Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (10 page)

Charging behind me, Randall shouted, “Why can’t you be like all the other actresses on this show?”

“Because I’m not,” I responded, never turning around, disappearing through the glass doors.

“Frigging nut job,” Randall muttered under his breath, all the staff watching as he returned to his office. “What are you all staring at? Go back to work!”

Snatching up the phone, he dialed Edith’s extension.

“Hello, Edith Norman’s office, president of daytime televi—”

“Fern, put me through.”

“Yes, Mr. Roberts.”

“I was just about to call you,” Edith said, watching the air show on one of her three flat screens. “Tell me you have good news.”

“It worked like a charm,” he lied.

“Excellent! We’ve got to focus on painting Calysta as Soap Opera Enemy
Number One to convince the fans and all of daytime that she’s a menace to our production and unemployable.
She
’s unbalanced, not the show or the network,” Edith said conspiratorially. “The fans have been going absolutely ape shit since SecretsofaSoapOperaDiva.com broke the news that she’s leaving. It’s ridiculous. Don’t these people have lives? Keep up the pressure, Randall. Calysta has to quit the show in a rage for my plan to work. Once she’s gone, the ratings will temporarily suffer, which will make the Barringers think long and hard about Augustus’s stance against selling his shows to the network, especially with his precarious health and the state of the economy. Not even a family as loaded as the Barringers can afford to keep producing soaps that are rapidly hemorrhaging sponsors and viewers. It defies logic that Augustus wouldn’t simply take our offer and live out the rest of his days with his precious Kitty in the South of France.”

Randall quickly agreed. “But that makes too much sense for that workaholic.”

“Augustus has relied much too heavily on black viewing households. We have to go after a more, shall we say, Red State audience if our soaps are going to survive.”

“Works for me.”

“WBC stock has tumbled dismally from last year’s high of fifty-seven dollars a share to three dollars and fifty cents. I’ve lost my ass on investing in this network. If things don’t turn around soon I’m going to be looking into the eyes of a loan shark.”

The fact that Edith Norman still had her job ranked with Doug Flutie’s “Hail Mary” pass. She continued, “Let’s go over why I need your pathetic soap opera to stay at number one.
The Rich and the Ruthless
and
The Daring and the Damned
give the WBC its seed money to shoot the network’s prime-time pilot shows. And I need to keep the coffers full in order to keep my job.”

“A reliable source tells me that Veronica Barringer was spotted at Bonhams & Butterfields auction house after hours, hawking one of the family’s prized paintings,” Randall reported.

“Delicious dirt,” Edith squealed.

“It’s only a matter of time before Auggie Jr. sells the soaps to the network.”

“Then I can finally rebuild
The Rich and the Ruthless
and
The Daring and the Damned
the way I want to, attracting more of those
Twilight
teen viewers
instead of their grandmothers still watching the re-re-re-runs of
Diagnosis Murder
.”

“Don’t you mean
we
can finally rebuild the soaps?” Randall corrected. “Don’t forget our arrangement, Edith; once we get the Barringers to sell, you’re making me Senior Executive Producer of
R&R,
right
?
”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Edith coldly replied. “Just do your part and make sure Augustus’s little pet diva Calysta acts out in such a horrendous way I can justify never hiring her back. I want that bitch and any other
actor who thinks they can step out of line to realize no one gets away with making Edith Norman look bad; no one.”

Long before Edith was named President of Daytime Television for the WBC, she’d made an attempt at an acting career. Augustus had cast her as the long-lost half-sister of the wildly popular Rory Lovekin, played by Alison Fairchild Roberts on
The Rich and the Ruthless
. While Edith had managed to nail the part at the audition, she froze up once she was in front of the camera.

After weeks of production delays and botched dialogue, even
with
the help of cue cards, Augustus called Edith into his office to inform her, “I’m sorry kid, you’re just not cut out for this.”

Devastating.

Shortly after signing what she thought would be a three-year contract, she’d purchased a posh condo and a fancy car, both of which were repossessed by the bank.

Humiliating.

She went back to waiting tables, occasionally taking in work as a masseuse. One of her regular clients happened to be Executive Producer of the hit prime-time sitcom
Shirley, You So Crazy
. He offered her a job as a production assistant and she offered him a Happy Ending.

