Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva

by Victoria Rowell

  “Okay, Calysta, let’s calm down. I think I understand what’s causing your reaction, but whatever you did on TV doesn’t really matter in the here and the now. We are in search of the truth. The present. The real.”

  “But I’m Ruby Stargazer! I created that character! Everything I do matters!”

  Zima gave me a stern BML (black mamma look), the kind that reminded me of Grandma Jones. “If you don’t calm down I’m going to send you back to your room.”

  Swallowing hard, embarrassed by my diva behavior, I said, “You know what? I think that’d be best.”

  “Fine then. But you’ll have to make up your collage session. And I’ll be reporting this to Kelly.”

  “Oh come on, Zima, between us sistahs can’t you let this one slide?”

  “‘Us sistahs’? ‘Let this one slide’? This ain’t about you. Do you think just ’cause I’m black I’d risk my sobriety? My integrity? My spiritual foundation? My job, to cover for your ass? You have gone and lost your mind, girl. ’Cause the last time I did that I paid dearly for it.”

  I looked into Zima’s midnight eyes and couldn’t believe she’d gone from a Topanga Canyon hippie to a Chicago South Side gangsta in ten seconds flat.

  “That’s right, wasn’t always a self-taught painter and collage therapist. See, I helped out one of my sistahs from the hood back in the day and I was the dummy who ended up holdin’ the bag, literally. That’s right, she talked me into robbing a dang bank to pay for our crack habit. Next thing I knew I was in a shared prison cell at Women’s Reentry Center in cold-ass Maine lookin’ out at freedom. And my sistah-girlfriend nevah came to visit me while I was doin’ time either, not once. I don’t break rules no more, you dig? I enforce ’em,” she asserted, rockin’ her head from side to side, dangly cowrie shell earrings brushing the sides of her neck. Zima continued, pursing her lips, “It’s all about the KISS.”

  “Huh?”

  “Keep It Simple, Stupid.”

  Put in check, I dragged my sorry butt back to the TT big house numb, digesting Zima’s sobering message. You just never knew what someone else’s bottom was or what they’d been luggin’ around. Really didn’t care for the journaling jazz all that much, but this was something I couldn’t wait to write about.

  Kelly Lava kept that from happening. Holding up a halting hand, she barked, “Calysta. I’ve just been notified about your disruptive episode in collage therapy. You’ll have to do a double session with Zima next week and I think it would be best if you shared at tonight’s off-site AA meeting. You clearly need to.”

  “Okay,” I said dully.

  “Also, I checked beds this morning and yours wasn’t made up properly.”

  “Huh? I made my bed before breakfast.”

  “Military corners, Calysta. I took the bed apart so you can do it right. And remember, you need to be in the van no later than five o’clock sharp for the meeting. You’ll want a good seat up front. As for our alum meeting tomorrow, be primped and prompt. TT always has a powerful speaker and I hope you get something out of it. I’ve been sober for eleven years and I still learn something new,” she said with an air of superiority, resting her thumbs behind her oversize turquoise triangle belt buckle. Walking several steps away before stopping, she pivoted around, saying, “I forgot to give this to you the other day.”

  “Thanks.” I took the already-opened envelope from her icy hand, heading to my room.

  Hey, Calysta,

  Hope you’re hanging in there, sweetie. Just wanted to let you know that I’m picking up your Grandma Jones this Saturday at the Hollywood Greyhound station. She’s staying with me so don’t worry for a sec. We’ll be there on Sunday, bright and early, promise. Chin up. Fern secretly told me there’s bags of fan mail for you in the WBC mailroom. I’ll bring some when I visit. See you soon.

  xoxo,

  Shannen

  While my friend’s note was comforting, I missed Ivy so much it hurt. And the thought of Grandma Jones seeing me in rehab was more than I could bear. All I could think about was how disappointed she must be in me. Unable to stem my tears, I let them flow.

  CHAPTER 29

  Sibling Rivalry

  Auggie, the vote is next week and you keep canceling meetings with Mom and me! I can’t believe you didn’t fly out to Baltimore to visit Dad,” Veronica fumed. “We’re back home now so there’s no excuse. And don’t tell me you were too busy working, either. I checked the Burbank flight records, there’s no business in Scottsdale.”

