Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva Read online

  SECRETS

  of a

  SOAP OPERA

  Diva

  ALSO BY VICTORIA ROWELL

  The Women Who Raised Me: A Memoir

  SECRETS

  of a

  SOAP OPERA

  Diva

  A NOVEL

  VICTORIA ROWELL

  A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Days Ferry Productions

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Atria Paperback edition May 2010

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  Designed by Suet Chong

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  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Rowell, Victoria.

  Secrets of a soap opera diva : a novel / Victoria Rowell.—1st Atria pbk. ed.

  p. cm.

  1. Television actors and actresses—Fiction.

  2. Television soap operas—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3618.O876S43 2010

  813'.6—dc22 2009038948

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6442-6

  ISBN 978-1-4391-6484-6 (ebook)

  William J. Bell

  March 6, 1927–April 29, 2005

  Creator and executive producer of the soap operas The Young and the Restless and The Bold and the Beautiful was an extraordinary man of infinite courage and creativity, inspiring the daytime drama industry to be more than a soap opera. Once a comedy writer in Chicago, Bill’s passion for writing was as infectious as his humor. He mentored in his own legendary way and it was a privilege to be in his wake, breathing and sometimes dancing life into his words as the popular Drucilla Barber Winters for more than a decade on the number one daytime drama, The Young and the Restless. I will forever hold dear his notes, photographs, and our time spent in Malibu with his wife, Lee, or in my own backyard in Hollywood. But above all I will cherish our SECRET. Bill gave new meaning to the Socrates quote, “The best dancer is also the best warrior.”

  Calysta Jeffries is like a chocolate-covered spider—calculating, delicious, and spellbinding. She can do no wrong in front of the camera and that’s all I care about.

  —AUGUSTUS BARRINGER SR.

  Author’s Note

  What a privilege it has been performing for a global audience as an actress for more than two decades.

  Suspending disbelief, true soap opera devotees in the millions escape for one hour a day into the fictional swirl of their favorite daytime drama, five days a week, two hundred and sixty episodes a year. For generations, soaps are shared like a prized heirloom, passed down to children and grandchildren alike.

  In England it’s Coronation Street and EastEnders, Brazil tunes into Of Body and Soul, one of India’s many sudsers is Kumkum. The Caribbean is glued to the number one soap opera in America, The Young and the Restless, airing three times daily.

  Many die-hard fans go so far as to schedule college classes, while others rearrange lunch breaks, doctor appointments, and business meetings around their favorite daytime drama so as not to miss one second of nail-biting cliff-hanger suspense. Fans around the world would defend this: “It’s a way to put real life on hold, unplug, and unwind.”

  As if soap writers intuitively know the despair and dreams of those watching, a single episode can uplift spirits while shedding light on serious topics ranging from foster care, illiteracy, and breast cancer to AIDS. A soap opera and its cast of characters have the incandescent ability to transcend language and cultural barriers, addressing millions of viewers around the world in a single sitting.

  Though we can’t accurately measure the global phenomenon of soap opera culture, one thing is certain, the “stories” allow grown men and women to laugh one minute and cry the next without apology.

  I’ve read thousands and thousands of letters over the years from fans who shared how they learned to speak English watching a soap opera, or coped with isolation when suffering from chronic debilitating illnesses.

  Elders reported how their beloved sudser didn’t just keep them company; by engaging in one of their favorite pastimes, they felt they were keeping up with extended family members on the tube.

  The imprisoned, those confined to hospital beds, and those without a bed at all proved they had one thing in common—knowing they could depend on the companionship of a soap opera, hence making it not just a daytime drama but rather a lifeline.

  To soap opera fans around the world, from Africa, Greece, India, Poland, France, Germany, Japan, Brazil, Romania, the Caribbean, and Israel to Italy, Australia, Indonesia, and parts in between, Thank you with a capital T for your loyalty over the years.

