Stori Telling

by Tori Spelling

  One of the Brownie traditions was that your troop would “steal” you for breakfast. You’d be sleeping peacefully in your bed when, at the crack of dawn, your troop would surprise you. You’d join the growing group to go traumatize the next girl. Of course, the parents were in on the game, but the girls had no idea if and when it might happen. Now, my mom herself never dressed in any particular way for bed or told me what to wear. But one night she presented me with a frilly nightgown and matching bed coat and insisted that I wear them to sleep. I should have known something was up, but I was a good girl and pretty much followed my mother’s word without question.

  Early the next morning my Brownie troop came to my house to surprise me. I wasn’t the first one pulled, so ten or so girls had already amassed, giggling and armed with flash cameras. They clamored into my room to wake me up. Oh, the embarrassment of what they saw: There was my room, which looked like a hotel suite with its plum floral decor and complete absence of toys, stuffed animals, or games (all of which were strictly confined to the adjoining playroom). And my bed, holding center stage with its infantilizing bedrails. Even worse, the bed was empty. Where was I? Not in the laundry room cupboard, that’s for sure. As my entire Brownie troop was about to find out, I was down the hall in Nanny’s room. When they made their second surprise entrance, my heart sank. Why hadn’t I anticipated this? Why hadn’t I thought it through? And why, oh why, hadn’t I figured out why my mother had outfitted me in a matching bedtime ensemble? Note to self: Sleep in own bed whenever presented with a frilly eveningwear set.

  I slept with Nanny when I was scared, cleaned the house with the maids on summer vacation, and dreamed of relocating to the laundry closet. But I guess the ultimate story about how closely I identified with the household employees is the story of my first off-screen kiss. When I was fifteen years old, we had a young chef who was a total surfer dude—dark blond flippy California hair, a deep tan, a puka shell necklace, the works. At our house he wore a chef outfit—clogs and palazzo pants—but when he left, he headed to the beach in an OP shirt, board shorts, and flip-flops. He was always flirting with me, and needless to say, I ate it up. What fifteen-year-old wouldn’t have a crush on the twenty-six-year-old family chef/surfer boy? My girlfriends and I would parade around the kitchen trying to get his attention, then we’d retreat to my bedroom and talk about what he had said and what I had said back and how well I had flirted and how it clearly meant he was completely into me. And every morning I’d come into school and report on each detail of our interactions: “When he put my sautéed halibut in front of me, our pinkies practically touched. He totally did it on purpose.”

  Then, on New Year’s Eve, I took the bull by the horns (so to speak). As we usually did on New Year’s, my parents, Nanny, my brother, and I were gathered in the family room. The TV was on, and we had noisemakers, hats, and Japanese confetti balls. My parents drank champagne, and there was Martinelli’s sparkling cider for the kids. I had a friend over, and I was dressed up in a satiny blouse with shoulder pads and a skinny, double-looped belt around it (ah, the eighties). But how could I focus on the same old Times Square ball-dropping when I knew our cute chef was still in the kitchen, cleaning up from dinner? I’d stolen a few sips of champagne, and armed with liquid courage, I commanded my friend: “Stand guard. I’m going back there.” I snuck back to the kitchen. He led me to the laundry room (See? I knew my affection for that room was well-founded!) and kissed me up against the dryer. It was amazing. It was huge. It would soon be the talk of the high school. I’d never had a boyfriend and now a twenty-six-year-old—an adult!—was putting the moves on me. How cool was that?

  This went on for a couple months. We snuck kisses, and he hid little love notes in my school papers. After a school dance he came to drive me home and we made out in his red pickup truck. Sigh. But my heart was soon to be broken. During recess one day he pulled up to the side of the school. I jumped into his truck and we kissed for fifteen minutes. How cool was I? Then I went back to math class and passed notes with all the girls, reporting what had happened. One of the kids told her mother, she called my mom, and the shit hit the fan. I came home from school that day and saw that his pile of cookbooks was gone from the kitchen. I knew what that meant, and I started to cry. Nanny comforted me, but then she said, “Your parents are in their bedroom and they want to talk to you.” They were furious (I can’t understand why—just because their fifteen-year-old daughter was involved with a man eleven years her senior). I was grounded for five months, a lifetime, although in retrospect that was probably just to make sure I didn’t see him again. (I later found out that my mother had us both followed for months.)

