Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (9 page)

He was right. Most soap stars wanted to be on prime time, prime-time stars wanted to be movie stars, movie stars wanted to be rock stars, rock stars and wrestlers wanted to be politicians, politicians wanted to be in Hollywood, and all I wanted was to be Ruby Stargazer on
The Rich and the Ruthless
for the rest of my life.

“So what are you gonna do?” Derrick asked, as he rolled the car up to the Artists’ Entrance.

“Hell if I know. You-all hiring over at your show?”

“You know if they were you’d be the first honey I’d call.”

“Yeah right; you know you want some spicy young thang to play your love interest.”

“They don’t get any spicier than you, mamma. By the way, I kinda miss those plastic palm trees that the soap borrowed from
Deal of the Century
for our tropical destination shoot.”

“Liar,” I said with a half smile.

Derrick got out and went around to open the door for me.

“Holy crap, is that who I think it is?” one of the extras asked a fellow day player as they passed by.

Derrick cheesed for the girls while I shook my head.

“Boy, you never quit.”

“Fo sho,” Derrick said, grinning. “Can’t nobody match my swag!” He took my hand. “On the serious tip, it’s gonna be all right, babe, ’cause you’re one of the most talented, beautiful women I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with on and off the set.” He winked. “And you know what else? We’re both Taurus: sexy, sweet, and stubborn. Remember what our motto used to be over some Hennessy?”

At first I pretended I didn’t, knowing Derrick had it tattooed on his right bicep.

“Oh yeah,
Never Blend In
.”

“That’s the ticket,” he said, raising the sleeve of his skintight T-shirt. “Stand your ground, girl, and don’t give up a blink. Put your game face on and no matter what, don’t break your cool. I ain’t even worried aboutcha. Be honest, you know you love makin’ coin.”

Laughing, Derrick pulled me in, locking his seductive bedroom eyes on mine and saying with devilish charm, “Call me if you need anything, and I do mean anything.”

His Phantom sped across the lot.

Seeing Willie Turner’s Impala Caprice approaching was an immediate downer, reminding me exactly why I was rescued in the first place. Couldn’t believe that shmuck Randall had the audacity to send an intern to escort me to the set.

Wasn’t enough that he and his ant farm had managed to drive me to quit, now they were out for humiliation.

“They’re messin’ with the wrong woman today!” I said under my breath.

W
ho’s your naughty Snuggle Bunny?” Randall asked Emmy mid-thrust in his corner office.

“
Goo
are.”

“Louder,” he demanded in a growling whisper, spanking the bubblette, causing her to wince.

“
Goo
are,” she repeated, garbled words coming from the corner of her mouth, face smashed against a pile of
R&R
scripts on his desk. “
Goo are my gaughty, gaughty guggle gunny
.”

“That’s right,” he grunted. They were having a celebratory romp in honor of Calysta quitting the soap.

Randall had taken two Viagras just for the occasion, which had become routine despite doctors’ warnings.

Only six weeks earlier, he’d been rushed to Cedars-Sinai Hospital suffering from Viagra-induced heart arrhythmia after washing the pills down with merlot before a quick after-hours tryst with Emmy, not realizing red wine and the penile enhancer don’t mix. Later that night, Alison found her hubby slumped over on their black toilet in the master bathroom clutching his flabby chest.

Randall continued to have his Viagra shipped in bulk from Mexico, delivered to an undisclosed P.O. box in Watts. Naturally, he kept a healthy stash in his office desk, because he and Alison hadn’t had anything even close to fellatio since
Everybody Loves Raymond
went off the air.

He momentarily fixated on a real-life nightmare: Alison bolting naked from their bed, stomping toward the kitchen, her entire body feeling as though it were being roasted over a spit, standing in front of their open Sub-Zero fighting merciless sweats, also known as “the change of life.” Randall had crept up behind the ugly spectacle, disbelieving that his trophy wife was now reduced to a menopausal mess.

“Are you all right, Alison?” he asked as he put his hand on her clammy shoulder.

Screaming bloody murder she whipped around, spewing, “I was until you practically mauled me, you idiot, scaring me half to death. I came down for a Fudgsicle to cool off. And by the way, you fell asleep again.”

Since then, Randall had felt less blameworthy and allowed himself guilty pleasures. For instance Emmy, bent over his desk.

