She slips the blood pressure cuff around my arm. “Which rules would those be?”
I stare. Am I imagining things due to the pain? “The ones about not using cell phones on planes or in hospitals.”
She smiles. “Planes, no. Hospitals, yes. Shh. Let me listen.”
I hush until she gives me the nod and takes the stethoscope out of her ears.
“You mean I can use my cell phone?”
“Sure. As long as it’s not back in radiology.”
Now I feel pretty darn stupid.
“Well,” she says, smiling brightly. “I can tell by your face that you must be feeling better.”
“Yes, I am.” Not so much physically, but definitely emotionally.
She has no idea just how much better I’m feeling.
Tabby Brockman is back in action!
4
Back in action is a bit of a stretch, I’m afraid. It’s been a week since I got out of the hospital, and I still feel like I’ve been hit by a Mack truck flying down the highway at a few hundred miles per hour. And that’s putting it mildly.
To make matters worse, I still haven’t heard a word from Kyle Preston, the agent who is supposedly hot to trot for a chance to represent me. Methinks my dear friend Freddie may have overstated the man’s interest a bit. I’ve left three messages on Kyle’s voice mail and guess what? Not a peep out of the megacute agent. I’m about to get desperate and call Anita Madison to take me back. I mean if Julie Foster is willing to write for my character again, who is Anita to stand on principle?
Still, in the spirit of fair play and my own aversion to crawling back to the woman who dumped me, I’ve decided I’m going to try Kyle’s number one more time and let him know this is his last chance. If he doesn’t call me back this time, it’s his loss. I pick up my cell phone just as the little sucker rings and scares the blazes out of me. Well it isn’t so much a ring as it is the theme song from Friends. Yes, I’m still hoping for a reunion show. And no, I’m not obsessed. Much. Anyway, so the phone blares out, “So no one told you life was gonna be this way…” and I jump, which hurts my stitches. “Hello!” I growl because who has the audacity to call me and scare me half to death when I’m just about to use my phone?
“Tabitha Brockman, please.”
Okay, I’m not one hundred percent sure, but he sounds suspiciously like the bill collector from Visa. I’m ashamed to say I racked up about eight thousand dollars while I was still employed by the soap—I mean a girl has to have her Prada and Jimmy Choos right? It’s all about image. I can’t walk into the Emmy awards wearing a Gap shirt and Payless shoes. Who do you think I am—Sharon Stone?
Paying the minimum every month is definitely a trap, but what’s a girl to do? Unfortunately, I missed the last payment, minimum or otherwise, due to my loss of job and recent medical malady. I’m just about to slather on the appeal for sympathy when I realize… he’s still going to want to know when he can expect payment.
Making a split-second decision that I’m totally not proud of, I deepen my voice. “Tabitha? Why—um—no. Tabitha just stepped out, I’m afraid. May I take a message?”
Oh, the guilt. But faced with the necessity of begging a bill collector to wait a few weeks until I can get back to work and subsequently receive a paycheck, what was I to do? The impending demand for payment is more than I can stomach today—literally. And do you know the minimum payment on an eight thousand dollar credit card?
“Oh, she isn’t there?” The voice sounds rather amused. “Well, tell her Kyle Preston called, will you?”
“Oh, Kyle is that you?” A better liar would have at least said good-bye and called him back as “Tabitha.” But I’ve never been able to pull off deception. It just doesn’t work for me. Which is a good thing, I guess. For the most part.
A chuckle reaches my ear, and I feel my cheeks warm. “You’ll have to do a better acting job than this if I’m going to get you a good deal from Legacy of Life.”
“I wasn’t acting. I was lying,” I defend, feeling as though my reputation has been besmirched.
“Is there a difference?”
“Yes, and I’m not good at lying. I am, however, very good at acting.” I’m about to make the spiel to convince this man that I am his dream actress, when it suddenly dawns. “Wait, did you say you’re going to take me on as a client?”
“Well, of course. Why else would I have called?”
How am I supposed to know? I don’t really know this guy, do I? But that’s okay by me. As long as he gets me back where I belong—on the number one daytime drama in the country.
