Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva

by Victoria Rowell

  “Good evening, may I help you?” the uniformed guard asked suspiciously.

  Leaning over Derrick, I said in my best Anglo-Saxon voice, “Good evening, Scott, it’s me, Calysta Jeffries, I’m here to see Mr. Barringer.”

  “Who?”

  “Ruby Stargazer.”

  “Can you take off that hat?”

  “No problem.”

  “Sure is! Where you been, girl? Everybody been missin’ you on the story. Hold on, I’ll be right back,” he said, checking on a computer. “I’m sorry, Ms. Stargazer, but it doesn’t look like the Barringers called with your name.”

  “I know, it’s a surprise.”

  “Hey man, you know who she is,” interrupted Derrick. “She been on the show for a million years, you know me too.”

  “I knew it, it is you . . . Dove Jordan, you are the man! You know since I got a job I haven’t been able to keep up on the stories. Did you ever get off that deserted island after your plane crashed? My mamma loves you, can I get an autograph?”

  “Uh, yeah, but I haven’t been on the soap for like three years. I’m on Pathological Murders now.”

  “Oh yeah, my wife loves that detective show. Can I get two autographs?”

  “If you open the gate I’ll give you five on my way out.”

  “Okay, I guess, but I still have to call ahead, don’t want any mess with the Barringers. Gotta let the butler know, otherwise he’s liable to see you all and you know—”

  “Man, come on,” Derrick said impatiently.

  “No, he’s right, D. Remember what happened last year in Bel Air when that black doctor broke into his own house and the SWAT team tear-gassed him?”

  “All right, go on up,” Scott said. “And I’ll be lookin’ for them autographs.”

  The gate opened to a long tree-lined driveway, leading to the graceful Barringer estate, spread out over ten acres.

  “Want me to go in with you?” Derrick asked.

  “Would you?”

  As we walked up to the carved mahogany doors, Derrick gave me a quick peck on the cheek and said, “Relax,” before gripping the brass lion door knocker. The sound echoed throughout the Marquina marble foyer, where I’d stood many times over the past fifteen years on happier occasions.

  The huge double doors swung open to reveal Max, Mr. Barringer’s loyal butler.

  “Good evening, Miss Jeffries, what a lovely surprise. You look so elegant all in black, but what on earth has brought you out so late?” he said with his British accent. “And you too, Mr. Taylor, I haven’t seen you in years. Please come in.”

  Leading us into a dimly lit library, he offered, “May I get you something to drink?”

  “Bitters and soda, thank you.”

  “Hennessy for me,” said Derrick.

  As Max turned to the full bar, I said, “I know this is completely unexpected and I don’t have much time, but would it be possible to see Mr. B?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Jeffries, here’s your drink, but Mr. Barringer’s under the strictest of orders from his doctor to rest.”

  “Yes, I heard, but you must know this is very, very important. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken the risk—I mean shown up unannounced,” I said, downing the medicine in one gulp.

  Handing Derrick a snifter, he stroked his goatee thoughtfully before saying, “All right, but we’ll have to be quick and quiet about it. Follow me. I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor, but you’ll have to wait here.”

  “No problem.”

  As we climbed the grand staircase, I asked, “Where’s Mrs. Barringer?”

  “At the Armand Hammer Museum fund-raiser with Veronica.”

  “I see. This won’t take long.”

  Max knocked lightly on the door, a private nurse cracked it, and after he whispered into her ear, she let me in.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. “The nurse has to stay in the room.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Mr. Barringer’s been sleeping quite a bit,” the nurse said. “But he showed wonderful improvement today.”

  “May I sit next to him?”

  “Yes, but please be careful of his IV.”

  Mr. B’s room had been turned into a private hospital suite. As much as I told myself I wouldn’t, I got choked up seeing my mentor so frail and seemingly helpless. Typically tanned and toned, he was now almost translucent. I gently took his long cool hand, a hand that had written so many beautiful lines for so many, and began to stroke it.

  I felt the slightest movement. His eyes half opened.

  “Calysta?”

  “Yes, Mr. Barringer.”

  The nurse checked his monitor before returning to her chair across the room where she was reading by the fireplace.

  “Mr. B, I had to come see you.”

  Still with his sense of humor he whispered, “It’s good to be seen, even like this. Veronica give you my message?”