Unlucky at love, Emmy had learned a long time ago to grit her teeth and suck it up, quite literally, to get what she wanted. And what she wanted was a clear shot at the leading lady slot on
The Rich and the Ruthless,
stopping at nothing to get what she set her sights on.

She knew that Edith Norman was famous for forcing network producers to put their aging leading ladies out to pasture to chow down on cud once they turned the undesirable, leprous ages of thirty-five to
fifty. Clinging to daytime like an
African Queen
barnacle, Alison Fairchild Roberts was waaay past the
sell by
date.

With an actress’s window of opportunity so narrow in Hollywood, Emmy thought nothing of allowing Randall to occasionally plow her like an overgrown cornfield if that’s what it would take to get him to anoint her America’s Next Queen Bee of
R&R
.

Always calculating, she moaned between thrusts and thoughts, “
Oh,
phow-guggle-gunny-gou’re-guch-a-guckin’-monster
,” slappin’ pride on Randall’s face.

Emmy had an easier time relating to a storyline that had her character, Gina Chiccetelli, as the long-lost daughter of a Martian than to the role of a woman sexually satisfied by anatomically deprived Randall Roberts.

A million miles away, she mulled over her options, not wanting to risk having her ace in the hole get sentimental about sending his dicey-wifey off to Destination Nowhere, so she picked up where she left off, adjusting her recently Botoxed face still plastered against a stack of scripts to throw in a few extra bonus strokes, “Oh, phow, phow,
ph
owwww!”

Meg Ryan couldn’t have faked it better.

Randall collapsed on her back, his hairy, sweat-soaked body greasing against hers like Crisco in a hot skillet. Emmy cringed, sliding out from under him, pulling down her Zac Posen dress.

“That was un-freaking-believable!” Randall exclaimed, falling back into his chair, catching his breath as he squeezed a dollop of Purell between his fat palms. The producer’s heart was pumping so fast he thought it might explode.

Maybe next time just one Viagra?
he thought, placing the anti-bacterial back on his desk.

Unlocking her jaw with a series of facial contortions, Emmy replied, “Snuggle Bunny, about Calysta . . .”

“What about her?” he asked, tucking his shirt back into his trousers.

“I don’t know, I guess I’m a little worried,” she admitted. “Are you
positive
she’s leaving the show?”

“Pussycat, how many times do I have to tell you, she’s O-U-T, out. We offered her recurring and she turned it down. End of story. Ding, dong, the bitch is dead!”

“Yeah well, I’ll believe it when she drives off the lot for the last time with her hatboxes, hair extensions, and straightening combs.” Emmy snorted. “It didn’t work the last time we tried to get her to quit, ya know!”

“Yeah, but the difference was Augustus was still in charge,” Randall reminded her. “In the past, whenever she tied her little red g-string into a knot, her godfather was always there to talk her down from the ledge, but not this time.”

“How do you know she wears a red g-string?” Emmy challenged.

“Huh?”

His mind darted back to a few weeks earlier, when he had snuck into Calysta’s dressing room while she was on-set. Snooping around, he found his Holy Grail: a lacy red thong dangling from Calysta’s bathroom doorknob.

Inhaling it, he whispered, “Who’s your daddy now?” while masturbating, before stuffing the g-string into his pocket and making a quick exit.

“Uh . . . just a figure of speech,” Randall replied, fingering Calysta’s g-string in his pocket.

“Mm-hm,” Emmy said, unconvinced.

“Ms. Jeffries, you can’t go in there!” Randall heard as the door to his office was flung open.

“Watch me lookin’ good doin’ it,” I said, entering, Randall’s secretary Anita hot on my heels. “An intern to escort me?”

“What do you think you’re doing, Calysta?” Randall demanded.

“I tried to stop her, Mr. Roberts.”

“It’s all right, Anita.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, cursing in Spanish under her breath, closing the door.

I gave the guilty pair a slanted look before sitting down on his leather sofa, coolly crossing my legs.

“What do we have here?” I asked.

“Nothing, absolutely nothing!” Randall said defensively.

“Humph, sure sound jumpy for somebody doin’ ‘nothing, absolutely nothing.’”

“For crissakes, Calysta.” Emmy sighed. “We’re talking about my storyline. Jeesh, what do you think we’re doing, banging each other’s brains out on the couch?”

“No question you’ve been bangin’ somethin’. Why don’t you make yourself useful and open a window. There’s an unmistakable tartness in the air,” I said, moving to a chair.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones but Randall’s making me a di-rec-tor,” Emmy sang.

