Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva

by Victoria Rowell

  BLIND ITEM: What anally retentive muscle-head actor was seen in leather chaps making out with a colleague from Our Lives to Contend in Whispers Lounge, a gay men’s S&M club near the Piers, before heading home to his frumpy wife and kids on Long Island? I’ll never tell.

  The Diva

  CHAPTER 39

  Knit One, Purl Two

  On a full moonlit night, Phillip McQueen, clad in a smoking jacket, was in the throes of another whine-a-thon to his ever-understanding wife, Pinkey, as he gave himself a facial.

  “Can you believe Edith and Randall gave that blowhard Wolfe five shows a week, reducing my guarantee to a measly two? Using the excuse ‘due to extreme soap opera anorexia we’re asking everyone to take a fifteen percent pay cut.’ The nerve of those imbeciles emailing me the news!”

  “Just terrible, Phillip,” his wife sympathized as she knitted one, purled two. “By the way, the show faxed your changes for tomorrow and I put them in your script binder.”

  “You know, if Augustus Barringer were still running things this wouldn’t be happening,” he hissed into the mirror, fondling his reflection. “Edith didn’t even give me the common courtesy of a face-to-face meeting. Or at the very least have that Neanderthal Roberts deliver the horrid news in the privacy of my dressing room,” he babbled, still looking at himself in the mirror. With a predilection for self-preservation, the obsessive stay-youthful-forever thespian dotted on caviar eye cream, continuing his facial.

  “Just awful, how could R&R do that to you after all you’ve given them, the best years of your acting career.”

  Phillip turned, stone-faced, staring at her.

  “I mean, some of your best years, honey,” she recanted, looking over her bifocals.

  Resuming his regimen, he said, “And I know Edith has told that ground-gripper Felicia to write me off the show. I can feel it. If anything happens to me . . . like if I fall into an icy Whitehaven pond and drown or fly off course in my upcoming hot air balloon expedition storyline, know it has everything to do with my contract negotiations with those WBC tightasses. Ever since I left my agent, Edith thinks she can Betsey Johnson all over me.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “Not important. If that prune wants to play hardball, I’ll show her what a hardball feels like.”

  “What are you going to do, Phillip? Don’t forget what they did to Maeve Fielding’s love interest of twenty-two years, Ulysses St. Nick, when he asked for a raise.”

  “Pinkey, of course I remember, but when have I ever cowered to intimidation? If I have to I’ll swallow my pride and rejoin the cast of Our Lives to Contend.”

  “OLTC? But that soap’s number four in the ratings with a zero point nine audience participation.”

  “Who cares? This is not the time for soap opera discrimination. You like the lifestyle we live, don’t you?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you want to keep Bert in private schools, right?”

  “Yes, dear, but won’t you be taking a huge pay cut if you go to OLTC?” she said, recovering dropped stitches.

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle our finances,” Phillip stated coldly. “I can make up the difference going to Canada for personal appearances and selling my eight-by-tens and calendars. All I need from you is a show of domestic engineering unity.”

  “But that’s one of the biggest things you said attracted you to me, that I’m a ‘natural born penny-pincher.’ I cut out coupons, shop at Costco, do the cooking and cleaning, volunteer for carpool so we don’t have to pay a premium for school bus pickup—”

  “Sorry, Pinkey, how insensitive of me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  Swishing back an Ambien, Phillip finally turned away from the mirror, switched off the bathroom light, and shuffled over to their four-poster oak bed, dropping to his knees.

  After wrapping up an abbreviated Our Father and placing his velvet slippers beside the dust ruffle, he said, “I can’t wait for tomorrow,” as he slid between the 800-thread-count Egyptian sheets. He pecked Pinkey with a stingy kiss before placing an embroidered R&R eye mask over his baby blues.

  “Good night, my darling.”

  “Good night, Phillip.”