  After my punishment was meted out, my mother pulled me into her bathroom saying she wanted to talk to me alone. She sat me on her chaise and stood above me, arms crossed. I started to tell her that I was in love with him, that she’d ruined my life by sending him away, and that I wanted to die—you know, the usual teen heartbreak drill. But she broke in and said firmly, “I need you to tell me right now. Was there penetration?” Ew. She used the word “penetration.” Who says that? I was so grossed out. I almost vomited. “No, Mom!” Now I really wanted to die. My brother remembers walking into my room a few hours later to find me lightly sawing away at my wrists with a letter opener.

  The next morning I came down to breakfast with bandages around my wrists. I hadn’t actually hurt myself, but, drama queen that I was, I wanted to demonstrate just how miserable I felt. Nobody took any notice of my fake wounds, which just pissed me off more. I never saw the chef again. Actually, I did run into him once, in my twenties, outside a bar. He was kind of like, “Hey [wink, wink], you’re all grown up!” And I was thinking: Boy, you’re short. In my memory he was so tall…but now? Not so much. And all that surfing sun had taken its toll. But it was still a perfect first kiss, and to this day my mom is only half joking when she says, “He was the best chef we ever had. Too bad you had to ruin it.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Nepotism Works Both Ways

  I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s go back a few years. I was shy. I didn’t want to stand out, to make a fuss, to be different. Except when it came to one thing: acting. People always think I became an actress because I could—like my choice of career was just another present that my father had a plane drop in the middle of the lawn for me. Yes, my dad did give me parts and acting lessons, and yes, my name opened doors for me. I’ll get to all of that. But wanting to act is different from having the opportunity to act, and for me wanting it started when I was only five.

  It wasn’t my dad who got me my first break. It was my mother’s hairdresser. José Eber had long, flowing blond hair and always wore a different cowboy hat to hide his bald spot. José has been a big shot stylist to the stars for decades—at the time he was styling people like Farrah Fawcett, Cher, and Elizabeth Taylor. So José was making an appearance on a talk show called Hour Magazine, which was hosted by Gary Collins. They were doing a segment on styling celebrity children. José asked if I was willing to go on the show, and I agreed. I was really excited to be on TV. It was going to be me and Chastity Bono (who was much, much more sophisticated since she was all of nine years old).

  On the day of the show my mother brought me to the studio. As soon as we arrived, they led us around the side of the stage to show me where I would be entering. When I looked out, I saw that there was a studio audience. For some reason I hadn’t realized that there would be an audience. Suddenly I was terrified. I was shy, remember? As scary as those Madame Alexander dolls were, a whole crowd of real eyes staring out at me seemed infinitely worse. I freaked out and started saying I couldn’t go out there in front of all those people. My mother, who never would be a pushy stage mother, told me I didn’t have to do it. I could try it if I wanted, but it was okay if I wanted to back out. My hair was expertly styled, half up with curls and bangs that started prematurely at the crown of my head. I was wearing a fancy dress from the now-defunct department st
ore Bonwit Teller. I’d promised José I’d do it, and, scared though I might be, I felt obligated.

  I walked out onstage and gave the audience a wave and a smile. They applauded. That was encouraging, so I gave a little curtsy. Now, this may or may not be true, but the way I remember it was that when I curtsied, the audience went wild with applause. There I was, smiling and waving, loving the attention. It was my little Sally-Field-accepting-the-Best-Actress-Oscar moment—thinking, They like me…right now they like me! I’d always said that I wanted to be a veterinarian when I grew up. Or, failing that, a manicurist. But that night I went home and told my dad I wanted to be an actress.

