She said, “Yeah, my mom got it at Fred Segal.” Then I knew beyond a doubt that it was mine. No way did her mom buy it. It was a special order! That’s kind of the point of special orders—nobody else has the same thing.

  When Pete came home, I immediately pulled him into his bedroom. “Your girlfriend stole my ring,” I said. He was furious. He started screaming at me, saying I had no proof and that I always hated his girlfriends. He had a point—I did hate them. But it’s not like it was worth liking them—they were so short-lived. And that’s the most flattering thing I can think of to say about them. Pete stormed out of the room, and I retreated into my bedroom to check my jewelry box for the ring. Indeed, it was gone.

  The next morning Pete handed me the ring. He said, “I owe you an apology, but it’s not what you think. She was just embarrassed to tell you the truth because you were freaking out. What really happened is that she found it on the carpet in the hallway. She claimed she didn’t know whose it was.” Let’s see. It’s not like she found it on the street or in the hall of a hotel. She found it in the hallway of my apartment. I was the only woman who lived there! Not exactly the circumstances under which the finders-keepers rule was established.

  For Pete’s birthday that year a big group of us went out to dinner. I’d baked him a cake and decorated it. Afterward I was going to watch movies at my friend Mehran’s. Pete asked if I minded if he had some people back to our place. Um, yeah, I kind of did. More of Pete’s randoms in my apartment? I hadn’t even hidden my valuables. But it was his birthday—I couldn’t say no.

  The next day I came home to find the place trashed. All the liquor had been emptied from the bar. The toilet was overflowing, and the soles of my shoes stuck to the floor. But what really devastated me was the state of my Sea-Monkeys. You know, those little shrimp they sell in comic books as novelty pets. I’d kept mine alive in a container on the bar for a year and a half, possibly a world record. But now the tank was completely empty. The counter was a dried, sticky mass. My Sea-Monkeys! Someone had spilled them and just left them there. Not to be insensitive, but that counter was the Jonestown of Sea-Monkeys. Poor little guys.

  Maybe it was that night, maybe it was one of the other nights that were regrettably similar, but one of Pete’s guests made off with some of my personal photos. And, of course, subsequently sold them to the tabloids. There’s a picture of me that has appeared in all of the magazines, time after time. I’m standing behind a couch with one leg kicked up, holding my teacup white poodle, Greta. I’m wearing a tank top and a G-string and have a cigarette in my mouth. According to the Enquirer, the photo was taken when I was at a house party and spontaneously started doing a striptease. The truth is that Pete and Jenny were visiting me on the set of a TV movie. It was my twenty-second birthday, and we were listening to the Grease album and dancing around. Just the three of us. In a hotel room. And so my raucous lifestyle goes down in history.

  I was always kicking Pete out. Or saying I was going to kick Pete out. Or planning to say I was going to kick Pete out. Or thinking about planning to say I was going to kick Pete out. But there were three problems: (a) Kicking him out would have meant I had to be alone, and I’d never lived alone; (b) Kicking him out meant I had to stand up for myself, and I’d never done much of that either. Oh, and let’s not forget: (c) He was my best friend. I loved him despite his faults. I couldn’t just kick him out. So Pete stayed.

  For all the chaos at home, when it came to work, life was uncomplicated for a long time. Beverly Hills, 90210 ran for ten solid seasons. At the beginning I had no idea it would go on so long. I’d always wanted to go to college at Northwestern because they were supposed to have a great drama department. It seemed like a reasonable plan. But remember how my parents didn’t like me to go to my friends’ houses for sleepovers? The idea that I would go somewhere requiring regular plane flights to visit was unfathomable, particularly for my father the nonflyer. They nixed any notion of me considering an out-of-state college. So I applied to USC, and let’s face it, my dad probably donated a bunch of money. I was accepted during the first year of 90210, and my father suggested that I defer for a year to keep doing the show. We didn’t know if it would stay on the air. There was plenty of time for me to go to college. Ten years later…there I was. Still working on 90210.

  Poor Donna was a virgin for most of that time. As the years went by, I started to say, “This is getting ridiculous. Donna’s the oldest living virgin.” And as I developed a fashion sense, I added, “And P.S., Donna’s the sluttiest virgin in the history of time.” But my father stuck to his guns. He wanted Donna to stay a virgin. He claimed that the fans loved it. To some extent they did, but my father blatantly wanted me to stay a little girl, to be innocent forever. Finally, when the show was starting its seventh season, I went to the writers and begged them to unlock Donna’s chastity belt. They talked and agreed. This was the year that Donna would lose her virginity. I was twenty-four. Sorry, Dad, but it was about time.

  When 90210 started, I was just a sixteen-year-old producer’s daughter with a token part on a hot new show. At the beginning of the eighth season I remember thinking
how amazing it was that I’d been playing the same character year after year, week after week, and I was still excited to come to work. But things started to go downhill. By the tenth year the writers didn’t seem to care much about the series. They were banging out scripts, and nobody gave a whit about the quality. Even my dad’s studio (Spelling Entertainment/Torand) and Fox viewed it as a finely oiled machine that didn’t need tinkering with. They’d moved on to other projects. But the actors were still invested in the show. We didn’t want the fans to see us performing horribly written scenes. We’d been so proud of it. Why would we want it to go on the air and suck? Brian and I started rewriting our scenes. Jennie would come to me and say, “Can you look at this scene? It doesn’t work. What should I do?” I’d rewrite it for her. I actually liked the work. It’s rare that an actor has that kind of freedom. Nobody seemed to notice or care.

  We tried our best to make the show better, but it still wasn’t up to par. The scripts were full of stilted lines like “I’m extending an olive branch to you and you’re not accepting it.” Who talks like that? Donna had a career in fashion, and the writers were pressed to come up with a serious issue for her every week. One week she’d single-handedly take down a sweatshop. The next she’d discover her assistant was a cutter. These were “meaty” topics, but come on. After ten years it felt like the writers had finally run out of subject matter and were scrambling to find issues they hadn’t dealt with on the show. Anyone care to defend those final episodes? Nah, didn’t think so. People were already talking about how old all the actors were. Brian and I were only twenty-six, but everyone else was older. The end was near, and everybody knew it.