“Now, Tabitha, I know you’ve just had surgery, but we need to get the ball rolling on this. I’ll fax over a copy of my agent agreement. Sign it and fax it back to me. That will get things started.”
We talk for another few minutes and he asks me questions like, “What was your salary per year before you were killed off?”, “What size was your dressing room?”, “Boxers or briefs?” He laughs, “Just kidding.”
Very funny. Whatever. The guy might be cute, but he’s definitely not my type. Well, except for the drop-dead gorgeous thing. But I like more depth. Less oily-car-salesmanship. So I agree with myself that this will be a business-only relationship. Even though he didn’t ask for more anyway. Better to be prepared, I always say. Or at least, my mom always says that.
I got a new agent; I got a new agent.” I sing as Dancy pops in at noon to bring me egg drop soup.
“He finally called?” She gives me a thumbs-up and hurries past. “Be right back.”
“Yep,” I holler after her retreating form as she heads into the kitchen. “I just faxed back my contract with his agency, and Freddie is passing along my contact information to Jerry, the producer, as we speak.”
Dancy returns carrying a tray with my soup, transferred from the plastic container to a decent bowl (not that I mind plastic, but Dancy was raised on fine china so we humor her), and a soupspoon and a glass of iced tea, transferred from Styrofoam.
“Thank you,” I say. I’m truly grateful for the way the girls are taking care of me. The alternative was going to my parents’ house while I recover. And that would have been, you know, detrimental to my recovery.
Perched on the arm of the couch, Dancy gives a little frown.
“What?” I say, because I know that look.
“Oh, it’s nothing, really.”
“Oh, sure. Out with it.” Anyone who brings me egg drop soup can say anything she wants without fear of my anger.
“Are you sure you want to go back to that show?”
I laugh. Surely she jests. She deadpans back at me. Okay, maybe she’s serious. “Are you kidding?” Not only will I be paying my bills—going back to Legacy of Life means I return to the show that fired me. I am no longer a reject. I’m a commodity. A hot one, if I do say so myself.
A shrug lifts those perfectly shaped shoulders that Laini and I both envy. “You weren’t all that happy when you were working there, Tabs. I don’t know. Do whatever you want, but I think you’d be happier trying the stage or maybe some prime-time acting.”
“Good idea! Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll just hop on over to the set of CSI and see if they’re looking for any help. Or wait, I know. I’ll put in a call to Spielberg. I’ve been meaning to get back to him anyway.”
“Mock me if you will,” she says. “But we both know you haven’t tried that hard to get another regular acting job.”
“Hey, a lot you…”
I was going to say “know about it,” but she holds up her hand to shut me up. “I know working at the bookstore didn’t leave you much time to go on auditions, so don’t get mad. But now that you have a new agent, maybe he can help you land a gig you’d be happier with.”
This woman works in publishing, which isn’t too much different than showbiz. She knows the way things are. Why is she busting my chops? “Dance, the reason Kyle Preston even looked twice at my résumé is because Legacy of Life wants me back. If I tel
l him I don’t want to do it, he’ll drop me like a bad habit.”
A grin tips the corners of her baby doll lips. “Bad habits are hard to drop. That’s why people have so many of them.”
Okay, that was sort of funny. But I’m not even close to being in the mood for her quips. “Yeah, well. That was a bad example.” She’s only looking out for my happiness, I get that, but the girl needs to understand that not everyone thinks I’m as wonderful as she does. “Trust me. Kyle Preston won’t be interested in another has-been soap actress looking to trade up.”
“So you do see being on a soap as the bottom of the barrel.”
“No. I see dressing in rabbit suits and hopping around the kiddie room as the bottom of the barrel. I see soap acting as a way to pay my bills and gain a little bit of fame.”
“Fame…” She gives a snort.
“Okay, fine. I’m not going to be insulted. Ever heard of Kelly Ripa?” I give her that look that clearly says, “Try to deny it, babe.”