  “Yes, I’ll be at your attorney’s office first thing tomorrow.”

  His cloudy blue eyes locked on mine, and barely audibly, he said, “Don’t cry, dear. I’m so proud. ‘Can’t buy your own instrument like a violinist. You must make it.’ Heard that somewhere. You’ve done that. Daytime can dull ambition, but not you, you only got better. Never looked for a handout . . . always admired that; you deserve everything coming. I have something special but . . .”

  He drifted off to sleep again. It was enough.

  “Excuse me, Miss Jeffries,” the nurse said, softly touching my shoulder. “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave. Mr. Barringer needs his sleep.”

  I carefully placed Augustus’s hand on the cashmere blanket before leaning in to kiss his forehead, whispering, “’Night, Mr. Barringer, love you,” and departing with an aching heart.

  “It was wonderful of you to visit Mr. Barringer under such difficult circumstances. If I may be so forward, you are a brave young lady, rare and loved by this family.”

  “Thank you, Max.”

  As Derrick and I made our way back to PCH toward Tranquility Tudor I thought, I can bear any amount of trouble I might be in, in exchange for those few sacred moments with Augustus Barringer.

  BLIND ITEM: Which wild child younger lead actress got her leading man fired by claiming sexual harassment, even though they’d been banging each other’s brains out for months? The bubblette in question recently quit her show, only to return six months later begging the brass to take her back. “Thanks but no thanks,” said the show’s top exec. Like Gimhongsok always says, “Fiction is logical compared to the truth.”

  The Diva

  CHAPTER 46

  . . . And the Damned

  With twinkle lights in every jacaranda tree, a rented rotating spotlight sent crisscrossing beams shooting into the balmy night sky above the Roberts’s gaudy McMansion. Synchronized swimmers entertained as the celebratory soap opera soiree got into full swing and Emmy strutted up the front steps, fashionably late in a skintight black mini.

  A waiting party planner met her at the door, saying, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Roberts’s has asked that no one enter the house. The event is around to the back.”

  “I’m going to have an event if I don’t get in that house to use the powder room.”

  “The chemical toilets are to the left of the tent and have sinks.”

  In a huff, Emmy turned on her Luella heels and followed the other latecomers. Swinging her purse that held her tiny Pomapoo, its head sticking out with diamond-studded doggy barrettes, Emmy snatched a Cosmopolitan from a waiter, sneering down at the tray pass of pigs-in-a-blanket and tuna-on-a-Ritz, thinking, Ewww, you can take trash out of the trailer park but you can’t take trailer park out of the trash.

  Pinching a pig from the tray, she said to her Pomapoo as she fed it, “No matter how much money you have, class just can’t be bought.”

  “You can say that again,” said a suave Auggie Jr., dressed in comfortable khakis and Top-Siders.

  “Oh hi, Auggie,” she flirted. “And who’s this?” She changed her tone, no
t trying to mask her disapproval.

  “My friend Ginger. Ginger, Emmy, she’s one of the stars on my show.”

  “Nice to meet you. Sorry, I don’t watch soaps. Cheers!” she said, chugging down her drink.

  Glaring, Emmy walked off, scouring the crowd for Randall.

  With the band on break, rowdy daytime R&R and D&D crooners took turns on the karaoke machine. Willie Turner and Shelly Montenegro sang Captain and Tennille’s “Love Will Keep Us Together” in the background, as high-pitched laughter and animated chatter filled the tent-covered tennis court, fog and bubble machines providing dramatic soapy atmosphere.

  “Hey, Jade, wanna share some tuna?” Toby asked suggestively with dilated pupils.

  “You are so mental, Toby, you know I’m strictly off surf ’n’ turf and only eating fruits and veggies. Just got the alkaline and acidity in my system equalized. Besides, who knows how old that Bumblebee is? I’m sure it’s been sitting in Alison’s pantry for years. Did you know canned food is filled with chemicals and—”

  An expressionless Edith began, “Well, well, well. What a surp—”

  Inappropriately kissing her on the lips, Toby said, “Mmm, Edie, strawberry . . . you sexy mamma, good to see you too.”

  “Yeah, Toby called me after he was bounced from rehab tonight and I was like, wow, cool, let’s celebrate and go to the party together,” Jade added.