The
Shirley
gig led to various prime-time episodics. Edith’s big break came when she was named an Associate Producer for one of the WBC’s prime-time soaps during its first season
.

By the time the wildly successful show was canceled, twelve seasons later, Edith had moved up to show runner, heralded as “The Woman Who Saved the WBC.” This led to several high-profile prime-time projects, all of which flopped.

Attempting to make good on their investment and avoid
paying an expensive severance package if they fired her, the WBC gave Edith the position of President of Daytime Television. The network figured
they could utilize her expertise to make their daytime soaps, which had been struggling since the first O.J. Simpson trial, a booming success. The move effectively made Edith Norman Augustus’s boss.

From day one in her new position Edith had done everything in her power to take control of the Barringer empire, determined to make Augustus pay for ruining her dreams of becoming the next Meryl Streep, though she would have settled for Rhea Perlman.

Like a spider, Edith licked with her feet. She thought she might finally get the chance she’d been waiting for with Augustus’s declining health, leaving at the helm his ambivalent son, Auggie Jr., who’d been trying for years to persuade his stubborn father to sell the soaps.

She malevolently reminisced about a recent call Auggie made from her office to his dad in the hospital.

“But Dad, we could make a bundle if we sell outright to the WBC . . . forget about licensing!” he had reasoned.

“I already make a bundle,” Augustus replied. “How many times do I have to tell you, success is not a miracle? I have given you the reins of our family dynasty on a silver platter and all you can do is look for ways to give it away. The answer is no, and that’s the way it’s going to stay!”

MEOW, MEOW.
An inside source on the set of The Rich and the Ruthless texted moi with news of quite the catfight in the wardrobe room this morning.

Apparently Lead Cat-ress Alison Fairchild Roberts wasn’t exactly purring when she found out another soap tigress would be donning the legendary wedding dress she wore a kabillion years ago for her first of seven soap opera weddings to Wolfe Hudson’s character Vidal Vinn Hansen.

The tigress in question, Calysta Jeffries, was equally ticked at the very thought of having to wear Roberts’s tacky taffeta hand-me-down.

You mean to tell me daytime’s number one soap has resorted to recycling wedding dresses? LMAO. Sounds like somebody better line up a few more detergent sponsors!

The Diva

A
fter leaving Randall’s office, I beelined it to the wardrobe department to meet with
R&R
’s Nazi wardrobe mistress, Penelope Wilcox. I needed to discuss my wedding gown for Ruby Stargazer’s upcoming nuptials and honeymoon scenes. Even though I was on my way off the soap, I intended to go out with sizzle and style, a no-expense-spared fashionista bang.

Shannen and I jokingly referred to Penelope as the Pattern Cutter behind her back. With a swamp brown, cobweb-looking beehive, she ruled over the wardrobe department with iron pinking shears.

“Hi, Penelope, got a second?”

“Not now, I’m very busy letting out Alison’s DKNY pantsuit for next week’s Fink Enterprises boardroom scenes,” a jittery Penelope snapped, on her fourth cup of coffee. “She’s put on a few more pounds, poor thing,
menopause. Alison’s going to be featured on MTV Romania,” she added, never looking up. “Oh, by the way, bring in your Patricia Underwood cloche and your Kai Milla dress tomorrow. We’re reshooting a scene from last week before you leave the show.”

“Not the scene where everyone clapped. The one the cameramen hooted and whistled and bought me drinks at Formosa Café afterward for. Not that scene?”

Everyone knew green-eyed Alison Fairchild Roberts never hesitated to phone up her henchman husband, demanding he target certain actresses for their stellar performances, making them do a scene over and over and over until it sucked. If that evil shrew could keep a daytime diva from getting a Sudsy, she was guilty as sin.

“Calysta, I don’t have time to watch a soap. I barely have time to read scripts, let alone dress a cast with weight problems.”

“Friggin’ unbelievable.”

“What’s that?”

“I said, I’ll come back later this afternoon to discuss my dress.”

“What dress?”

“Uh, my wedding dress? You do realize we’re shooting those scenes this week?”

“Oh . . . that, right, they must’ve forgotten to tell you—”

“Tell me what?”

“You won’t be getting a new dress,” Penelope replied. “No budget. Sorry.”