  Warmly,

  Victoria

  SECRETS

  of a

  SOAP OPERA

  Diva

  Like Thoroughbreds at the Kentucky Derby . . .

  so are the bubblers at the Sudsy Awards

  Ever noticed how horses act once the shot rings out at Churchill Downs? Those Thoroughbreds show more restraint than the average bubbler, aka fame-obsessed soap star, once their soap is announced winner for Best Daytime Drama Series at the Sudsy Awards. Most soap stars are so desperate to make the leap from the daytime plantation to the promised land of prime time and feature film they lose all sense of decorum when truckin’ toward the stage.

  I’m not saying, er typing, any names, but a particular aging actress went so far as to knee an adorable thirteen-year-old child actor in his still-developing nether regions to get her usual spot next to the executive producer onstage. If you don’t believe moi, look at the 2008 Daytime Sudsys on YouTube. A fan recorded it with her Handycam!

  In desperate hopes that some CSI, Mad Men, or even Dancing with the Stars producer might “discover” them, soap stars can’t resist the opportunity of having their freshly Botoxed mugs exposed during an hour of prime-time television.

  This year, however, it isn’t the award for best show that has people buzzing on the soapvine or around watercoolers. It’s the bubbler battle for Best Lead Actress in a Daytime Serial that has sudser fans and industry insiders alike talking.

  I predict gold-plated statuettes will roll, right along with a few heads, if Calysta Jeffries doesn’t finally take home the Sudsy for her role as fan favorite Ruby Stargazer on The Rich and the Ruthless after tonight’s live broadcast from the Kodak Theatre in Hollywood.

  Inside sources reveal the feisty actress has been threatening to quit her soap if she doesn’t win this year. Would Calysta Jeffries really do that to R&R’s creator Augustus Barringer, who basically plucked her from Obscurity-ville and made her a star all those years ago? I guess we’ll find out tonight.

  Log on to SecretsofaSoapOperaDiva.com right after the telec
ast for all the juicy behind-the-scenes dish.

  The Diva

  CHAPTER 1

  The Sudsy Awards

  The night belongs to you, kid,” said soap opera mogul Augustus O. Barringer, squeezing my hand. The legendary creator and head writer of my sudser, The Rich and the Ruthless, the number-one-rated daytime drama in America and around the world, watched weekly by more than a hundred million fans, said, “I can feel it.”

  “You really think so, Mr. Barringer?” I asked anxiously.

  “Mark my words.”

  The long, boring technical awards were still under way with a svelte Valerie Bertinelli presiding. We were seated in the second row, smack dab behind Oprah’s fabulous head of hair, which only served to remind me of how I had nailed an audition for a movie the talk-show icon had produced, snagging the coveted role opposite one of her favorite actresses as her sister. Naturally, being so excited I told the world, later finding out from my lazy agent, Weezi Abramowitz, who called me in Greece where I was soaking up fun and sun before filming, that I’d been stripped of the part. O’s people decided it wasn’t such great casting after all, replacing me with an out-of-towner. From that moment on, my vacation was wrecked. I drank myself silly with ouzo from Santorini to the Acropolis. Thank God it was only a nagging recurring dream.

  Jolted by flashing paparazzi, the cast of The View—Barbara, Whoopi, Joy, Sherri, and the Republican—paraded by, air-kissing their way into front-row seats next to Rachael, Dr. Phil, Tyra, Regis, and Kelly.

  Since the financial collapse, the whole daytime industry was on its ear. The soap opera spectacular’s producer, Dick Allen, being on a shoestring budget, agreed to merge with game shows, talk shows, the Internet, and cable TV, resulting in the universe of daytime programming gathering under one roof to pat themselves on the back at the Fortieth Annual Daytime Sudsy Awards, held at the Kodak Theatre in the heart of Hollywood.

  After fifteen years of false alarms, I was finally poised to win the coveted Sudsy—the Pulitzer Prize, the MacArthur Genius Grant, the Guggenheim of daytime drama—for my unforgettable portrayal of firebrand Ruby Stargazer on television’s most popular soap opera, The Rich and the Ruthless.