  “Okay, Nancy Drew, you caught me, now would you stop being such a nudge?” Auggie agitatedly paced. “I don’t need to go to any meetings ’cause there’s nothing to discuss. It’s the twenty-first century, Dad’s in the Stone Age, and selling is for the best.”

  “Best for whom?” Veronica tersely asked.

  “Ronnie, don’t be shortsighted. We gotta strike while the iron’s hot. The WBC has an offer worth millions on the table for both shows; we’d be fools to pass it up. Plus, as an added incentive they’ll cut us in on a percentage of foreign, which is more than they do for those idiot actors. The only one who was getting wise to it was Wolfe but we paid him off. Mom’s putty in my hands. I can get her to change her mind. And as much as Dad’s disappointed in me for flunking out of Duke, you don’t need a college degree to figure this one out. Besides, who needs college when you’re rich? Jobs are for losers. This is a dying industry, I say we jump ship before it sinks and untangle ourselves from those whiners. Let’s face it, most of ’em should be working for Andy Gump or Homeland Security. Only one I ever cared for was that sexy Shannen Lassiter, now, she’s good. The rest of those bums, if it weren’t for Dad, couldn’t get arrested in this town. Besides, I want to get into nightclub promotion or Formula One racing.”

  “Over my dead body will you sell Dad’s legacy. I’ll fight you tooth and nail now that my suspicions have been confirmed.”

  “Give me a break. You expect me to believe my baby sister, the one who cried if she broke a nail, really cares about the family business? Last I checked you and Mom were on your way to Milan for fashion week.” He sneered. “You have no idea what it takes to run this operation. That’s why Dad’s got one foot in the grave right now. We’ve lived a whole different life, sis. We didn’t inherit Mom’s wealth and Dad’s empire to be slaves to it. Dad wants us to live the privileged life we were born into. I have no intention of sitting up in his office taking meetings with that shmuck Randall, that lesbo Edith, and that hack Felicia. Dad knew how to work hard, growing up poor, but that’s not our cross to bear. I’m rich and I’m ruthless—”

  “You’re disgusting is what you are. And I’m leaving. Consider yourself notified, the vote is next Wednesday; be there. We’ll see how cocky you are once Calysta has her say.”

  “Must be that time of the mon—Calysta?”

  “You heard me. Dad made her his proxy while he was in the hospital; she has the deciding vote. And I doubt she’s your biggest fan.”

  “You’re really reaching, Ronnie, if you expect me to believe that bull. I may have had my differences with Mom and Dad over the years, maybe they had to bail me out of jail once or twice for those DUIs, and I’m sure you want to throw those meaningless flings with Emmy and Jade in my face, and that one pregnancy, but let me remind you I’m Augustus Barringer the Third, heir apparent. Dad definitely would have discussed this proxy stuff with me first.”

  “Oh noble and powerful big brother, how wrong you are.” She swept her Prada purse off the mahogany desk and faced him. “But hey, if you think I’m bluffing come see for yourself next week. What? Not going to open the door for your sister? Don’t tell me you’re letting our differences kill good breeding, even if you don’t use it very often.”

  Auggie opened the door in thorny silence.

  Veronica strode out of their father’s corner office, leaving her brother tilted. He immediately picked up the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Auggie. We need a face-to-face. Might
have a little problem.”

  Edith forced herself to say through gritted teeth, “Sure, whatever you need, Auggie, but what’s this little problem about?”

  “Just be at Burbank airport at eleven.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time. I have to—”

  The phone went dead.

  Three hours later, on his second hole of golf, Auggie’s femme “caddies” Ginger and Sparkle attended to his every need as Edith, never having golfed in her life, stiffly walked across the green in her perfect ecru Nancy Lopez golf outfit, on a mission.

  “Could’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble and used a golf cart,” Auggie joked, his Ray-Bans dangling by an arm out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Love walking, don’t do enough of it in L.A.” She was still smarting from the way Auggie dismissed her the moment she boarded the Barringer jet.