“Not until she joined Regis.” Oh, she’s giving me the look right back. Dancy hates all soaps. Or really anything having to do with romance. Which I happen to think is a conflict of interest since she spends most of her days proofreading romance manuscripts.
“Okay. What about Meg Ryan, huh? She started on soaps and look at her now.”
“Yes, and she got famous after she left the show. Because of that movie Innerspace.”
“No. She met Dennis Quaid because of that movie. She got famous because of that scene in When Harry Met Sally.” And I can’t believe my so-called friend brought that up. She knows how upset I still am about that particular Hollywood split.
“Oh yeah.” She stands. “Look, it’s not that I don’t support your decision to reprise the role of Felicia Fontaine. It’s just that you sort of changed after you started on that show last time. And it took a while after you left to get back to the Tabby we knew and loved in college tent theater.”
Is that all? How cute is she? Filled with tenderness, I give my friend an affectionate smile. “Honey, I’m much older and more mature now than I was right out of college when I got that part. I’m not so easily swayed anymore.” Is it my imagination, or is that my mom’s patronizing tone coming out of my mouth?
“I’m sure you’re right.” Still, she doesn’t look all that convinced.
“Okay, out with it. What’s bothering you the most?” Better to just get everything into the open up front. I’m not one to avoid confrontation (unless it’s with Mom) and neither is Dancy (except with her mom and dad), so if anyone can have a heart-to-heart with me, it’s her.
“Here’s the thing, Tabs. You were a Christian last time you worked there, but you didn’t stay strong. I highly doubt there’s been much of a spiritual reformation on the set since you left. How are you going to handle the temptations without compromising?”
“Such lack of confidence,” I say, trying to lighten her up with a grin.
“No. I have complete confidence in you. But we both know how easy it is to get sucked into compromising. You sure you’re ready for this?”
I give a shaky little breath. Because, you know, I’m not one hundred percent positive I can stay the course. Carry my cross, hold to the rock, and all that other Christianese designed to keep us steady. I think I can, but can I really? “God’ll keep me strong, Dancy. I have to believe He’s the one who called me back to the show.”
You know, maybe like Lazarus. Back from the dead.
“Okay, I have to get back to work,” Dancy says, popping up from the couch. “I’m sure you’re going to do great. Maybe you’re right, and this is God giving you a second chance at being a light in that place.” She gives me a little smile. “Besides, Laini and I are right here to knock some sense into you if it seems like you are being influenced by bad… influences.”
“I’ll definitely count on you to be my watchdogs. I do not want to backslide or turn out to be a big jerk like Rachel Savage—like that’s really her real name anyway. Who has a name like ‘Savage’?”
“Fred from The Wonder Years. And his brother Ben from Boy Meets World.”
A couple of good points. Still I’m just stubborn enough to maintain my opinion. “Well, they don’t have a sister named Rachel.” I’m almost positive of that fact—er—theory.
Rachel plays in a rival soap and was up for the same Emmy I was that year. Neither of us won, but she went on to beat me out of the Soap Opera Award for Best Actress that year. She gloated in the bathroom later. Which I thought showed her utter lack of class. Laini and Dancy, who were there as my guests, saw the whole exchange and totally agreed with me. No class. None whatsoever. But since she’s such a fabulous actress, not many people see through that fakey sweet façade of hers—and those of us who do know better than to bring attention to it. That would just make us look jealous, which we sooo aren’t.
Dancy gives me a smart little nod. “All right. Then that’s our code word. Savage.”
“Huh?”
“You know. If you do something diva-ish or just not like you, I’ll say something like, ‘Stop acting so Savage.’ And you’ll know what I mean but no one else will, except Laini, so you won’t be embarrassed.”
Reluctantly, I give her a nod. I mean it’s not going to happen. I’ve grown a lot since then. But whatever will give her peace of mind. “Well, I guess that would work.”
“Okay, good. I’ll let Laini know the code.”
I can already tell Miss Code Word is expecting to be using the “Savage” decoy a lot. Sheesh. She must really have faith in me.
