Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva

by Victoria Rowell

  I’ve got to figure out how to paint Calysta as the big black stain on our pedigree show, Randall told himself. And I’ve got to do it fast.

  Is a daytime producer stepping out on his soap diva wife with a network exec? Numerous inside sources have revealed that top-secret meetings are taking place between Randall Roberts, co-executive producer of The Rich and the Ruthless, and WBC executive barracuda Edith Norman. Now to be fair, these two budget crunchers could just be rubbing their, um, “heads” together about how to stop the ratings hemorrhage that has transpired since yours truly revealed the wildly popular Ruby Stargazer was being killed off, but we hear Randall’s wife, Alison Fairchild Roberts (Rory Lovekin, The Rich and the Ruthless), doesn’t believe Randall and Edith’s clandestine meetings are so innocent!

  The Diva

  CHAPTER 16

  It’s All About the Upper Lip

  After an aborted peace offering the moment Randall entered Alison’s Liberace lair, she couldn’t wait to tattle about the Pattern Cutter.

  “That incompetent, tasteless twit Penelope; she ruined my wedding dress!” she screeched.

  “Your wedding dress?” Randall asked. “What the hell was she doing with that old thing? Alteration work again for free? Come to think of it, that’s not a bad idea, you and me renewing our vows on television. We’d get a ton of press out of it.”

  “Not the dress I wore when we got married in Maui, you idiot. The important one when my character, Rory Lovekin, tied the knot with Vidal Vinn Hansen in St. Croix.”

  Randall bit his tongue. Only a self-absorbed bubblette would ever equate the wedding dress her fictional character wore on a soap opera to memories of her own real-life nuptials, and his wife was the queen of self-absorption.

  “I thought that dress was in some costume display,” he replied.

  “Well, it’s not. That bitch Keira Knightley’s costume from The Duchess beat me out. Mine is in shreds in that Colleen Atwood–wannabe’s den of fashion faux pas. Can you believe she was actually going to let that beast Calysta Jeffries wear it for her joke of a soap opera wedding? I tried to rescue the dress and Penelope attacked me in wardrobe. Tore it to shreds right before my eyes while Calysta did nothing, absolutely nothing to help. It was all so traumatic. Look, I have a bruise on my arm,” Alison blubbered.

  “There, there, my pet,” Randall soothed with a hug.

  Going Sybil, her fake sobs instantly ceasing, Alison said, “Take your skivey hands off me. You think I don’t know what you’ve been up to? It’s all over the studio.”

  “Darling, you’re overreacting. What’s this all about?”

  “Don’t play dumb with me,” Alison warned, steeling herself. “I know you’re screwing her. I can smell that she-wolf on your top lip.”

  Randall felt a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach as he hastily curled his lip up to his nose.

  “Let’s keep our voices down, you know Emmy listens through the vents.”

  “What do I care about Emmy? I’m talking about your affair with that man-eating shrew Edith Norman.”

  “Edith?” Randall was both confused and relieved. “You can’t be serious?”

  “Dead serious. I’m not stupid. I feel all those jealous losers in hair and makeup staring at me. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve overheard them gossiping about us while I’m reading the Enquirer in the chair? They all think I’m clueless to you banging every broad behind my back! And guess what? I’ve known for years! That’s acting. But what the hell was I supposed to do, Randall, huh? Get a divorce? Not on your life. Not after all I’ve done to keep this sham of a marriage intact. And if you do manage to leave me alive I’ll fight you tooth and nail for everything. I dragged you out of the WBC mailroom when I was twenty-one and now I’m fifty-eight and if you think you’re going to trade me in for a new model like one of your Corvettes, think again! You’re stuck with these girls.” She pointed to her pendulous breasts as she stood there completely naked, winding tighter. “And you better sleep with one eye open, buddy, otherwise you run the risk of me hunting you down and filleting your dick like thinly sliced sashimi.”

  Randall felt his balls shrink to the size of two chickpeas.

  “You’ve humiliated me for the last time!” she cried, tearing one of her gold-framed Cliffhanger Weekly covers off the wall and hurling it at his head.