“Are you serious? No budget for Ruby Stargazer’s
wedding dress
?”

“Yep, Mr. Roberts sent out a memo to crack down on frivolous spending
.”

“And you consider my wedding dress ‘frivolous spending,’ yet you find more than enough money to take Phillip McQueen out to lunch, then to Rodeo Drive with his portable color palette, searching for threads that ‘complement his skin tone’ and ‘bring out the robin’s egg blue in his eyes’? I know you’ve grown accustomed to relying on me schleppin’
in most of my own wardrobe, but sorry, not this time. I don’t happen to have a couture Jane Wilson-Marquis wedding gown hangin’ in my closet.”

“Oh relax, will you!” She sighed, slamming down her pinking shears, and grabbing a fistful of keys, skittered across the linoleum floor to unlock a huge metal door bolted like Fort Knox. It swung open. An oversize fan whirring in the corner struggled to circulate the stinky ether, kicking up floor-to-ceiling funk from costumes dating back to more than thirty years ago.

“I already have the perfect wedding dress for you. Wait right here and don’t touch anything,” she ordered.

Did she really think I wanted the two dozen recycled Spanx shapers hanging over the dryer? Or was it Maeve’s Halloween sweater? Oh I know, it must be Alison’s shoulder-padded apple green tweed jacket with the magenta-dyed rabbit collar.

The Pattern Cutter disappeared into racks and racks of sequins and feathers, returning like Moses parting the Red Sea moments later with an ivory hot mess, bouffant leg-o’-mutton sleeves and faux pearl embroidery across the breastplate. The train wrapped around her arm looked to be the length of two football fields and was attached to a crown of rhinestones, giving new meaning to “gluegunning.”

“See, now won’t this be absolutely perfect? As for shoes, before you ask, we have the Lucite or the flesh-colored Capezio heels.”

Speechless; my eyes widened as I took hold of the flammable fabric for a closer look at the monstrous confection.

“Be careful, it’s vintage,” Penelope warned.

“Did I miss something in the script? Are Ruby and Dove having a seventies theme wedding?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, this is a superlative dress. It took more than eighty yards of imported silk-faced poly-satin and taffeta, the expertise of two dozen seamstresses, and more than six hundred hours to produce. You’ll look, how do you say . . .
bangin
’.”

“Uh, it’s six sizes too big.”

“So, I’ll have Thomasina take it in a bit.”

“Why does this dress look familiar?”

“Yoo-hoo, Penelope, are you finished yet?” interrupted the nasal shriek of Alison Fairchild Roberts.

She was standing at the door, looking like yesterday, with her hands on her hips in a gold-monogrammed white terry cloth robe, a towel turban wrapped around her head.

Alison’s nose was upturned, not because she was born that way or because she was the ultimate snob, but because of a botched rhinoplasty that also had the undesirable side effect of leaving her forever sounding like Miss Piggy on helium.

“I’m sorry, Alison, as you can see my work has been rudely interrupted. I haven’t quite finished letting out your slacks, but I’ll have them ready by the end of the day,” a cowering Penelope promised.

“No worries. But make it snappy, don’t forget we have a Tsumori Chisato fitting for my next
Cliffhanger Weekly
cover shoot.”

“Uh, didn’t you say Alison wouldn’t be needing that pantsuit till next week?” I reminded Penelope. “I would think
my
wedding dress for scenes in a couple of days
would take top priority.”

“Oh yeah,” squeaked Alison. “Ruby Stargazer is getting married this week, huh? Right before getting whacked on her honeymoon.
Bummer
.”

If there was one actress I despised more than Emmy it was that
Valley of the Dolls
train wreck Alison. As
R&R
’s first breakout star and one of only four original cast members left from the soap’s 1972 premiere (the others being Wolfe, Dell, and Maeve, who played Alison’s mother), Alison hadn’t exactly been pleased when I joined the sudser. I quickly gave her a run for the distinction of being one of daytime’s most popular actresses.

Before Alison could come up with another dig, she spotted her dress on Penelope’s cutting table.

“Hey, what’s my Givenchy-inspired wedding gown doing here?” she
asked as she rushed over to snatch it up. “Penelope, you told me it was part of an exclusive costume display at the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists.”