Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (26 page)

“See, Ginger, size does matter.” Sparkle giggled.

“Auggie, I’d
really
like to know what this is all about,” Edith began, wringing her hands. “I couldn’t help but notice you were preoccupied with your ‘companions’ on the plane. And that turbulence—”

“That wasn’t turbulence,” giggled Ginger.

“Wow, is this like your mom, Auggie?” asked Sparkle.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Just ignore them, Edie,” Auggie said, sliding his sunglasses back on.

Her face tight, she asked, “Would you tell me what’s going on?”

“The thing is, Ronnie and I had a fight this morning at the studio. She told me Dad made Calysta his proxy. Can you believe that?”

“Wanna Corona?” Ginger asked Edith.

Snubbing the bimbette, Edith said, “Don’t tell me.”

“She has the deciding vote at our family business meeting next week! Whether or not WBC gets control of the soaps.”

“Calysta Jeffries has the deciding vote? When did that happen?”

“Just. Allegedly,” he quickly added. “Still think my sister’s pulling my leg. Don’t see how Dad could’ve done something this moronic behind my back.”

“Auggie, you don’t see a lot of things,” Edith said sharply. “I knew it was a mistake for you to ignore what Augustus was up to all these months. But you were too busy at that regatta in St. Barts.”

“Dad’s been sick forever, in the hospital, and is still on some kind of a drip at home, how much could he have been up to? Look, Veronica was probably bluffing, hoping I’d back down. She doesn’t know
me
as well as I know
her
. Don’t worry about it, Edie, I just wanted you to know what she said on the off chance it was true.”

“And if it is, what’s your B-plan?”

“Um, well then we talk to Calysta, right? Cut her in for a quarter mill, she’ll be stoked and vote our way. You know, grew up dirt-poor . . . shit like that. My dad worked her real-life drama into her Stargazer storyline, real popular with the fans but everybody on the show hates her. Heard she had a breakdown or something and is at some rehab. She could probably use the cash. Plus I think she has a kid.”

Edith glared at him, clenching her jaw. “I think I have a better understanding of Calysta Jeffries than you do. That nervy bitch is a troublemaker and she has some twisted loyalty to your father. Even with her misfortune I doubt very much she’ll be an easy sell. You have no idea the balls I’m juggling in this chaotic financial climate. Unless
you
want to go talk to her yourself . . . ?”

“Naw, that’s okay,” Auggie scoffed. “I got balls of my own in the air.”

“Is it time for your
driver
yet, Auggie?” Ginger purred, holding the club suggestively.

“I’m bored,” Sparkle chimed in rereading an old Tiger text. “Let’s go back to our suite.”

Shooting daggers at the girls, Edith said, “I suggest we prioritize and
pull Randall in now. He’s such a power-hungry idiot he’ll do anything to ensure the sale. We give him the right motivation, I’m sure he’ll deliver. And when he secures Calysta’s vote I’ll reward him with control of
both
shows.”

“
Both
shows? Really?”

“What do you care? You’ll be long gone with Ginger and Sparkle.”

“True.”

“And if Randall doesn’t succeed,” she continued, fishing her phone out of her purse, “he’s out on his ass. He can look for a job as show runner for
Barney
for all I care but he’ll have absolutely no future with the WBC. That should light the proper fire under his ass.”

“Cool with me.” Auggie sighed.

She dialed, then snapped, “Fern, get me Randall now!”

“But how do you expect him to get her vote? Calysta hates him.”

“I don’t care
what
he has to do,” Edith said dry-ice cold, “as long as it gets results.”

Hey kids, I know you’ve all been worried sick about one of daytime’s fave soap stars and that rumored revolving door; for good reason. And although The Diva has been splattered all over the Twitterverse and the tabloids (I’m still not mentioning names, suffering from selective amnesia) it’s rumored that more than one of our bubblers are holed up in a posh celebrity sobriety mansion, spillin’ their guts. If only we could all be there to “share.” But wait! Seems I’m already too late, a known hater could be unfolding a deliberate Facebook firestorm in the very near future, revealing tawdry, sordid, and unspeakable secrets. Stay tuned!

The Diva

A
wakened by the cracking shrill of Gretchen warbling Barbra Streisand’s “People, people who need people, are the luckiest people in the world,” I couldn’t have been unluckier as I
played possum, spying my roommate, earphones and an MP3 player attached to her hip, oblivious to the world.