  “So Edie, Roger went ballistic yesterday, huh?”

  No reply.

  “What a dickweed. But you know, I can see how something like that could happen. You get kicked off a show, you’re unemployed, depressed, your wife’s tonguin’ other men in front of millions of people. A dude feels castrated. I can see how he could go postal.”

  Waving to an invisible friend, mouthing Be right there, Edith said, “I’ve gotta go, but it was good seeing you, Toby,” and briskly walked away to join Daniel Needleman, the last person she wanted to talk to.

  “My people will be in touch with your people!” Toby called after her, before hearing, “Yo, Toby, Jade, over here!”

  As they hustled across to Auggie Jr., Jade said, “You know, Toby, it’s hip to be tilted these days, just own it. Look at me, I’m bipolar!”

  “Hey, guys,” Auggie said. “Dude, when’d you get out?”

  “Just now, and man could I use a joint. Know where I could get some weed?”

  “Nah, no one’s been able to find any good stuff since you’ve been off the scene.”

  “Yo, about my job—”

  “Don’t worry, got it covered.”

  The party raged to Michael Damian’s “Rock On” and grew rowdier as more and more alcohol flowed. Ethan Walker, grandstanding, jumped into the pool with the synchronized swimmers, fully clothed, almost drowning.

  Later, Dell Williams belted out the most mellifluous rendition of Aretha Franklin’s “R.E.S.P.E.C.T.,” mesmerizing everyone.

  Receiving guests like Vito Corleone, Randall, dressed in a tux, puffed on a fat Cohiba, greeting well-wishers and sycophants. The women were pulled closer for congratulatory kisses with the exception of brown-nosing and sweaty Felicia Silverstein. He slipped the young nubiles some tongue while a plasticized Alison held court across the tent with a tabloid reporter.

  Dell, still glowing from all the adulation, made her way through the crowd and said, “Congratulations, Randall.”

  “Thank you, Queenie,” he said, unwittingly calling Dell by her character’s name. She didn’t sweat it and got to the gettin’, saying what she had to say.

  “I hope this means you’ll consider giving me a storyline without an apron. I was thinkin’ you could turn me into a ghost like Sydell, God knows she’s had more air time off contract as a spirit than on.”

  “I’ll take that into consideration, but something I can do right away is have Felicia write your singing into the show. I had no idea you were such a musical wizard. Maybe you could sing a spiritual or two during an upcoming funeral scene we’re writing.”

  Wolfe held court with a small circle of rapt admirers including Fern, Julius, Penelope, and Ben, listening to the heroic details of yesterday’s R&R debacle.

  Determined, Emmy slunk through the intoxicated horde, a drunk Phillip McQueen screaming “Master of Puppets,” fists raised, devil fingers pointing to heaven as Pinkey looked on like a matinee idol groupie. Ducking behind a dripping ice sculpture to avoid unwanted solicitations from Bonnie Blackburn, Emmy sidled up next to Randall, now toasting with Edith.

  “I have a special kiss waiting for you,” she whispered, tonguing his waxy ear.

  “Okay, we rolling?” Cliffhanger Weekly’s senior reporter Chauncey Brown asked his one-man crew. The cameraman nodded.

  “Here we are with super soap opera star, Sudsy Award winner Alison Fairchild Roberts, at her magnificent Holmby Hills home.”

  “Mansion,” she corrected.

  “I’m sorry, Alison, mansion, what was I thinking? Take two, we rolling?”

  “Yep.”

  “Here we are with super soap opera star, Sudsy Award winner Alison Fairchild Roberts, the quintessential iconoclast of daytimelessness, with a splash of Marie Antoinette, at her magnificent Holmby Hills mansion along with the cast of The Rich and the Ruthless and The Daring and the Damned, and let me tell you, folks, anybody who’s anybody is here! I’ve selected ten questions from our Cliffhanger Weekly blog and the fans want to know: ‘What does it feel like to be a daytime diva on the number one soap opera?’”

  Cloaked in Chanel borrowed from R&R, Alison was a diva who’d survived oversize shoulder pads, big hair, and scandal. She knew how to squeeze mileage out of a declining career, and had stood the test of time, preserving her allure though her detractors whispered she was in the autumn of her soap opera career.