  Here’s where the nepotism comes in. That summer my father promised he’d put me in one of his shows. As I mentioned, Vegas was pretty much our go-to vacation spot since you could drive there. Dad would rent a mobile home, and one of the drivers would transport us there while we watched movies in the back. For three weeks or so we’d stay in the penthouse at the Desert Inn, where my dad’s show Vega$ was filmed. In those days Vegas wasn’t as family-friendly as it is now, but Randy and I loved running around the big hotel, hanging out at the pools, seeing movies during the day, and going to the arcade room. My mother always tried to find stuff for us to do, like visiting ghost towns or water parks. One time she arranged for us to go to a place called the Chicken Ranch. She thought we could see chicks hatching and feed the chickens. Dad had to explain to her that a chicken ranch was a whorehouse. She didn’t believe him so she called to check. The woman who answered the phone identified herself as “Bubbles.” When my mother asked if it was a kid-friendly place, Bubbles just started laughing.

  Anyway, the summer after my onstage debut, my father wrote a small part in Vega$ for me. I even had a line. I got to say, “Hi, Uncle Dan” to Robert Urich, who played Dan Tanna. Clearly a critical role that was central to the entire episode. On the day we shot “my” episode, my father came to the set. He stood behind the camera, all proud. I said, “Hi, Uncle Dan,” the director said, “Cut!” and that was it. I was done. The director turned to me and said, “That’s your new nickname. One-Take Tori.” I was all impressed with myself.

  After that my dad put me in all his shows. During the school year I’d always be gone for a week here and there doing small parts on Fantasy Island (“Hi, Uncle Roarke!”), T.J. Hooker (“Hi, Uncle T.J.!”), Love Boat (“Hi, Uncle Isaac!”), and the others. Just kidding about the actual lines. The truth is that the first time I was on Fantasy Island, I had one line with Tattoo. But by the time I made my second appearance, I’d refined my craft. I was one of the guests who came down the walkway out of the plane. My story line was that my parents had been killed in a car crash and I came to Fantasy Island to find God. George Kennedy played a drunk who claimed to be God. I was in the big leagues.

  My father used to go over scenes with me before I went to an audition or shot a part. He’d give me direction, and after I did a scene, I’d look up for his reaction. When he thought I had it nailed, he’d say, “That was pluperfect,” which he explained meant “more than perfect.” He never stopped saying that to me. Even after my high school plays, he’d say, “That was pluperfect.”

  From the time I was really little—younger than ten—I prided myself on being very professional. I’d show up on time, report to hair and makeup, and sit without fidgeting as they prepared me for shooting. For better or worse I always knew my lines and everyone else’s. If an actor called out for his line, I’d tell it to him. I had no idea it was annoying. One time on T.J. Hooker, William Shatner and I were doing a walk-and-talk scene. I played a gypsy girl who had witnessed her uncle being killed by the gypsy mob. We were walking out of the police station, and he was asking me questions. It was a pretty intense scene. Now, the tough thing about walk-and-talk scenes is that if you forget a line, you have to start over again from the very beginning. Shatner was forgetting his lines a lot, so I was helpfully reciting them to him. Finally he hissed, “That’s not nice to do. You shouldn’t tell an actor a line. That’s why there’s a script supervisor.” My feelings were hurt—I was barely ten years old!—but I also suspected that he just felt bad because he couldn’t remember his lines.

  For decades I thought William Shatner was an asshole because of that moment. Then I worked with him on a movie called A Carol Christmas for the Hallmark Channel. It was a remake of A Christmas Carol where I played a modern-day Scrooge and Shatner played the Ghost of Christmas Present. It was a reversal from our T.J. Hooker moment, since now I was starring and he was a supporting character. He was incredibly nice and funny. And very professional. When an actor does a scene, the places where he’s supposed to stand are marked with tape. I remember that he hit every single mark perfectly without ever looking down. Anyway, I couldn’t believe I’d relied on my ten-year-old self’s first impression for so long. Of course, I didn’t tell him how he’d traumatized me. I knew he wouldn’t remember. I’m pretty sure he was too distracted by the lovely and then-svelte Delta Burke, who was guest starring as my gypsy sister in the episode.

  So, yes, it helped to have a father in the business. A lot. Some kids get summer jobs in their parents’ offices or businesses. Me, I got bit parts in prime-time soaps. But even then, being Aaron Spelling’s daughter wasn’t always the ticket to success. At my elementary school the third-grade play was Hansel and Gretel. The entire class auditioned by reading the play out loud. When the cast list went up, I discovered that I’d won the coveted role of Gretel. Even though I was only in third grade, I was old enough to feel a sense of accomplishment. The previous year I’d played Becky in Tom Sawyer, so I’d gotten the lead part two years in a row! That had to mean something. This—acting—was my special gift. It had nothing to do with being Aaron Spelling’s daughter. Or so I thought. It quickly emerged that the other children’s parents were outraged that I’d gotten Gretel. They thought it was due to a conspiracy that I was given a lead role two years in a row. It had to have something to do with my father—either he’d given money or the school wanted him to give money.