During the next four weeks while I’m recovering, industry buzz starts to circulate about the impending return of Felicia Fontaine. I’ve been featured in Soap Opera Digest and Soap Opera Weekly and have been scheduled to appear on The View. I wonder which of the ladies will still be around to do the interview. They must really think Felicia’s return will be a splash.
I haven’t started filming my scenes yet since it’ll take another month to finish wrapping up my on-screen husband Rudolph’s current relationship. I don’t think they’re killing her off. I’ve heard through the grapevine (i.e., Freddie) that she will be sailing away on a yacht—despite the fact that Legacy is supposedly set in a Midwestern town, not a seaport—but whatever floats their boat (pun intended) works for me. Just get her out of there so I can come back.
The really great news is that I’ve lost about ten of my twenty extra pounds. The bad news is that I’ve been starving myself to do it, so I don’t have much energy. And because of this weight loss, Mom’s not at all happy with my two roommates. Go figure. She doesn’t hesitate to share her displeasure as she stands in our living room glaring at us like she’s the principal and we just ran the science teacher’s underwear up the flagpole. Don’t ask me why he didn’t have them on—this is only an example of how scowly Mom is right now.
“Just look at her,” she says, giving them a dressing-down that I know so well. “You promised to take care of her and just look. She’s too skinny, if you ask me.”
“Six weeks ago you said I was fat, Mother.”
Mom’s lungs pull in all the extra air from the room as she gasps. “I most certainly did not say you were fat.”
“Oh, you so did too.” I shoot my eyes over to Laini. “Didn’t she? That night they came for dinner?”
Laini looks sick. Like a deer hypnotized by headlights. Her eyes are wide with fright. She shakes her head as if to say, “If you love me, leave me out of this.”
Fine, I say back with my eyes. Be a big fat chicken!
“I never, ever said you were fat,” Mom reiterates, obviously bolstered by Benedict Arnold’s silence. “I only asked about that gym membership you weren’t using.”
I know, I know. I’m an ungrateful wretch of a daughter. But need I remind her that I never asked for the stupid membership?
“Is this how it’s going to be now that you’re on that show again?” she asks.
“How what’s going to be?�
� I try to stay calm, cool, and collected. Just like the Mona Lisa. Unshakable. I even give a little smile, but that backfires.
“You think this is funny?” Mom’s voice shakes a little. “Honestly, Tabitha. I don’t like this side of you at all. Maybe it’s not a good idea for you to go back on television if it’s already affecting your personality for the worse. You’ll be missing church soon and going to those wild parties.”
Okay, that “wild party” comment elicits a genuine smirk from me, and my mother’s chest puffs out like she’s about to blow venom. “Mom, I’m sorry. Seriously, I don’t think anything is funny.” Well, Monty Python and the Holy Grail—that’s funny. Oh, and of course all the episodes of Friends, especially the one where Phoebe first sings “Smelly Cat.” And the jellyfish episode. Oh! And that last scene in A Christmas Story. Where the Chinese staff tries to sing “Deck the Halls.”
Fa ra ra ra ra . . .
Anyway, I digress. The main point I’m trying to make is that I don’t think this is a laughing matter. “I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t laughing.” How do I tell her I was shooting for serene but it didn’t work so well? Note to self: practice facial expressions in mirror. Especially the expression of serenity as it apparently makes me look like I’m smirking.
“Mom, honestly. I’m sorry if I was rude, but I’m not at all too skinny. According to my scales I need to lose another ten pounds at least.”
Mom gives me a once-over. “What size?”
“Huh?”
“What size are those jeans?”
This is outrageous. Why should I have to put up with this interference into my private life? I’m a grown woman for crying out loud. Almost thirty years old. I don’t have to tell her what size I wear. But when she looks at me like that, I just—
“Eight.”
She gives another scowl and shakes her head. “And you want to lose another ten pounds?”
“I need to be at least a size six, preferably a four—since there’s no way my body is going to shrink to a two or a zero—but I think the last ten pounds will get me to a four, and I can tone up the rest with Pilates.” And I’ll still be the fattest female under fifty on the show.
Catch a Rising Star Page 5