  “Are you insane?” he asked, ducking just in time.

  She reached for another, and then a third.

  Even a shameless hound dog like Randall Roberts wouldn’t touch cankled Edith Norman with her flat chest and frizzed-out pageboy, if Gertrude Stein herself rose from the dead to tell him the network exec had uterus didelphys.

  “Alison, stop! I have not had sex with Edith Norman, my gawd, give me some credit.”

  “You’re such a bad liar, Randall.” She hyperventilated, pulling on a pair of Spanx. “I read all about your little tryst on SecretsofaSoapOperaDiva.com.”

  “Oh come on. You don’t believe that stupid gossip blog?”

  “If it’s so stupid, why all the private meetings, huh? I hear you frequent her office more than the guy who waxes her back.”

  With his balls in a vise, Randall offered an olive branch, helping Alison with her robe. He knew it was time to come clean. Well, almost.

  “Listen, Alison, it’s not what you think.”

  “I think you don’t want to push me too far,” the distressed diva ranted, ruminating about how quickly she could get her hands on their Bank of America safety deposit box filled to the gills with skimmed cash, compliments of Augustus Barringer.

  “Alison, just hear me out. But you can’t breathe a word of it to anyone, not even your hairstylist. And definitely not the other actors on the show.”

  “Oh please, as if I even take the time to talk to any of those idiots once the director yells Cut,” she dismissed. “Who am I gonna tell?”

  “I’ve been meeting with Edith because the network is interested in buying the Barringer soaps.”

  “Oh for crissakes, that’s old news. And it’s not gonna happen as long as Augustus is alive.”

  “Exactly. From the looks of things, he won’t be a factor for much longer.”

  “What do you mean? I know he gave temporary control of the soaps to his bratty kids, but that’s just until he gets better, right?”

  “He isn’t going to get better, Alison.”

  A shiver shot up her spine as she slowly sat.

  “Doctors can’t figure out what’s causing the strokes he’s been having and fear a major one is around the corner.”

  Alison and Augustus had had their ups and downs over the years and she’d never forgiven him for allowing Calysta to do film projects like The Refined Politician with Danny Glover and Dumb Bell with Beau Bridges, while preventing her from starring in The Cellist with Robin Williams. Though still holding a grudge, she couldn’t begin to imagine a world without Augustus Barringer in it.

  “There has to be something they can do?” she asked. “I mean come on, the Barringers have more money than the Vatican. Surely, they can find some sort of specialist?”

  “They’re doing everything in their power,” Randall asserted. “But let’s face it; Augustus isn’t the youngest rooster in the barnyard.”

  “Don’t be so insensitive. I know we haven’t always gotten along, but we owe him for our careers, our fortune, and our mansions in Hawaii and Holmby Hills.”

  “That’s why I intend to honor his legacy by doing what he never could.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Augustus is a genius when it comes to storytelling. There aren’t many writers in daytime who can compete. Maybe Agnes Nixon. But as a current businessman, he’s always been shortsighted.”

  “Go on.”

  “Augustus could’ve sold his shows to WBC a decade ago and made a killing, but he was too stubborn to give up creative control. Something tells me his wife and children won’t feel as passionate about keeping The Rich and the Ruthl
ess and The Daring and the Damned in the family.”

  “My gawd, Randall, that’s cruel, you’re talking about the man like he’s already in the grave.”

  “Oh don’t go all soft on me, Alison. More than likely, Augustus won’t be recovering from this. Even if he does, the damage the strokes have already done won’t allow him to keep running one show, let alone two. On a lighter note, we both know that Auggie has absolutely no interest in running the family business, and up until recently we’d see Veronica and Katherine Barringer even less, a fan club thingy here, an awards ceremony there, and that godawful company Christmas party. We’re finally poised to grab the brass ring and I’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen for us.”

  “Where exactly does Edith Norman fit into all this?” Alison asked, washing a pill down with a bottle of Save the Glaciers water.