  “Tomorrow I have those insipid pool scenes with Wolfe and that airhead Shannen on that hideous set they call a ranch. Of course casting will dust off Willie Turner and prop him up as the butler, and I’ll have to listen to all his unbearable glory days with Ben Vereen on Broadway, and those redundant civil rights tales while he serves me the same warm near beer for hours. And why does he always have a damn facecloth hanging from his back pocket? Probably gang related. I hate Willie almost as much as I hate ‘product placement’! And they only bring him back so he can keep his health benefits.”

  “But honey, doesn’t Willie give you his Sudsy vote every year?”

  “Pinkey!” Phillip said, irritated, pulling off his eye mask, sitting up. “Where did that come from? You’re totally off topic. Are you even listening to me?”

  “Every word, Phillip, every word,” his browbeaten wife replied apologetically as he sank back down.

  “Willie’s voting for me has nothing to do with what I’m talking about right now. On top of everything else I have to navigate on the set tomorrow, I’ll have to suck up to that idiotic director Julius, whom you know I despise with a passion, and deal with Alison’s phoned-in performances.”

  “Is Julius still with the show?”

  “Yes, unfortunately. That ex-cartoon director always underuses me, gives me the same friggin’ blocking, planting me on a shitty chaise indefinitely like a glorified extra. I can see it now, Emmy running around half-naked in a thong, Wolfe strutting around like a Scandinavian peacock in a tacky Speedo, when everyone knows he wraps it in baby socks to make a bulge like that, Maeve’s intolerable nicotine breath hacking away, contaminating everyone with her bronchitis, ruining my takes while I suffer in a floor-length terry cloth robe. The singular positive thing about tomorrow is that I won’t have to deal with that too hot to trot Hottentot, Calysta Jeffries. Oh, gawd, why me?” Phillip said, replacing his eye mask.

  “It’s just four scenes, honey,” Pinkey soothed.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “Ready to run lines?” she asked hopefully, replacing her knitting needles with Phillip’s R&R-embossed leather script binder conveniently poised on her nightstand.

  “Go ’head.”

  “I’m going to start with your scenes with Wolfe, okay?” she confirmed, clearing her throat, dropping her voice three octaves, speaking with a generic European accent.

  “On second thought I’m going to pass on running lines tonight. I’m tired.”

  Pinkey’s lollipop face dropped as she swapped the script out for her knitting, clearly disappointed. She looked forward to their nighttime routine, vicariously standing at the footlights of a Hollywood stage, momentarily a part of her husband’s glamorous world in her own secret, secret way.

  “I have a better idea,” whispered Phillip.

  Perking back up, Pinkey hoped it was what had been lacking in their marriage for months. “What’s that, honey?”

  Removing his eye mask, he slurred devilishly, “I’m going to conveniently get sick in the middle of taping tomorrow and see what that witch Edith and her henchman do then. They’d never expect Mr. Dependable to hold up shooting . . .”

  Phillip drifted off to sleep leaving his worried wife knitting and purling another sweater for the upcoming Rich and the Ruthless Fan Club auction.

  BLIND ITEM: Which longtime actor, who plays a part-time private dick on one of daytime’s most popular soaps, causes the crew to routinely make bets on how many takes he’ll need to get through just four contiguous lines of dialogue without a flub? One of the crew members was overheard telling that day’s winner he should buy the bubbler a new rug with his earnings!

  The Diva

  CHAPTER 40

  Speedos, Thongs, and

  Boas, Oh My!


  (Vinn Hansen Ranch, poolside. We see Gina, Jade, Dove, Wilson, Lady Leslie, Rory, Justine, Pepe, the whole cast festively mulling around, a few extras frolicking in the pool with a beach ball—make it look like there’s more than two feet of water. Don’t talk to any extras and tell them to mime their conversations or we’ll have to pay them)

  VIDAL

  Vonderful day for a BBQ on the Vinn Hansen Ranch, vouldn’t you say, Fink?

  BARRETT

  Just dandy, Vidal.

  VIDAL

  (Gloating)

  Even vith the skyrocketing price of veat, my international biscuit business is thriving. Sorry to hear you had to fire vun hundred and fifty-two employees last veek.

