Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (38 page)

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.”

“There’ve been reports that you’re addicted to plastic surgery. Is it true that you’ve had over twenty-five procedures?”

Like a needle scratching across vinyl, Alison plucked another apple martini from a passing tray, took a sip, then answered, “Do I look like it?”

Chauncey wanted very badly to tell her that her lips were so uneven he had difficulty choosing which one to focus on. Was she so vainly detached from reality that she took credit for a rack as erect as the one on a Pussycat Doll? There was no right answer. Chauncy took a chance.

“Alison, you are by far the most preserved woman I’ve ever met in my entire life.”

That was the end of the interview.

Turning to his cameraman, Chauncey asked, “Did you get it all?”

“Sorry, Chauncey, battery went dead three questions ago.”

“That’s okay, won’t use more than two bites anyway. She’s such a bitch.”

Cloistered away in the upstairs gilded powder room, Emmy placed her cocktail and Louis Vuitton pooch pouch on the marble countertop before reapplying gobs of iridescent tickler peach lip gloss, dropping to her knees.

“Ready for this, Snuggle Bunny?” she impishly asked, looking up at Randall.

“Absolutely,” he replied, eagerly unfastening his trousers. “But this has
got
to be the last time.”

“Of course, I just thought since it’s such a special occasion,” she crooned, rocking back on her four-inch premium pumps, withdrawing. “If you want me to leave . . .”

“Are you crazy? You’re already down there—ahhh . . . woooo . . . yayayaya . . . whoo-we-wow-zah!”

Frighteningly fast, Randall fell to the “R&R” mosaic-tiled floor with a thud, face contorted, eyes bulging, sweating profusely as Emmy slowly stood, leisurely plucking up a tissue, straddling her victim to dot her smeared lips.

“Emmy,” Randall rasped.

“What’s that, Snuggle Bunny? Are you trying to tell me it was good?”

“Whatdidyo—” he managed to whisper before his throat fully closed. Writhing, his legs spastically kicked out, his face turning purple.

Unsympathetic, Emmy looked into the gilded mirror, took the last sip of her Cosmopolitan, and swished and spat it out before reapplying lip gloss laced with a secret weapon Randall was deathly allergic to.

Looking beneath her, she icily appraised, “Here’s what I did for you, you fat bastard, since you forgot. I gave you the best sex in your life and laughed at your boring jokes and put up with your stinkin’ cigars and pretended to have orgasms. And that takes skill when all you have to work with is a tub of lard and a tiny dick. I was sympathetic about your dumb wife and all her drama and listened to your problems with Edith and obeyed you to the letter, making certain Calysta never got a Sudsy, and for what?” Emmy slid off the ring Randall had given her months earlier, having found out from her appraiser that the bauble was three sparkling carats of cubic zirconium trash. She dramatically hurled it into the toilet but it wouldn’t flush—it was a floater.

“You broke your promise to me,” she hissed at an unconscious Randall. “This is what happens when you stomp all over the
other
woman’s ambitions.”

Distantly, Javier, who had been treated to a hero’s welcome earlier, could be heard serenading Shannen and the crowd with Luis Miguel’s
“La Incondicional”
as Emmy yanked up Randall’s Brooks Brothers trousers, not caring what got caught in them, grabbed her Pomapoo, and
strolled casually out of the loo, tossing over her shoulder, “Now
that
was one for the record books.”

“Hey, you guys, there’s like ambulances and cop cars everywhere,” a hysterical Ethan in borrowed clothes yelled.

Screeching “Roxanne” at the top of her lungs, Emmy was caught off guard when the karaoke machine went dead and shouts erupted from the front of the tent.

“Cool, it’s never a
real
party till the cops show up or the firemen shut it down,” Toby chimed in, grinning. “Let’s get this mixer started!” he crowed, pulling Jade in the opposite direction to discuss which Nine Inch Nails duet to sing.

“I just heard Randall Roberts might be dead!” Ethan finished. Mob mentality taking over, buzzed bubblers and reporters herded toward the front of the house, trampling the azaleas and agapanthus. Randall was already being rolled out of the McMansion on a gurney toward a waiting ambulance when a nasal shriek could be heard.