As I tried in vain to catch a few last precious Z’s before sobriety boot camp began, the fragrant scent of fresh-brewed coffee, grilling rosemary sausage, and corn bread softened my reality. Through squinting eyes, I witnessed Gretchen in a high-sheen-pink-leopard-print-low-cut-dress and heels. Already in full makeup, she was sitting at her portable high-powered vanity mirror, Farrah Fawcett-ing her hair with a curling iron and singing,
“No more hunger or thirst. But first be a person who needs people . . .”

Unable to take the Chinese water torture one second longer, I interrupted with a loud, exaggerated stretching yawn.

“Wow, you’re such a deep sleeper,” Gretchen remarked, pulling her earphones out.

“Yeah, once I
get
to sleep . . .” I replied, rubbing my eyes. “What’s the occasion? Today your psych appointment?”

“No, silly, tonight’s the alum meeting!”

“It’s Friday already?”

“Yeah, and it’s the most exciting day of the week here at TT. People come out of the woodwork for this meeting. Because it’s a program of anonymity I can’t tell you who the guests might be so don’t ask, but lemme tell you, it’s one long red carpet, just like going to the Oscars.”

I couldn’t believe this bored, rich housewife who’d
slipped
at least a dozen times on OxyContin had probably been up since six a.m. primping for an AA meeting.

“Why are you getting ready
now
when the meeting’s tonight?”

“Because of the zinger of a day we have! There’s our in-house meeting, hypnotherapy, lunch, nap, Big Book Study, role play discovery, snack, journaling and meditation at the Zen garden, and then our five-kilometer oceanside ride along the PCH bike path.”

“All in your dress?” I asked incredulously.

“Well
yeah
, by the time we get back it’ll be five, then we have dinner and you and I have
set-up
duty, we’re serving crudités and green tea magic bars for dessert, my favorite! It takes me at least two hours to get ready, there just won’t be enough time if I don’t prepare now.”

Leaning on my elbow, I rested my heavy head on my fist, utterly exhausted by the time she finished laying out the day’s plan.

“Toodle-oo, see you at breakfast.”

Gretchen was right, the day was nonstop. After role play, where Toby and Jerome were dealers, Erroll a cop, Gretchen and I family members, and Dolly an EMT, with Kelly presiding, we walked down to the Zen garden for our journaling. I had to admit, all this meditation and quiet
time was starting to rattle some doors I’d thought were closed for good. I began thinking about approaching Grandma Jones with something I’d wanted to discuss with her for two decades but suppressed: our secret.

Dressed in comfortable CJ jeans, a Bob Marley T-shirt, and my Tims, I found the ride unexpectedly churned up a lot of musty feelings; hadn’t been on a bike since my last day working for Winslow.

By the end of the day, I was looking forward to the alum meeting for no other reason than to sit in the cut of the couch to recover from the Tranquility Tudor decathlon.

Not understanding why I was anxious, I helped Gretchen set up the food station while the banjo clock ticked down. Dylan and Toby brought in wood to light the fireplace even though it was a bazillion degrees. And the rest of the TT’ers unfolded our all-purpose metal chairs, placing Big Books with pads and pencils on each seat.

Kelly breezed in to oversee the preparations before giving orders into her walkie talkie, “Everything looks good, Rock, open the gate.”

Intermittently, an assortment of guests of all ages, some high profile, twenty in total, filed into the TT living room. I tried not to stare but my eyes widened in awe at the realization that our guest speaker was none other than celebrity pop idol and child TV star Bruce Skylark! I’d had a crush on him since I was a kid, he’d been on every cereal box in America. There was also Migg D., Flash Friklin, and singer Taylor Buckfield, and more kept streaming in.

The room swirled with industry chatter and fraternizing laughter; no doubt a few deals were being made. Bruce Skylark turned out to be surprisingly friendly; I felt my schoolgirl infatuation returning.

Feeling underdressed, I tiptoed off to my room to put on a dab of makeup and change out of my jeans before quietly returning to the meeting.

After formal introductions, Pat Quigley gently suggested, “All newcomers please stand and introduce yourselves. This is not to embarrass you but rather to acquaint you with the ‘family’ and possibly to pair you up
with an excellent sponsor. Will all the willing sponsors raise your hands?”