  “She’s assured me that if I convince Auggie Jr. and the rest of our gravy train to sell R&R and D&D to the network, she’ll make me Senior Executive Producer of The Rich and the Ruthless.”

  The look of pity for poor, ailing Augustus left Alison’s eyes, replaced with a pair of sparkling green dollar signs.

  “Senior EP?” she repeated, rushing over and wrapping her arms around Randall. “Do you have any idea how much moolah that means? We’ll make millions.”

  “Now do you see why I had to be so secretive? We have a lot riding on this venture.”

  “Oh Randy,” Alison purred, moving in closer, playing with her flip, surveying the broken glass. “You’re right, I did overreact, bloody menopause. I’m sorry, Snuggle Bunny, that I doubted you. Do whatever Edith needs you to do to get control of these goddamn soaps, then I can finally get rid of that old windbag Maeve and pesky tramps like Emmy and Shannen, once and for all.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Everything’s Under Control

  Veronica Barringer hit Redial on her iPhone for the third time.

  “Pick up the phone, Auggie,” she huffed, sitting in the lobby of the private waiting area of Thurgood Marshall Airport.

  “Auggie here, talk to me.”

  “Where the hell have you been?” Veronica exclaimed. “I’ve been trying to reach you since yesterday! Things are really bad.”

  “What’s wrong? Is Dad . . . ?”

  “. . . dead? No, you moron. And you’d know that if you were here.”

  “Oh come on, Ronnie, not you too,” he moaned. “Mom’s already given me enough grief. All of us can’t be in Baltimore. Who’s gonna run the company?”

  “Funny you should mention that. What’s the word on Calysta? Have you spoken with her? Dad’s ready to climb out of his hospital bed and crawl back to Los Angeles to prevent her from quitting the soap.”

  “Dad knows about Calysta? Who the hell let that happen?”

  “His nurse brought in a copy of Soap Suds Digest and she was the ‘Ruby Stargazer Falls Overboard’ feature story.”

  Auggie was hoping Calysta would’ve taped her final episode and been off The Rich and the Ruthless before Augustus was any the wiser. He didn’t personally have a problem with the bubbler, but his co-executive producer Randall Roberts did, and Auggie relied on him way too much to handle the day-to-day drudgery of running R&R to not support him. He didn’t like playing referee between the two, since that might mean coming into work on days he’d rather be downhill skiing in Dubai, golfing in Scotland, or racing in Monte Carlo.

  “Tell Dad we tried everything we could to get Calysta to stay, but she insists that she’s ready to move on and try new things.”

  “Auggie, Dad may not be at his optimum right now, but his b.s. meter is functioning just fine. He’s not going to buy that load of bull any more than I do. We have to get a handle on our family business,” Veronica said pointedly. “We’re still feeling the ripple effect of the market and we can’t afford to keep losing money hand over fist. And do I need to remind you we sold one of our paintings?”

  “Look, Ronnie, I’m doing the best I can to keep things running smoothly here, all right?”

  “Have you even been to the set?”

  “Of course I have, I’m there right now.”

  “Fore!” yelled out a golfer.

  “Three, two, one, go!” Auggie covered. He’d been doing more than twenty-seven holes of golf, ensconced with two young babes at the majestic Desert Princess Country Club in Palm Springs.

  “Auggie, where are you?”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me.” She paused. “Are you golfing?”

  “Are you deaf? You just heard me count down the show.”

  “Seven or the nine iron?” asked the caddy to high-pitched laughter in the background.

  “Hey Tiger, my body henna is so sexy, wait’ll you see,” giggled Ginger, peeling down her lowriders.

  “Yeah, wicked sugar scrub,” agreed Sparkle. “My skin’s as soft as a baby’s ass.”

  “Who’s that?” Veronica questioned.

  “Who do you think? It’s Shannen and Emmy in a scene. I’m on the set, for crissakes. Look, I’ve got to get back to work. Give Mom and Dad a hug for me, and tell them I’ve got everything under control.”

  Outside of the triple-cha-ching overtime, if there’s one thing bubblers hate more than any other it’s taping a soap opera wedding storyline or any mega-event, be it a costume ball, gala fund-raiser, Christmas party, you name it.