  “Calysta, you look amazing,” said Shannen Lassiter, a costar and rare friend from the show, seated next to me.

  Shannen played Dr. Justine Lashaway, sexy resident colonoscopy specialist, pediatrician, gynecologist, neurologist, popular obstetrician, podiatrist, and occasional veterinarian for the fictional citizens of suburban Whitehaven, Montana, on R&R.

  Shannen’s character was perpetually in a three-way tryst that relentlessly included Phillip McQueen (ex–Otis DuFail, Our Lives to Contend, now Barrett Fink, The Rich and the Ruthless), a Pierce Brosnan wannabe. A diva in his own right and theater scholar from Pepperell University in Maine, he was once the legendary better half of daytime’s hottest gay super-couple and winner of the coveted Sudsy Crier of the Year Award earlier that evening. The gold-dipped statuette rested on his wife Pinkey’s plump lap.

  “Thanks, Shannen.” My Rolfed-Boot-Camp-Pilates-Workout body was poured into a stunning strapless peach b. Michael gown emphasizing my derriere, décolletage, and clavicles. My soap critic pal Mitch Morelli had arranged for Jacques St. Jacques, jeweler to the stars, to drape me in half a million dollars’ worth of dazzling borrowed diamonds for the evening. The only drawback was the jeweler’s henchmen following me everywhere.

  Shannen would also no doubt make the Best Dressed lists in all the magazines, looking radiant in a ruffled emerald green Moschino Couture, her hair with a teased Brigitte Bardot bump at the crown of her head.

  Mr. Barringer had defied strict orders from his doctors and wife, Katherine, by coming to the Sudsy Awards on what was surely going to be a night we’d never forget. After growing weary of seeing me overlooked year after year, Augustus had come out of semi-retirement specifically to pen a Sudsy-Award-winning storyline for his protégée.

  Ruby Stargazer’s beloved daughter, Jade, the product of a crossover dalliance with Thrust Addington, who starred on The Daring and the Damned, Augustus Barringer’s number two soap, was kidnapped by Ruby’s archnemesis, deranged scientist Uranus Winterberry.

  And in case you missed that episode, let me tell you, I peed all over that scene, I truly did, delivering the monologue of a lifetime as armed gunmen held me at bay while Uranus Winterberry ordered Jade dropped into an active volcano. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but it was one for the soap opera record books. Matter of fact, I won a Silver Star in Soap Suds Digest that week!

  Even my jealous costars secretly agreed over mojitos at a pre-Sudsy luncheon at the Barringer Bel Air compound earlier in the week that I wouldn’t be leaving the Kodak Theatre without a Sudsy in hand, though most of them did whatever they could to prevent it from happening.

  “I’ll see you in the pressroom and I’m taking out a full-page ad in Variety, Calysta,” Augustus said proudly. “You are to The Rich and the Ruthless what De Beers is to diamonds.”

  “Ugh, it’s disgusting the way he gushes over her,” huffed Alison Fairchild Roberts, the sour, aging leading lady on The Rich and the Ruthless, to her husband, R&R’s greedy co-executive producer Randall Roberts. She was wrapped head to toe in pleated gold lamé with a hideous matching cape, resembling Nacho Libre on acid. Mercifully, she left the turban at home and had her hair in a “Pebbles” updo. I must say the costume made a great reflector on the red carpet. Alison and Randall were seated in the row behind us, bookended by Drew and contestants from the show The Biggest Loser.

  “The last thing I need is for Augustus to hear you bad-mouthing Calysta on her big night. I’ll never hear the end of it!” Randall said.

  It was no secret among The Rich and the Ruthless cast and crew that Augustus favored me. Many speculated that it was more than a professional relationship, and I let them gossip themselves to death. Whatever was between Augustus and me, you can best believe I’d be taking it to my grave.