  The horny heir apparent had disappeared into a back bedroom with his playmates for a private “golf lesson,” never emerging until they landed. Feeling hijacked, furious that she was at the mercy of a moronic party boy until the soaps were hers, Edith had endured the high-pitched giggles and outrageous banter as she tried to focus on reading about the ripple effect the financial tsunami was having on daytime in the business section of the Los Angeles Times.

  “Is this the nine iron?” Ginger asked now.

  “No,” Auggie corrected, “it’s the driver, the wood.”

  “Wow. The head on this one is so big,” Sparkle marveled.

  “Yeah, the face is the area where you make contact with the ball,” Auggie lectured. “And don’t forget to check out the size of a club to hit that ideal sweet spot right in the middle.”

  “See, Ginger, size does matter.” Sparkle giggled.

  “Auggie, I’d really like to know what this is all about,” Edith began, wringing her hands. “I couldn’t help but notice you were preoccupied with your ‘companions’ on the plane. And that turbulence—”

  “That wasn’t turbulence,” giggled Ginger.

  “Wow, is this like your mom, Auggie?” asked Sparkle.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just ignore them, Edie,” Auggie said, sliding his sunglasses back on.

  Her face tight, she asked, “Would you tell me what’s going on?”

  “The thing is, Ronnie and I had a fight this morning at the studio. She told me Dad made Calysta his proxy. Can you believe that?”

  “Wanna Corona?” Ginger asked Edith.

  Snubbing the bimbette, Edith said, “Don’t tell me.”

  “She has the deciding vote at our family business meeting next week! Whether or not WBC gets control of the soaps.”

  “Calysta Jeffries has the deciding vote? When did that happen?”

  “Just. Allegedly,” he quickly added. “Still think my sister’s pulling my leg. Don’t see how Dad could’ve done something this moronic behind my back.”

  “Auggie, you don’t see a lot of things,” Edith said sharply. “I knew it was a mistake for you to ignore what Augustus was up to all these months. But you were too busy at that regatta in St. Barts.”

  “Dad’s been sick forever, in the hospital, and is still on some kind of a drip at home, how much could he have been up to? Look, Veronica was probably bluffing, hoping I’d back down. She doesn’t know me as well as I know her. Don’t worry about it, Edie, I just wanted you to know what she said on the off chance it was true.”

  “And if it is, what’s your B-plan?”

  “Um, well then we talk to Calysta, right? Cut her in for a quarter mill, she’ll be stoked and vote our way. You know, grew up dirt-poor . . . shit like that. My dad worked her real-life drama into her Stargazer storyline, real popular with the fans but everybody on the show hates her. Heard she had a breakdown or something and is at some rehab. She could probably use the cash. Plus I think she has a kid.”

  Edith glared at him, clenching her jaw. “I think I have a better understanding of Calysta Jeffries than you do. That nervy bitch is a troublemaker and she has some twisted loyalty to your father. Even with her misfortune I doubt very much she’ll be an easy sell. You have no idea the balls I’m juggling in this chaotic financial climate. Unless you want to go talk to her yourself . . . ?”

  “Naw, that’s okay,” Auggie scoffed. “I got balls of my own in the air.”

  “Is it time for your driver yet, Auggie?” Ginger purred, holding the club suggestively.

  “I’m bored,” Sparkle chimed in rereading an old Tiger text. “Let’s go back to our suite.”

  Shooting daggers at the girls, Edith said, “I suggest we prioritize and pull Randall in now. He’s such a power-hungry idiot he’ll do anything to ensure the sale. We give him the right motivation, I’m sure he’ll deliver. And when he secures Calysta’s vote I’ll reward him with control of both shows.”

  “Both shows? Really?”

  “What do you care? You’ll be long gone with Ginger and Sparkle.”

  “True.”

  “And if Randall doesn’t succeed,” she continued, fishing her phone out of her purse, “he’s out on his ass. He can look for a job as show runner for Barney for all I care but he’ll have absolutely no future with the WBC. That should light the proper fire under his ass.”

  “Cool with me.” Auggie sighed.

  She dialed, then snapped, “Fern, get me Randall now!”

  “But how do you expect him to get her vote? Calysta hates him.”

  “I don’t care what he has to do,” Edith said dry-ice cold, “as long as it gets results.”