  I knew I’d won the role fair and square, but the parents made enough of a stink that the school just gave up. Did they replace me in the lead role? Nope, they simply canceled the play. Every other grade did a play, but ours was canceled. I was shattered. So much for believing in myself. So much for achieving something independent of my father. The irony was that while everyone thought my family was inflating my success, in fact it was hindering me. Little did I know it then, but this pattern would show up over and over again in my life: I achieve something; people think it’s all because of my father; and ultimately, I come away with nothing, back at square one.

  Around this time I started coming out of my shell a bit. Pre–Surfer Chef Incident, I was always a perfect child, very respectful, very polite. But somehow I began to realize that I could make my friends laugh by being funny and acting kind of nutty. I graduated to Westlake, a private all-girls’ school, in seventh grade. As I came out of my shell, I started telling jokes and acting out stories, and the other kids seemed to like it. Eventually I started doing characters for them. My friend Dawn and I had an act where we were Roger and Ethel Spielonger, a married nerd couple. As Roger I wore glasses, a bow tie, and a pocket protector. Roger snorted whenever he laughed. Mostly, we just performed for our friends. We’d announce that Roger and Ethel were going to make an appearance. They’d gather round, and we’d come out in our accessories, put on a show, and everyone would laugh. At the weekly school assembly we’d stand up as Roger and Ethel and announce what was going on that week in the drama department. It became kind of a cult thing at the school, where Roger and Ethel would be brought in to lead various events. Finally I wasn’t just a girl with a famous father.

  Meanwhile, I was trying to be a real actress outside of school. I’d been taking private acting lessons since I was eight, and after a couple years my coach decided I was ready to start auditioning. I may have been young, but I knew that acting exclusively in my father’s
shows didn’t really count. So I got an agent and a manager. Then, when I was around eleven, the guy who’d been my manager for a year dropped me. According to my mother, he said I wasn’t hungry enough. I always reflect on that comment. It was one of those defining moments that pushed me to take acting even more seriously. Being told I can’t do something always makes me want to succeed. I’d show him. I still fantasize that if I ever win an award for anything, he’d be one of the many people I’d thank for telling me I couldn’t do it.

  Undaunted, I put together my very own acting résumé that had my name at the top, and below—well, it was pretty much a list of all my dad’s shows, the only experience I had. Oh, except for a listing at the very bottom of the single school play I’d done. The first time I went in to audition for a school play at Westlake, I handed the drama teacher a head shot and a résumé. All the other kids came in and sped through some lines between classes. I thought I was being professional. I was twelve and totally clueless.

  At home I started to voice my opinions about my famous father’s work. I was opinionated about casting and dailies—the rough footage of his shows that he brought home every night. That year alone he had an unimaginable number of shows on the air—the workhorses: Love Boat, T.J. Hooker, and Hotel; the miniseries Hollywood Wives (based on Jackie Collins’s book); The Colbys (a spin-off of Dynasty); a short-lived cop show called Hollywood Beat; and a couple TV movies. My dad was beginning to see me as more of an individual, a person with valid thoughts and ideas. I’d always been interested in casting. Even at the age of five when I’d see a movie with a child actor I thought was good, I’d run out of the room to fetch pen and paper. When the credits rolled, I’d write down her name and hand it to my dad, saying, “You should hire her.” My father always paid close attention to my suggestions for edits and casting and took them seriously. In fact, Emma Samms is always saying she owes her career to me. I’d seen her as Holly on General Hospital and recommended her to my father for Fallon on Dynasty, a lead role that she had for five years. And it’s not like my dad took advice from everyone. We’d be talking about a scene, my mother would start to interject, and he’d cut her off, saying, “Candy, please.” Needless to say, this sort of behavior wasn’t great for my relationship with my mom. But more on that later.