  From the moment I auditioned for Mr. B in 1994, for a role I hadn’t been right for, we both knew we had more than a soap opera between us. In two words, we clicked. Augustus quickly created a new role, that of feisty Ruby Stargazer, tailored for me after I confided a bit about my background. Our bond was forever sealed. And on the day I signed my first three-year contract, Augustus shared his favorite Brian Tracy quote with me: “All the people and situations of your life have only the meaning you give them . . . and, when you change your thinking, you change your life, sometimes in seconds.” Mr. B quickly became the paternal figure I’d never had, making more than sure that my needs were met on and off the set. I never could’ve afforded the down payment for my Malibu home if it weren’t for him.

  The only way to repay him was through hard work. So I decided not to take my growing concerns about R&R to the titan. I understood how his from-another-era thinking made him oblivious to change.

  I picked my battles and those I battled with, namely, Edith Norman, president of daytime television for the World Broadcast Company network, and her co-conspirator, Randall Roberts. Unfortunately, I could watch molasses go uphill in the dead of winter faster than I could get them to change any of their antiquated ways.

  “You do realize if Calysta wins tonight she’ll be even more full of herself,” Alison shot to her husband, pursing her thin lips.

  “Shh,” Randall snapped, holding his manicured index up for emphasis.

  “Don’t shush me. It’s bad enough Obama won. I can only imagine—”

  “Keep your voice down,” Randall scolded.

  I spied the conniving pair in my Dior compact as I powdered my nose and checked my lipstick, preparing for my close-up.

  Shannen looked back, scanning to the last row, where her scowling husband, Roger Cabott, washed-up hardscrabble lead actor on Obsessions, the campy half-hour supernatural soap, dead last in the Nielsens, was seated with his lackluster cast. Married or not, all soap stars were ordered by their networks to sit with their own show
s.

  Shannen smiled, waving hopefully, her Verdura pavé diamond cuff reflecting the buttery chandelier lighting. Roger looked at his younger wife before glowering forward.

  “What a gorgeous bracelet,” I remarked, snapping my compact shut, sliding it into my Jimmy Choo evening clutch.

  “Roger gave it to me when we were first married and he was making lots of money on Our Lives to Contend. I’ve kept it in the vault, but I think this will be the last time I’ll be seen wearing it,” she said, wistfully tearing up. “It’s a mortgage payment.”

  Shannen met her Svengali-like husband years ago at a Hugh Hefner party, where she’d been serving as a hostess. Secretly, I wondered if she sometimes regretted not choosing the star quarterback of the Baltimore Ravens, signed to a “fifty million dollars over six years” contract, who’d been infatuated with her.

  “Girl, don’t cry, you’re gonna mess up your makeup.”

  A powder-room break later, the conspicuous Jacques St. Jacques henchmen in tow, fearing I’d gnawed off a diamond or two in the stall, Shannen and I teetered back down the aisle on four-inch Christian Louboutins and Giuseppe Zanottis, where I spotted the other two black actresses in daytime and waved. Though my feet were screaming for mercy, I knew suffering for fashion was a diva must and pretended they belonged to someone else, grateful for the magic of adrenaline, fame, and a potential Sudsy Award. I vamped on.

  Of course we took the long way back to our seats, tap-dancing in front of Ellen, giving her a wink and an overexaggerated smile, hoping she’d invite us on her show. She was still looking for George Clooney, rumored to be a surprise Sudsy presenter and a closeted soap fan of Susan Lucci.

  The plush vermilion chairs were a refuge for our tortured, pinched pigs.

  “I swear, Calysta, I thought Roger was going to haul off and clobber me, I’ve never seen him so mad. He called us ‘self-obsessed morons’ and complained that our ‘stupid show’ gets to sit front-row center almost every year, while he has to sit ‘damn near the lobby with the friggin’ fans.’ Plus everyone knows Obsessions is getting canceled.”