Ugh
. Was I really about to stand up and expose my secret? Did I have to say, “My name is Calysta Jeffries and I like poppin’ ’n’ swiggin’ now and then for nerves?” One by one, I watched the new TT residents obediently stand and introduce themselves.

Palms sweating, it was my turn. Everyone was staring. I’d feign illness, dramatically fainting to the floor. Who’d challenge it? Everyone. Half the members were actors. Forget it.

“Calysta?” Pat encouraged.

Slowly I stood up, looking down at the sisal carpet, reciting, “I’m Beul, I mean Calysta Jeffries . . .”

“Just your first name,” Pat reminded.

“Right. Calysta, pills and bubbles.”

“Hell-ooo, Ca-lys-ta,” the group said in unison, scaring me to death.

“Wonderful.” He smiled. “I think that’s everyone?”

“
Wait
,” a familiar voice drawled from the opposite side of the room, her face obstructed by a ficus. “I’m new.”

“I’m sorry. And what’s your name?” Pat asked.

“Gina. This is my very first meeting.”

Everyone clapped as I leaned forward, straining to see if my worst fear was about to be realized.

“Keep coming back, Gina!” Gretchen cheered. “It works if you
work
it!”

“Gee, thanks, guys, I feel so special being a newcomer,” she oozed, stepping forward.

What a skank. Emmy had scammed her way onto the property. Knowing she was up to no good, my mind raced. I could blow her cover and Rock would put her in a headlock until the cops came. Or maybe something less dramatic like quickly writing a note and passing it to Kelly? Or flying across the room, attacking her as I screamed, “This bitch is a fraud!” But then I’d risk being carted off for a 5150, an institutions hold invoked when a person displays erratic mental-health behavior or is a danger to themselves or others.

A look of satisfaction stole across Emmy’s face while she stroked her Moo Roo feathered clutch as if it was her pet Pomapoo, hawkishly scanning the room.

Enthusiastically, Pat announced, “Okay, everybody, now it is my great pleasure to introduce an old friend and one of our esteemed alums, Bruce S, sober for twenty-two years. It’s all yours, guy.”

I couldn’t hear a word Bruce was saying. Everything sounded as though it were under water. The presence of Emmy poisoned the evening just like everywhere she went and everything she touched. I didn’t want to imagine why she was here.

Momentarily putting the unsettling thought out of my mind, I along with the others sat spellbound by Bruce’s gripping
share about his rock-bottom
saga before he was brazenly interrupted by Emmy when she said, “That is un-friggin’ believable. You did all
that
and lived? Wicked!”

“Shhh,” Gretchen loudly hushed. “Don’t ask questions until the share is over.”

Unfazed, Bruce continued on about his hope, strength, and love. Moved as I was, I continued to be distracted, roving between his inspirational share and Emmy’s tapping heel.

Following the meeting and touchy-feely good-byes, alums spilled into the outdoor patio covered by a canopy of scuppernong grapevines. Bruce gave me his number before leaving, saying, “Out of everyone in this bunch I know you can do this, Calysta. Use the digits and stay close.”

Naturally, I was flattered, restraining myself from confessing I was a fan.

Eagle-eyed Kelly Lava came from behind, whispering, “Keep it all in perspective. Bruce doesn’t give his number out to just anyone so don’t abuse it. His kindness doesn’t mean a date but that he
might
want to be your sponsor if he has time. Take it from me, I learned the hard way. And Dylan’s running a fever, his tat’s infected, so I need you to help Toby with cleanup.”

“No problem,” I said, noticing that sneaky minx Emmy had slipped out before I could confront her.

“Calysta,” Toby said, plunging coffee mugs into the sink, “can you believe Emmy was here? I’m, like, blown away she’s joining the program!”

“Toby, can you for once put two brain cells together? She’s
not
in the program. She was spying. I wouldn’t put anything past that twit now that she knows I’m here.”

“What about me? She knows I’m here too now,” he said, worried.

“Yeah, right. But she doesn’t have an axe to grind with
you
.” I sighed, emotionally spent.

“Whaddaya mean? How ’bout that time she went up to Randall’s office and demanded I be blown up in the Fink laboratory so she didn’t have to have me as a long-lost son? Nearly got me fired. Remember that?”

“Who could forget?”

“Yeah, and when that didn’t work she claimed I was living in my dressing room on weekends dealing drugs, which was a boldfaced lie. Remember what she said in
Cliffhanger Weekly
?”