  Hey kids, I know you’ve all been worried sick about one of daytime’s fave soap stars and that rumored revolving door; for good reason. And although The Diva has been splattered all over the Twitterverse and the tabloids (I’m still not mentioning names, suffering from selective amnesia) it’s rumored that more than one of our bubblers are holed up in a posh celebrity sobriety mansion, spillin’ their guts. If only we could all be there to “share.” But wait! Seems I’m already too late, a known hater could be unfolding a deliberate Facebook firestorm in the very near future, revealing tawdry, sordid, and unspeakable secrets. Stay tuned!

  The Diva

  CHAPTER 30

  Getting Even

  Awakened by the cracking shrill of Gretchen warbling Barbra Streisand’s “People, people who need people, are the luckiest people in the world,” I couldn’t have been unluckier as I played possum, spying my roommate, earphones and an MP3 player attached to her hip, oblivious to the world.

  As I tried in vain to catch a few last precious Z’s before sobriety boot camp began, the fragrant scent of fresh-brewed coffee, grilling rosemary sausage, and corn bread softened my reality. Through squinting eyes, I witnessed Gretchen in a high-sheen-pink-leopard-print-low-cut-dress and heels. Already in full makeup, she was sitting at her portable high-powered vanity mirror, Farrah Fawcett-ing her hair with a curling iron and singing, “No more hunger or thirst. But first be a person who needs people . . .”

  Unable to take the Chinese water torture one second longer, I interrupted with a loud, exaggerated stretching yawn.

  “Wow, you’re such a deep sleeper,” Gretchen remarked, pulling her earphones out.

  “Yeah, once I get to sleep . . .” I replied, rubbing my eyes. “What’s the occasion? Today your psych appointment?”

  “No, silly, tonight’s the alum meeting!”

  “It’s Friday already?”

  “Yeah, and it’s the most exciting day of the week here at TT. People come out of the woodwork for this meeting. Because it’s a program of anonymity I can’t tell you who the guests might be so don’t ask, but lemme tell you, it’s one long red carpet, just like going to the Oscars.”

  I couldn’t believe this bored, rich housewife who’d slipped at least a dozen times on OxyContin had probably been up since six a.m. primping for an AA meeting.

  “Why are you getting ready now when the meeting’s tonight?”

  “Because of the zinger of a day we have!
There’s our in-house meeting, hypnotherapy, lunch, nap, Big Book Study, role play discovery, snack, journaling and meditation at the Zen garden, and then our five-kilometer oceanside ride along the PCH bike path.”

  “All in your dress?” I asked incredulously.

  “Well yeah, by the time we get back it’ll be five, then we have dinner and you and I have set-up duty, we’re serving crudités and green tea magic bars for dessert, my favorite! It takes me at least two hours to get ready, there just won’t be enough time if I don’t prepare now.”

  Leaning on my elbow, I rested my heavy head on my fist, utterly exhausted by the time she finished laying out the day’s plan.

  “Toodle-oo, see you at breakfast.”

  Gretchen was right, the day was nonstop. After role play, where Toby and Jerome were dealers, Erroll a cop, Gretchen and I family members, and Dolly an EMT, with Kelly presiding, we walked down to the Zen garden for our journaling. I had to admit, all this meditation and quiet time was starting to rattle some doors I’d thought were closed for good. I began thinking about approaching Grandma Jones with something I’d wanted to discuss with her for two decades but suppressed: our secret.

  Dressed in comfortable CJ jeans, a Bob Marley T-shirt, and my Tims, I found the ride unexpectedly churned up a lot of musty feelings; hadn’t been on a bike since my last day working for Winslow.

  By the end of the day, I was looking forward to the alum meeting for no other reason than to sit in the cut of the couch to recover from the Tranquility Tudor decathlon.

  Not understanding why I was anxious, I helped Gretchen set up the food station while the banjo clock ticked down. Dylan and Toby brought in wood to light the fireplace even though it was a bazillion degrees. And the rest of the TT’ers unfolded our all-purpose metal chairs, placing Big Books with pads and pencils on each seat.

  Kelly breezed in to oversee the preparations before giving orders into her walkie talkie, “Everything looks good, Rock, open the gate.”