“For gawd’s sake, wait! Let me through!” Alison frantically slurred, zigzagging her way through the clustering crowd, before being stopped by an officer.

“How dare you. Take your skeevy hands off me,” she demanded. “I’m Alison Fairchild Roberts, Rory Lovekin on the number one daytime soap, a Sudsy Award winner.”

“You’re who?”

“His wife for crissakes and I’m not going anywhere without me.”

Wolfe, taking the reins once again, soap-opera-ish-ly vouched, “The voman is despicable, officer, but she speaks the truth.”

“All right, let her on.”

Alison was hoisted into the ambulance wearing a sheer silk blouse revealing her perfect 38 C’s, but before the red doors closed, she added with arms outstretched like Evita Perón, “Don’t cry for me . . .”

The EMT slammed the doors.

“What a nut job,” the officer said to Wolfe.

“And
I
have to vork vith her.”

As sirens were blaring down the driveway, and a satisfied Emmy looked on in sadistic amusement, Wilson Turner sighed to Bonnie Blackburn, “Looks like that’s a definite wrap on the party and it was just heatin’ up.”

“This is way too much drama in forty-eight hours,” Shannen said, clutching Javier.

“Man, talk about brilliant! Edie, you sly devil. One down, one to go,” Auggie crooned to Edith, who was uncertain what had just happened.

As the amplified voices of Toby and Jade sang “The Hand That Feeds” in the background, Chauncey Brown said into the camera, “That was one of the most dramatic exits I’ve ever witnessed. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I love daytime television. You just can’t write the script. This is Chauncey Brown reminding you, what happens off the set is stranger than fiction and where the
real
drama begins.”

B
usted, I resignedly walked past Rock waiting at the TT gate and into Kelly Lava’s office.

“Unbelievable,” she started in, sounding like the worst nun in the world. “You’re already on thin ice and now this?”

“There was something I needed to do.”

“Oh yeah? I’ll tell you what you need to do. March to your room and give me another urine sample, now!” barked the bossy sober coach.

“You people take so much pee it’s a wonder this place don’t float.”

“You’ve been out of our watch, you bet your ass we wanna know what kind of trouble you’ve gotten into.”

After practically strip-searching me, Kelly waited with one foot in the bathroom door until I placed the warm cup in her hand.

Hearing her footsteps fade away, Gretchen unwrapped a paper towel, saying, “She’s such a pill. Saved you a chocolate-covered macaroon.”

“Thanks, I’m fine,” I said distractedly. “What’s she thinking—I’m gonna water down my pee? Or that I went out to score?”

“Actually, yeah. It’s happened. In fact, Toby just got kicked out for that very reason. Kelly ripped his autographed Jessica Simpson poster right off the wall and tore it to pieces. I didn’t even get to say good-bye or give him his Varvatos gift.”

Sighing, I collapsed onto my bed, folding my arms, locking my fingers behind my head, saying, “Gretchen, why do you keep coming back here? It’s not workin’ for you, and girl, you
work
it. How come you keep relapsing?”

Looking serious through heavily mascaraed lashes, she said, “The truth of the matter is, I slip on purpose. They take care of me, I have friends, and actually feel like I’m part of a family.”

Frowning, I said, “But that’s no way to live your life. You have everything a person could ever want; husband, home, kids, more money than you can spend. Why do you need this place?”

“My husband has offices in Hong Kong, Paris, London, Saudi Arabia . . . eleven countries in all. He’s never home. Kids are in boarding school in Switzerland. He has at least two mistresses that I know of. Do you have any idea how lonely it is to live in a twenty-thousand-square-foot chateau by yourself? Servants don’t count. When I go to rehab he comes home. I get his attention . . . for a little while . . . ”

Somberly looking at Gretchen in a different light, I felt sorry for her as we chatted till one in the morning. We were about to turn out the lights and go to sleep when Kelly barged in.

“Get dressed!”

“What, why?”

“Just do it.”

“What’s going on, Kelly?” Gretchen asked.

“Mind your business.”

Gretchen locked eyes with mine, both of us knowing this couldn’t be good.

I followed Kelly into the cold TT office. Pat Quigley was waiting, drumming his fingers against the desk.