  BARRETT

  Actually . . .

  JUSTINE

  (Heavy flirtation with Vidal, swiping him with her voluptuous chest. Feature her bikini top. Keep wind fans on high to give her a windswept look)

  Vidal, there you are. I have something red and juicy to share with you.

  VIDAL

  Ah, my pet, my vision of loveliness. I am breathless vith anticipation.

  JUSTINE

  (Suggestively whips out a super-sized chocolate-covered strawberry and puts it between her teeth)

  Bite it, Vidal. Bite it quick before Pepe spots us.

  VIDAL

  I’d share a chocolate-covered grasshopper if it vere vith you.

  BARRETT

  (Showing jealousy here. Remembering the history of his recent and painful divorce with Justine)

  Hello, Justine.

  JUSTINE

  (Not too mean)

  Barrett! What are you doing here?

  VIDAL

  I invited him.

  JUSTINE

  That’s why I’ll always love you, Vidal. You’re so cool. Barrett, where’s your bathing suit, wonder-boy? It’s a pool party, not a Fink board meeting. I’m sure Vidal wouldn’t mind lending you his spare trunks, would ya, Vidal?

  VIDAL

  Of course not, my svan, but I highly doubt Barrett could fill my—

  BARRETT

  I came to enjoy the festivities, not to swim. I have my own heated Olympic-sized pool, you’ll recall, Justine, at Fink Manor, the one you had the habit of skinny-dipping in whenever I hosted an important business meeting.

  WILSON TURNER

  Mr. Fink, here’s your near beer jus’ like you asked.

  BARRETT

  Thanks, Willie. And Vidal, thank you for the invitation. After all you didn’t have to.

  VIDAL

  Yes, I know.

  BARRETT

  I’m pleased you don’t harbor any ill will against me in light of the fact I was acquitted, found innocent of hiring a hit man to assassinate you at the Whitehaven Hospital Gala.

  VIDAL

  Vater under the bridge, my man, vater under the bridge. I’m not going to let a little sqvabble get in the vay of business. But I’d look over my shoulder every so often if I vere you.

  JUSTINE

  Yeah, Barrett, that’s such old news. Don’t be a bore. Loosen up and take that ascot off and go toast some marshmallows with Dove and Jade.

  (Reminder: Lady Lovekin is considering selling off her Fink Enterprises stock and Vidal wants to buy it so he can own Barrett Fink and his shipping company. A lot of brown-nosing here)

  VIDAL

  Lady Leslie Lovekin, you are . . . you are . . . I can’t seem to find the vords. Ah yes, you are a cascading vaterfall of loveliness.

  LADY LESLIE

  You’re such an incorrigible charmer, Vidal. Hello, everyone.

  (Adlib hellos)

  LADY LESLIE

  Lovely affair, Vidal, as usual you are the consummate host, and I see no love has been lost between you and your skanky ho ex-fiancée.

  (As Justine licks a small piece of chocolate from Vidal’s mustache)

  “Cut!” Julius screamed. “Maeve, darling, you cannot say ‘skanky ho.’ ”

  “Says who?” bit back Maeve. “I heard Strasser say it on her soap. Besides, what’s the difference between ‘skanky ho’ and ‘bitch’ anyway?”

  “The WBC network, that’s what. We don’t have to lower ourselves to third-rate soap opera circus tricks. We’re a hallmark channel and we’re number one.”

  “Whatever,” Maeve mumbled.

  “We’ll leave it in this time. Let’s pick it up with your line, Shannen. Five, four, three, two, go!”

  JUSTINE

  Give it a rest, Lady Les. You’re just jealous and wish you could have some.

  LADY LESLIE

  (Ignoring Justine)

  Barrett, I hadn’t expected to see you of all people here at the ranch. By the way, I’m looking forward to the board meeting next week. I don’t think I can hang on much longer to my fifty-one percent of Fink Enterprises with the market sinking the way it is.