  While the audience eats those scenes up because they get all its favorites into one room, dressed to the nines in the latest glitz and glam, they’re torture for the average narcissistic soap star.

  The taping schedules for those scenes usually go well into the next day, and soap divas and drama kings who literally pass each other in the hall and parking lot daily without speaking are forced to intermingle for hours at a time, doubling up in dressing rooms because of all the extras and special guest stars.

  The only people who enjoy soap opera wedding arcs are the bubblers playing the bride and groom. That’s their big moment to shine and a chance to add valuable footage to their Sudsy reel in hopes of a gold-dipped statuette. This week, the oh-so-friendly cast of The Rich and the Ruthless have been taping Ruby Stargazer’s Soap Opera Wedding of the Century storyline, and honey, let me tell you, there’s some drama going on over there in Burbank!

  Inside sources have informed The Diva that that rascal co-executive producer Randall Roberts has actually encouraged certain members of the cast and crew to in effect drive Calysta Jeffries batty during her last week of taping. Roberts wants to make sure the actress never sets foot on his set again. Will Calysta crack under the pressure? If she does, you know I’ll tell you all about it.

  The Diva

  CHAPTER 18

  Nice Day for a

  Soap Opera Wedding

  THE RICH AND THE RUTHLESS MEMO:

  If you didn’t call in your edits by 5:00 p.m. yesterday—tough! NO CHANGES ON SET! Actors will share dressing rooms for the Dove/Ruby wedding. Suck it up, and don’t bring in your pets. Everybody know your lines and let’s try to get this puppy in the can by 11:00 tonight. Finally, DO NOT remove the price tags from your wardrobe. Penelope will be returning the garments to Neiman Marcus following taping the show. Shhh . . .

  Thank you,

  Randall Roberts,

  Co-Executive Producer

  “Wait, wait, wait, Julius, for crissakes!” Phillip McQueen screamed, breaking from character. “Open the boom, Cisco.”

  “Stop tape . . . stop tape,” called the stage manager.

  “What’s wrong, Phillip?” asked an annoyed Julius.

  “I thought we were trying to expedite,” Phillip whined. “We need to get through these lines so we all get home at a decent hour, this is ridiculous repeating yesterday’s material.”

  “You didn’t seem to think it was so ridiculous when I had to repeat myself a half dozen times for your pitiful return to the show, clawing from six feet under, buried alive, finally agreeing to new contract terms. And everybody knows you’re the one who called
Mitch Morelli to leak your deal to the press.”

  “Bitch.”

  “Double bi’aaatch.”

  “Phillip, you’re in the zone right now. Can we get back to work before your tears dry up? I hate when you use that damn menthol contraption for artificial crying,” said Julius.

  Exasperation washed over Phillip’s crimson face, a face that conspicuously had too much M-A-C makeup layered on it.

  “You know the deal,” placated the director over the loudspeaker. “It’s for the fans that missed yesterday’s episode.”

  Smiling to myself, I watched a furious Phillip prance back to his mark, a miniature sandbag with a pink “X” embroidered on it compliments of the Pattern Cutter.

  “Let’s pick it up,” commanded the stage manager. “Five, four, three, two, go!”

  “For crissakes, Calysta, don’t say that,” Phillip fumed, breaking the imaginary fourth wall.

  “Don’t say what?”

  “That line about jumping brooms and partying,” he hissed. “It isn’t in the script and mucks up my timing.”

  “Here we go again with the acting police. Why are you such a nitpicking yawn? Just say the words so we can move on.”

  “Cut!” Julius yelled. “Now what?”

  “Said somethin’ that’s not in the script. Phillip’s having another meltdown.”

  “Be right there,” an unraveling Julius said.

  “It’s called improvising, Phillip, embellishing, gilding the lily? Adds flayvah and it’s what makes a scene sing and Ruby Stargazer who she is, real. You might try it sometime instead of obsessively goin’ by every if, and, and but in your pretentious script binder. This ain’t Shakespeare, pal.”