“Calysta, I’m going to get right to it,” he began. “We’re tremendously disappointed in you. I personally hoped you’d be a model client of ours and that TT could use you as a spokeperson for the facility but all that’s out the window now.”

I kept my trap shut.

“We know you were out smoking meth tonight.”

“Meth? Are you on crack?”

“You heard us,” Kelly said.

“I thought you were making such progress here at TT,” Pat continued.

“Wait. What are you guys talking about?” I demanded.

“Kelly found traces of meth in your urine, and as you know, TT’s policy is that we do
not
tolerate
any
drug use whatsoever. I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave the premises immediately. A staffer will assist you with your packing.”

“Bitch, you
framed
me.”

“Save it for the stage. That innocent victim act won’t help you here. Do you think you’re the first to try to get away with this?”

“You wait, Lava! I’ma get Pookey ’n’ them to kick your ass.”

“Talk about self-aggrandizement and grandiose. This isn’t an episode on your little soap opera. This is real life, sweetheart, no one peed in that cup tonight but you and I have a witness to prove it.”

“Sorry, Calysta, you have to go,” Pat said.

This can’t be happening
. It was worse than being voted off
Survivor
.

Unclipping her walkie-talkie, Kelly asked, “Yes, Rock?”

“I got that new
whiskey foxtrot
you told me to pick up and she’s gonna be trouble. Still doin’ drugs in the backseat. Ovah.”

“Okay, just take the long way back, I’m wrapping up right now. Over.”

Turning back to me, she said, “If you don’t leave, we’ll have no choice but to call the sheriff, who’ll gladly cuff you and take you to jail for trespassing and violation of a court order. Do I have to remind you you’ve only done one week of a six-week program?”

“That said,” Pat interrupted, “as a gesture of goodwill, I could make an arrangement for you to be released into the care of a family member or friend until you find another rehab facility in the next twenty-four hours.”

“You-all are crazy; nothin’ but greedy, scandalous pimps. You have this rehabbin’ thing all tied up. I’m gonna go but I’ll be back, and it won’t be for equine therapy either, you can
believe
that. You’re gonna wish you never knew me.”

As I opened the door to leave, Kelly reminded me, “Don’t disturb the residents, Calysta, we’d prefer if you left quietly.” Not responding, I walked out of the office.

“What’s going on?” a worried Gretchen asked, sitting up, sliding her sleep mask onto her forehead, flicking her sleep apnea machine off.

“Got kicked out for supposedly smokin’ meth. Impossible. First of all that ain’t my thing. Lava makes me sick,” I explained, sucking my back teeth while pulling my Louis Vuitton out of the closet.

“Not again!” Gretchen said.

“I wouldn’t stay here for all the tea in China,” I said, angrily throwing my clothes into the luggage. “Wait a minute. What’d you mean ‘not again’?”

Breaking down in tears, a distressed Gretchen pleaded, “Calysta, you’re the best friend I have. Don’t let them make you go
too
,” leaping out of bed to hug me, feeling like all kinds of desperation.

“Ready?” Kelly said, stepping in.

“Gretchen, I’m dealing with a complicated situation right now, it’s outta my control but it’ll work itself out.”

“Break it up,” Kelly barked as she snapped open a black garbage bag, tossing my toiletries into it.

“I hate you, Kelly,” Gretchen snarled. “You’re always ruining the harmony around here. It’s a wonder any of us are sober. Let me guess, dirty pee again so you can bring in another helpless soul to fill Calysta’s bed and keep her thirty-six K for a one-week stay? You and Quigley are pathetic! I’ve been in and out of here enough to know a pattern when I see one, and I’m going to report you guys once and for all.”

“Temper, temper,” Kelly said. “Sure you don’t need a sedative?”

I took in every last word that came out of Gretchen’s mouth. I had her personal contact information and would definitely be in touch to pick her brain later.

White-knuckling her walkie-talkie, Kelly demanded, “Rock, where the hell are you? I need backup, stat!”

“Pullin’ in right now.”

“Well hurry the hell up. And secure the package.”

And she thought she was talkin’ in code.

“And tell the nurse I need a tranquilizer, Gretchen’s flipping out again.”