Stori Telling

by Tori Spelling

  When for some reason I went back the next day, the same little girl silently guided me into the brownstone. Mama Lola greeted me by asking, “Did you bring the perfume?” I had no idea what she was talking about. She said, “Don’t worry. I’ll lend you a perfume.” Then she said, “I have to cook,” and she left. But she was very nice, popping her head in now and then to check on me. Once she asked, “Are you okay with chicken?” I said yes, thinking maybe she was cooking chicken? Then she said, “You’re not scared?” Scared of chicken? I was already scared of so many things: dolls, planes, being alone, confrontation, those little shrunken heads on the stairwell—the more I thought about them, the more I wondered whose heads they actually were. Was I supposed to be scared of chicken, too? I said, “A live chicken? No, I’m not scared.” Then I realized exactly what was going on. How could I have been so oblivious! It was obvious. The adorable little girl. The cluttered house. The men with phalluses. The chicken. I was totally being Punk’d.

  I called Chris, one of the So NoTORIous writers and, whispering in the phone, told him what was going on. I said, “There’s voodoo and rituals and they’re talking about a chicken. I think I’m being Punk’d.” His advice: “Make sure you look good.”

  Finally, after Mama Lola, her granddaughter, and I spent an hour watching Jerry Springer, Mama Lola’s daughter came in carrying a crate. I heard clucking. There was a chicken, for real. I said, “I’m a huge animal activist. You’re not going to hurt a chicken, right?” Mama Lola said, “You’ll be fine.”

  We went back to the basement, where Mama Lola and her daughter started putting newspaper all over the floor. She told me to take off all of my clothes except my underwear. Then I stood in my G-string in the middle of the newspaper reading from a sheet of paper that said something like, “I, Tori Spelling, cast off any harm that’s come my way.” When I had to fill in the blanks of who put the evil eye on me, I named my mother and Mark.

  Then they brought a cute little white chicken up to me. Mama Lola and her daughter walked around me saying things—it’s something of a blur—but all I recall is that ultimately, she began to clutch the poor chicken’s neck. I started crying and begging her not to kill the chicken. She said sternly, “Her life for your life. This has to be done.” I pleaded with her, but what was I going to do—grab the chicken and flee in my Cosabella thong?

  Then she really did break the chicken’s neck. Next blood was everywhere, and she wiped it on me, drawing a bloody cross on my forehead. (I’m Jewish!) She put something in my hands—I’m pretty sure it was the chicken’s heart, though I refused to open my eyes. This was definitely not Punk’d. Punk’d wouldn’t kill a chicken. Killing a chicken was, I was fairly certain, against the American Humane Association’s Guidelines for the Safe Use of Animals in Filmed Media.

  Mama Lola smeared some sort of bean and vegetable slop on my body—and what’s a three-course meal on my skin without drinks?—so next she raised a huge Costco-size jug of clear alcohol, took a swig, and spit it in my face. Then she came over with a bottle of Jean Naté. (It was the drugstore perfume Nanny used to wear, with its spherical black top. It took me briefly to a happy place.) Now I smelled like chicken entrails, gin, and Jean Naté. If Mehran and I ever branched from fashion into scent, this was not the direction I had in mind.

  After all of this was over, she gave me three handkerchiefs to clean myself. Then she had me take off my underwear and give it to her. She had to bury it with the chicken. Sure. Of course she did. I wasn’t asking questions. I just wanted it to be over.

  When I got in the car to head back to work, I felt like the sole survivor at the end of a horror movie. I sat dazed, my eyes blank, speeding away from the scene of terror and death. I’d escaped.

  The writers were furious. They’d flown to New York to work with me, and I was two hours late. I said, “You guys, you don’t understand. She killed a chicken, ripped its heart out, and smeared it on me.” Then, over lunch, one of them said, “What’s on your face?” We were in a nice restaurant. I picked up a spoon to look and saw that there were flecks of dried blood all over my forehead. Chicken blood.