  She replied, “First of all, Chauncey, I want to thank you and Cliffhanger Weekly for my sixty-three covers. And to the fans, well, as a child star, starred in Pinocchio, I’ve been in the biz all my life and . . . what’s the question again?”

  “What does it feel like to be a daytime diva on the number one soap opera?”

  “First let me say, The Rich and the Ruthless isn’t just a job, it’s a career move. When I began on the show I took for granted how lucky I was. But now I realize it’s the best job in the world; luxurious, sexy . . . look at me,” she said as she twirled, flipping her bleached hair over her shoulder, “but sometimes it can be absolute murder.”

  “Are you referring to the time you wrestled a writer to the floor when you disagreed with a Martian storyline? Or the time you became tipsy, impersonating Blondie at the annual R&R fan club luncheon, and belted out Anita Ward’s ‘Ring My Bell,’ then lost your lunch on the front row?”

  An irritated Alison coolly replied, “I was having a rough time then and I’d rather not turn back the page.”

  “Of course. Alison, I’m honored to be invited to this fabulous party for an exclusive interview. And I’m sure the fans want to know more about your beautiful home, I mean mansion, since this is the first time you’ve allowed press onto the property.”

  “Estate. Naturally my mansion is my sanctuary, and I put a premium on privacy. As you can imagine that’s very difficult to achieve with all my fame.”

  “I’ve been told you have a lot of mirrors in your mansion.”

  “Not enough. Without mirrors, I’m dead. They reflect my soul.”

  “What a beautiful answer. Who’s your favorite movie star and favorite soap star?”

  “Domestically, it’s between Chuck Norris and Andy Williams. Overseas it’s Amitabh Bachchan hands down, he’s so sexy.”

  Confused, Chauncey said, “I know who Chuck and Andy are but I’m not familiar with the other actor.”

  “Yes, well, I’m not surprised. As you know, two years ago I was invited to make a special guest appearance on the Indian soap opera Kumkum, and while I was doing press for MTV India I was introduced to one of the most famous Indian actors alive, a dead ringer for Al Pacino in the face. As for
a favorite soap star, I like me.”

  “Of course, what a silly ques—”

  “Wait, wait, stop tape!”

  “Alison, what’s wrong?”

  “Lose your ‘talk-back’ quips. They’re unimportant and totally throw off my spontaneity and momentum.”

  “Got it. Rolling?”

  “Yep.”

  “Alison, being an icon in the soap world for three decades, do you find yourself jaded at all?”

  “I’ll rephrase the question. Do you mean do I get lonely at the top? You betcha!”

  “I hate to bring this up, but with all the hype around Brangelina and Jennifer Aniston the fans want to know . . . ”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Is it true there was a secret romance between your husband and Emmy Abernathy?”

  Fake laughing, Alison stated, “That’s rubbish. Emmy is such an unremarkable creature. I heard the first time she ate lobster she tried to eat the shell, can you imagine? I’m sure she was very good as a hot dog concessionaire on Coney Island.”

  “Alison, whaddya have to say about R&R’s incredible shrinking cast and the cancellation of Obsessions? Plus, sensational rumors of turning Medical Clinic into a webisode series and Our Lives to Contend moving across country?”

  “Let’s just say, some people on my soap are this close”—pinching her index and thumb together—“to joining the soap opera graveyard. But don’t worry, my loyal fans,” she said, looking into the camera and tossing her head, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Alison, any comment on the recent fifteen percent pay cuts?”

  “Next question.”

  “I know this is a very sensitive time for the cast of R&R, and all of daytime is saddened by what happened to Maeve Fielding, but can you tell us anything about the violent shooting on The Rich and the Ruthless set yesterday?”

  Alison whipped out her signature crocodile tears.

  “It was absolutely dreadful, I feared for my life. Naturally, my executive producer husband Randall Roberts heroically ran onto the set and took me into his arms, protecting me. As for Maeve, she has no one, poor thing. That’s why I forged our mother/daughter relationship off the set. We’re so close. I’ve organized a forty-day candlelight vigil.” Having peaked but going on too long, Alison turned to look squarely into the camera again, advising, “I’ll be curbside at Cedars-Sinai hospital tomorrow night from six to seven if anyone wants to join me.”