“You a lie,” I said, redirecting my attention to Randall. “I’ve been on this soap for how long? And you’re lettin’
her
direct?”

“What can I say, she’s earned the show four Sudsys, Calysta.
The Rich and the Ruthless
has always rewarded high achievement.”

Emmy flashed a satisfied grin.

“And what do you call my eleven NAACP Image Awards over the past fifteen years?”

Emmy sucked her teeth and rolled her eyes, saying, “Oh
those
,” dismissively. “They don’t count.”

“Emmy . . .” Randall warned, standing. The last thing he wanted was Al Sharpton on his doorstep. “This meeting is over!”

“I wonder how Alison would see this ‘creative meeting’?” I baited.

“Oh wow, you’re like really reaching,” Emmy snapped. “Alison’s a friend of mine.”

“Yeah sure, just like we’re BFFs, right?”

“You know what? I’ve tried to be your friend, Calysta, but you just
won’t let anybody in. It’s that wall you have built up around that little heart of yours. I really feel sorry for you. I’m sure your tough childhood in Mississippi had something to do with it, but when are you gonna let someone in?”

Applauding, I said, “You actually managed to pull that monologue off without one cue card.”

“All right, that’s enough, you two,” Randall said, taking his seat again as his phone beeped.

“Mr. Roberts, sorry to interrupt, but your wife is on line one,” Anita announced.

“Tell her I’m in the middle of a meeting and I’ll call her back.”

“She said it was urgent, sir.”

“Tell Alison I’ll call her back!”
Roberts yelled.

“I’ll go, Randy,” Emmy offered. “Three’s a crowd . . . besides, this is her last week on
The Rich and the Ruthless
and I have all the time in the world to discuss
my
future . . . on the show,” she added with a wink.

I resisted the urge to say anything as she passed, reeking of her signature fragrance, Paris Hilton’s Can Can.

“Right, we’ll finish this another time, Emmy,” Randall insisted, clearing his throat while straightening his Hermès tie.

“Whatever you say, Randy, you’re the boss. Oh, Calysta, some parting advice: be sure to roll over your 401(k), or better yet liquidate. You’re gonna need the cash. I’m afraid there’s no government bailout for aging actresses. Retirement’s a bitch.”

“Good-bye, Emmy,” Randall said.

“Could ya hit that magic button between your legs and let me out?” she asked with skanky innuendo.

“Uh sure,” he said, flustered, pressing the control under his shoe as Emmy sauntered out.

“Flat-ass bitch,” I said.

“That’s totally uncalled for, Calysta,” Randall scolded. “You really need an attitude adjustment.”

“That what you were givin’ Deep Throat? An attitude adjustment?”

“I’m not going to dignify that with a response.”

“We both know the only reason that trailer trash knows exactly where your ‘magic button’ is, is because she’s performed
fumer le cigare
too many times for anyone, including you, to count.”

“Your opinion means less than nothing to me,” Randall began. “But you should be forewarned, if you even think about going around spreading malicious gossip and lies about Emmy and me—”

“Oh please. I could give a good kitty what you do with that hussy. I came up here to ask why you think I need a damn
intern
to escort me to the set of my
show.”

“
Your
show?” Randall laughed. “Let’s get something straight, you’re part of the cast like everybody else. Everyone’s a star on
The Rich and the Ruthless
and you’re all treated equal. And for the record, this is
my
show. Had you figured that out earlier, things could have been a lot different.”

“By ‘figuring it out,’ do you mean giving in to your sleazy advances?” I retorted. “No thanks, I’d rather take a Timex on my way out. I know what you’re trying to do, Randall. You ain’t slick.”

“And what exactly is that, besides trying to keep this sudser afloat?” Randall sighed. “As for the intern, Edith and I agreed it was best.”

“For who? Humph, Edith.” I smirked. “I’ll just bet the two of you burned the midnight oil on this one.”

“I have to ask you to leave,” he said, his voice brittle.

“If you think you’re gonna drive me to go Angry Black Woman and pull out an Afro puff my last week of taping you’re gonna be disappointed, because I plan to leave
R&R
with my dignity intact. So bring it, do your worst. Now, I have a rehearsal to get to and with all the roadblocks you-all set up this morning I hope I haven’t missed it. And uh, can you hit that ‘magic button,’ not the one between your legs, the one on your desk to tell your German shepherd Anita to heel. Next time she barks, I’ll bite.”