  I didn’t want to go back, but I was afraid I’d be cursed forever if I didn’t have the good bath. My manager went online and Googled Mama Lola. She reported back, “You know, she’s pretty reputable. She’s big in the voodoo priestess world. She gives seminars. I think you’re okay.” So the next day I went back. It was the same day I was supposed to leave for Ottawa, so the limo took me to Brooklyn before I headed north.

  It was my third day at Mama Lola’s, and for all my fear, I was starting to know and like her family. There were several generations living in the house. While I was chatting with them, the young granddaughter ran in and said, “There’s a car mansion sitting outside our house!” She’d never seen a limo before. I was trying to explain about Ottawa when Mama Lola said to her other granddaughter, who was about twenty years old, “Just ask her! No one’s embarrassed here.” Then Mama Lola turned to me and said, “She said you’re on a TV show.”

  I said, “Yeah, I was on a show. 90210.”

  And then Mama Lola said, “They tell me your dad is that producer, Aaron Spelling. You think he can get me on one of those shows?”

  I said, “Which show?”

  She said, “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition.” She was onto something there. Her house could’ve used a helping hand.

  But all I said was, “Well, I’m sorry, but that’s not one of his shows.”

  The second bath was simple. It was a milk bath, with more chanting and gesturing. I gave Mama Lola two hundred dollars and thanked her. I felt exhausted and traumatized. I still didn’t really know what to think. As I was leaving she gave me her business card. It read: MAMA LOLA. HIGH VOODOO PRIESTESS.

  Safe in the limo, I IM’d Kelley. My message said, Um. I went to Mama Lola. I’m just wondering. Did your cleansing and reading involve killing a live chicken? She covered me with beans and rice, spit gin in my face, drenched me in Jean Naté, smeared blood on me, and had me hold the chicken’s heart. Kelley quickly IM’d back. She said, No—she just walked around me with some candles and made me recite some stuff. I guess my evil eye was really, really evil.

  My visit to Mama Lola made it into So NoTORIous, so at least the writers’ time wasn’t completely wasted. Whoopi Goldberg played a character inspired by Mama Lola, but it was not without some trepidation. She was concerned that Mama Lola would put a curse on her. But now that I have some distance, I don’t think Mama Lola is the kind of priestess to issue revenge curses. And if you’re reading this, Mama Lola, please know that I retell this story with gratitude. Let’s give credit where credit is (possibly?) due: After my cleansing…everything changed.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Real Fairy Tale

  I almost turned Mind over Murder down. There were a few good reasons not to do the movie. First of all, the pay was less than my quote (the standard amount an actor commands for a role). Secondly, it was shooting in Ottawa—eastern Canada. Ottawa? It wasn’t exactly Vancouver, which is less than two hours by plane from L.A. Thirdly, we were going into preproduction on So NoTORIous. I was supposed to be home hashing out ideas for the season. But TV movies have been my bread and butter. If I’m offered a TV movie I like, I’ll find some way to squeeze it into my schedule.

  I read the script for Mind over Murder. It was a thriller/romantic comedy, and the part they had in mind for me was an assistant district attorney. Tori Spelling as an ADA? Wasn’t that kind of ridiculous? Would people be able to buy me playing a lawyer? I couldn’t picture myself in court—whether in movies or in real life. (I’m a good girl, remember? I don’t shoplift, drink and drive, violate parole, or go clubbing baring the beave). Still, it was a quirky, funny character, different from anything I’d done before. It’d be nice to make some money. But So NoTORIous was all I could think about. I wavered until it was down to the wire. Finally Charlie read the script and weighed in. He thought it was a good role fo
r me and encouraged me to take it. I’m so indecisive that if someone has a strong opinion, I feel like I should follow it. I signed on at the last minute. If I hadn’t, I never would have met Dean, and who knows what would have become of me.

  The Mind over Murder producer told me that in Ottawa I’d be staying at a hotel called the Cartier Place. It sounded fancy. Plus, they’d booked me the penthouse. Woo hoo! I was going to live it up, Canada-style. I arrived late on a Wednesday night in the beginning of August. My penthouse was large, yes. But nice? Not so much. It was a two-bedroom with roof access, but there were push-button shampoo dispensers in the shower and the comforter felt like paper. It was like a very large room at the Holiday Inn. Oh well. So much for movie-star luxury.