  BARRETT

  Why don’t we talk about this in priv—

  LADY LESLIE

  But since you’re here and single again—

  GINA

  (Slinking over in a red thong bikini. Emphasize showing body shot.

  Yeah, since you’re here and single again—

  “Stop tape!” screamed Phillip.

  “What’s the problem?” Julius inquired from the sound booth.

  “Ask the script supervisor, if she’s not filing her nails. Maeve keeps stepping all over the few lines I have, along with everyone else! And where’s makeup? I need powder. I can feel myself shining.”

  “Oh, for crissakes, you petty pussy,” spat Maeve. “I’d get on all fours, twirl around three times, and bark twice if it meant I didn’t have to do this scene with you.”

  “Maeve, darling?” Julius purred.

  “Yeah?” she responded, blowing fussy boa feathers away from her mouth.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, please, let’s let Phillip get all of his lines out, every syllable, before you speak, okay, my love?”

  “That’s lunch, folks!” the stage manager announced.

  “Damn it!” said Julius, slamming down his cowboy hat.

  “Be camera ready in an hour. We’ll pick up where we left off.”

  Shannen raced over to Candelaria, seated in a red director’s chair next to Weezi, who’d invited himself. He’d explained he wanted to help Calysta’s grandmother feel more comfortable, but Shannen knew he was just there to troll for future clients. She didn’t care as long as he stayed out of her way.

  “C’mon, Mrs. Jones, I want to introduce you to the gang before they go back to their dressing rooms. Hey everybody, wait! This is Calysta’s grandmother, Candelaria Jones. She’s visiting all the way from Mississippi.”

  “Hello, m’deah,” said Ethan, badly tapping into Tyler Perry, lifting her off her feet.

  “Oh, my,” she squealed. “Dove Jordan, sakes alive!”

  Almost to her dressing room, Emmy did an about-face, tearing a muffin top from a food display on her way back to the set.

  “Remy, you’re looking beautiful—” Weezi started.

  “No thanks,” she snapped, shooting him down before he could make a pitch. “And it’s Emmy.”

  “I like you better than the first Dove,” Grandma Jones gushed to Ethan. “And I think I’m the only one.”

  Dressed in ribbons and rainbows, wearing blue contact lenses, Jade extended one limp, fishlike hand while twirling her stubborn curly hair with the other, a nervous habit.

  “Hi, I’m Jade, nice to meet you but I gotta go, I have an audition for a cartoon voiceover. Later.”

  “Wow, Mississippi? How Gone with the Wind exotic,” said Emmy, stuffing the rest of the muffin top into her pie-hole, taking Jade’s place.

  “For heaven’s sake, Gina Chiccetelli! My Beulah talks about you lots.”

  Beulah? Emmy thought. Though no one asked and Emmy definitely wanted to, everyone chalked it up to Candelaria being old.

  Stepping in and chivalrously kissing her hand, nearly causing Candelaria to faint, Wolfe interrupted
, “It’s an absolute pleasure to meet such a grand and important lady. Calysta’s told me such admirable things about you.” Into her ear he whispered, “She vas the best actor on the show after me. I miss her terribly. Shall ve take a picture?”

  “Oh, my word, Wolfe Hudson, you are too many things and this is much too much excitement for one person. You bet I want a picture! Everyone in Greenwood just loves you! Shannen would you be a honeybee and help me fish out my disposable? It’s at the bottom of my pocketbook.”

  “You bet,” she answered, spotting crabby pants Phillip trying to scurry off.

  “Phillip!” she shouted. “Come get in the picture. It’s for Calysta’s grandmother.”

  Silently seething, he stomped back, saying under his breath, “Like I care. I hate Calysta generational-ly. Why is that old biddy visiting now?”

  “Well if it isn’t Barrett Fink. You rattlesnake, you. I’ve always hated your character. And I mean that in a good way. Are you as mean in real life as you are on the show?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “’Cause honey, you be playin’ that part.”