  The next day I had to do wardrobe fittings and get a physical exam, then on Saturday we were going to start filming. In the wardrobe room there were head shots of all the cast on the wall. The woman who was taking my measurements said, “Do you want to see your leading man?” I realized I had no idea what my costar, Dean McDermott, looked like. Usually, whenever I was about to meet a new leading man, I’d look him up on IMDb.com (the Internet Movie Database) so I could see if he was cute. Even if I was in a relationship, I always checked out my leading men. Now it hit me that for the first time ever I hadn’t IMDb-stalked this Dean McDermott. It hadn’t even occurred to me.

  I have to admit that I was a little disappointed when I saw Dean’s head shot. He looked older than I, kind of conservative, and not supercute. But he was playing a detective in the movie. Maybe a straitlaced look was good for that. Whatever, it was no big deal. I was there to work. And, hello, I was married anyway!

  Later that morning I had a meeting with the director, Chris Leitch. We were talking across his desk when he looked past me and said, “Your leading man is here. You two should meet.” I turned around, and Dean was standing in the doorway. He looked nothing like his head shot. He was tall and handsome, wearing jeans and boots, with a sexy scruff. My first thought was, Oh my God, he’s so hot. My second thought was, I must look terrible. I hadn’t put on makeup or done my hair.

  Dean came across the room. We shook hands. I’ve been instantly attracted to men before, but this was different. It was love at first sight. I am fully aware of how ridiculous that sounds, and I still mean it. Who believes in love at first sight? Sure, it’s all very cute when you’re a little girl playing princess or a teenager watching John Hughes movies. Then you get older and wiser and live enough of life to know that love at first sight doesn’t exist except in fairy tales. And then, all of a sudden, this moment. All my accumulated cynicism dissipated. There was such thing as true love. I fell so hard.

  That night the producers had invited me to a big cast and producers’ dinner. I was supposed to meet them in the lobby of the illustrious Cartier Place so we could all shuttle to the restaurant in a van. When the elevator doors opened, Dean was standing there. The first thing he said to me was, “Great purse.” It was the new Chloé bag, a large cobalt blue Silverado. I’d splurged on it in New York—a present to myself for So NoTORIous and the movie. I couldn’t believe a straight man was complimenting me on my purse. Mehran would approve. I was impressed.

  Dinner that night was in a private room at a place called e18hteen, a cool, chic, new restaurant-lounge in downtown Ottawa. The producers put me and Dean next to each other at the long banquet table. I remember every detail of that night because when I look back, it seems that if one little thing had been different—the casting, the timing, the weather, the seating arrangement, the Ottawan elections that year—everything might not have happened. But things were what they were. It was so meant to be.

  Usually when I first meet a boy, I can’t eat in front of him. I’m too worried about having something green in my teeth or talking with food in my mouth. But that night I ate every morsel on my plate. Dean said he was impressed that a tiny girl like me ate so much. But I’m a total foodie. If I’m comfortable. During dinner the director asked from across the table if we were getting along. Dean replied, “We’re getting along famously.” No question, we were hitting it off. We had everything in common—and this time it wasn’t because I was trying to be whomever he wanted me to be. I was, I realized, completely myself around him. I wasn’t afraid to be obnoxious or crass. I could be funny, and he responded. I was pretty sure he thought I was charming and hilarious. He told me I was “tragically cute,” and I thought that was adorable. Then I noticed that he had a wedding ring on. When someone asked, he pulled out photos of his children. And—oh, yeah—I had a husband too. It was fun to flirt, but I knew nothing would happen. It was a nonissue.

  But: Dean and I went to a bar after dinner. And we spent that night together at the Cartier Place.

  My publicist would want me to say what all celebrities say when they hook up on the set of movies. We were just friends at first. A relationship developed over time. We didn’t get together until we’d both left our spouses. But that’s not true.

  Dean and I spent the first night we met together, but hear me out. Before that night I had never cheated on Charlie. I’d worked with numerous attractive actors in the course of our relationship. I’d had men hit on me. There were plenty of opportunities with guys who were interesting and great. But I was married. It never occurred to me to do such a thing to my husband. I wasn’t in that mode. I didn’t want to hurt him. This was totally out of character. It was testament to how powerful my connection with Dean was.

  Tellingly, the following day when I woke up next to Dean, I had no regrets. Something was really wrong with my marriage. Not only because I slept with this guy—although that certainly wasn’t a positive sign one year into a marriage—but because I didn’t regret it.

  It was Friday morning. The hair colorist for the movie was coming over at ten a.m. I told Dean he had to leave before the colorist got there, and that felt icky. I didn’t like having to hide something that felt right. But the real kicker was that Charlie was arriving that night. It was a four-week shoot, and I’d come straight from two weeks in New York. That meant I was going to be away from L.A. for a total of six weeks. Without my dogs. How could I leave Mimi and Ferris for so long? Charlie had gone home after our New York trip. Now, with my then-assistant (and now close friend), Marcel, he was flying them to Ottawa so they could be with me. I didn’t want Charlie to come. I didn’t want the dogs to come. Actually, I did want the dogs to come. I really missed the dogs. But my relationship with them was much less complicated. Mostly, I spent all day feeling like a kid in high school, wondering if Dean was going to call.

  That night when I got home from work, there was a voice mail from Dean. He called me “T,” like lots of my friends. That felt right. But he called himself “Deano,” which seemed like more of a buddy nickname. Did he actually like me? Or was it an obligatory phone call—he knew he had to work with me and wanted to smooth things over? I must have listened to it a hundred times, trying to analyze his voice inflection. I was excited and nervous, and I twisted it all different ways, trying to unravel the real story.

  But the reality was that my husband was arriving in three hours. I had to erase the message. I couldn’t tell my friends. I’d cheated on my husband.

  When Charlie arrived late that night, I was still wide awake, wired from the drama, but I pretended to be asleep. The next morning I had an early call. Charlie stirred as I was leaving and told me he’d come meet me for lunch.

  The movie was being shot near a high school, so lunch was served in the school’s cafeteria. Charlie, Marcel, the dogs, and I sat at one of the long lunch tables. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I caught someone looking over at me. It was Dean, sitting with the director, Chris. It was his day off, but he’d come for lunch. We were in a high school cafeteria, so what did I do? I pretended I didn’t see him. I pretended I was just scanning the room. I let my eyes float right past him. Hello, seventh grade.

  After lunch Charlie, Marcel, and I went outside and were standing around talking. Soon
Dean walked out, and I introduced him to Charlie. That was the weirdest experience of my entire life. Dean I’d only known for a day. I felt like I was in love with him, and I doubted that was possible. Charlie was my husband, but I doubted that love too. And there I was introducing the two of them as if there were no conflict or doubt.

  Later Dean told me that he was shocked when he saw Charlie. He said, “I expected him to look like…well…me. I figured I was your type.” It made me remember a conversation I’d had with Jenny about a month before my wedding. Charlie and his writing partner had written a movie based on an idea I had. We were having a staged reading to try to get investors. My friend Scout, a casting director, had lined up actors for the event. I was reading the lead role and the colead was being done by Matt Davis, the hot guy from Legally Blonde and Blue Crush.

  The next week I was at dinner with Jenny and a couple friends. Jenny said that Matt Davis was my type. He was tall, good-looking, cool. She said she always thought I’d end up with someone like that. I was taken aback. Why was she talking about what my type was right before my wedding? Besides, it was shallow. I wasn’t marrying for looks. Jenny backpedaled immediately. “Of course,” she said, “Charlie’s not your type, but he’s really good for you.”

  So Dean wasn’t off the mark. Charlie’s not my physical type and Dean is. He’s very tall, with blue eyes and light hair. And I’ve always thought that noses on men are very important. (I mean, I had the gene pool of my future children to consider, didn’t I?) Dean’s nose is cute and perky. He’s Canadian, and Canadian men have the best noses.