Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (12 page)

“The doctor said he would be in to talk to us about your test results sometime this morning,” Katherine assured him.

The three of them had been at Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore, one of the world’s most prestigious medical centers for neurological studies, for more than two weeks. Augustus had begun suffering from mini-strokes the previous year.

“Have you heard back from Randall about Calysta?” Augustus asked.

Veronica had hoped her father would have forgotten about the sticky situation with Calysta. Augustus had been livid when he learned one of his most popular stars and a personal favorite had allegedly chosen to leave the show.

“No, Daddy, Randall hasn’t called back. But he assured me that he was doing whatever he could to convince Calysta to change her mind and stay on the show. I told him you said to give her whatever she wants, including a raise.”

“And has Edith made any of those changes we discussed at our last meeting with Josephine Mansoor? Diversifying the show a little and getting
rid of the deadwood? And what about those eye-popping losses we had last quarter?” Sitting up on his own strength, he added, “I mean it, Ronnie: with the soaring costs to run our shows, not one more bonus for those lazy crooks.”

“We have this under control, darling,” Katherine reassured him, concerned for her husband’s health but knowing the fatherly bond between him and his protégée was sacrosanct.

“I know, Kitty, but I’m ashamed to admit
I’ve never hired a black writer on
The Rich and the Ruthless
in all thirty-seven years. And Queenie’s been in that wig so long I thought that was her own hair and there’s nothing right about that. Once again the fans know precisely the direction
R&R
needs to go in and perhaps
now
is the time to modernize before we lose what audience we still have.”

“Now, Daddy, I think you’re going a little overboard here. Edith thinks it’s best if we wait until you’re home before any big changes are made.”

“Fine, but if Felicia writes one more godawful scene I’m ripping out every wire I’m hooked up to and crawling back to the studio. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. But please calm down before—”

Just then a no-nonsense Jamaican nurse barreled into the room with another huge bouquet of flowers, asking, “Mr. Barringer, is d’ere a problem? I could ’ear your voice clear down d’ hall,” as she set the elaborate arrangement by the window. “If you get any mo’ flowers, I’ma ’ave to put ’em on d’ floor.” She sucked her back teeth. “You’re ’posed t’ be restin’ but if you’re goin’ to get all excited ’avin guests in d’ room I’ma ’ave to ask your folks to leave.”

“We understand,” said Kitty. “It won’t happen again.”

“Doctor’s orders, Mrs. Barringer, not mine.
Rich and d’ Rut’less
is
my
faaa-v’rite
story ya know. Love to go home ’n’ watch it wit’ a bowl of curried goat and relax. Shows t’ree times a day in Jamaica,” the nurse added with a chuckle.

“That’s nice,” Katherine said, nodding.

“Do you t’ink I can get a couple of d’ose autographed pictures from Ruby and Vidal?” she asked.

“Sure,” Veronica replied.

“T’ank you. Now please keep it down,” she said, exiting with a gracious smile.

Augustus loudly whispered, “Tell everybody I’m
sick,
not
dead.
No more flowers. Donate the money to that orphanage Hollygrove or Save the Whales. Now, listen, if we don’t start recognizing that our core audience looks like the woman who just walked out of this damn room we’re—”

“Now, Auggie, let’s not get excited again,” cautioned Katherine. “Remember what the nurse just said.”

“Okay, okay, but we can’t afford to lose Calysta too. Derrick Taylor took over a million fans with him when he walked,”
Augustus lamented, resting his head back into his pillow and looking up at the ceiling
.
“If I knew then what I know now, I’da paid Derrick what he asked for, and what I was paying Wolfe. Calysta’s a straight shooter, she’ll tell me what the devil’s been going on. Get her on the phone, Veronica.”

“She most certainly will not,” Katherine vowed. “If an actor wants to leave our show, there is nothing we can do to stop that from happening. Please rest, dear.”

“But Kitty, you know Calysta isn’t just any actor. I don’t believe for one second she’d quit without talking to me first.”

“Good morning,” said the neurologist, Dr. Gould.

“What’s good about it? What’s the word, doc? When can I get the hell outta here and back to running my business?” Augustus asked impatiently.

“Well, Mr. Barringer, the good news is you can go home fairly soon. Maybe as early as two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” asked Augustus.

“Isn’t that too soon?” Katherine inquired.

“That’s too long, doc,” Augustus complained. “Between two shows that’s twenty episodes I can’t afford
not
to be a part of.”

“Mr. Barringer, I wish I could tell you—”

Like her father, Veronica cut to the chase. “Dr. Gould, what’s the bad news?”

“I’m afraid treating your father is going to be more complicated than we had anticipated.”

“What do you mean?” Katherine asked.

“Given Mr. Barringer’s age, his carotid endarterectomy nine years ago, plus his history of high blood pressure, further surgery would be risky.”

“What are his other options?” Veronica asked.

“There is medication that can be prescribed, however there can be significant side effects.”

“Look, I don’t want to hear about any side effects because I’m not taking your blasted drugs. My head’s my bread and butter,” Augustus replied. “And I can’t create stories for two goddamn soap operas if you all are treating me like a lab rat.”

“Mr. Barringer, there is one other alternative.”

“What’s that?”

“We could simply monitor you and see if the attacks increase in intensity.”

“So basically what you’re telling me is I’ve got a ticking time bomb in my head and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it?”

“No sir, I’m not saying that at all. There’s a good chance that you may never have a major stroke.”

“But there’s also a chance that he could,” Katherine said quietly, the realization hitting her.

Augustus knew the score and so did his doctor. Each episode had been worse than the previous one.

He looked up at Kitty and Veronica and on their faces found love and strained concern.

“Would you both give me a moment?”

“But Daddy—”

“I’ve worked my whole life and for what?”

“But—”

“I need some time to think.”

“It’s all right, dear, we’ll be back in an hour.”

Katherine gave Veronica a knowing look. They both kissed him and left.

No one understood Augustus better than his wife.

Outside his door, Veronica whispered to her mother, “Mom, I think Dad’s right. I should head back to California and find out what’s going on.”

“That’s a good idea, sweetheart, but why not text your brother first. Perhaps he can shed some light on things. I’ll be sure to keep you posted on your father’s progress. Promise.”

“I’ll
call
him instead,” Veronica insisted.

Inside the room, Dr. Gould said, “Mr. Barringer, please let me know if you have any questions.”

“Yeah, sure, doc,” Augustus said, watching him leave.

I’ve got to protect my family business,
he thought.
But how?

He was certain those he entrusted with his number one flagship sudser were sinking it faster than viewers could change the channel to Univision’s
Al Diablo con los Guapos
(To Hell with the Handsome).

After their last volatile discussion about selling their soaps to Edith Norman and the network if anything ever happened to Augustus, Auggie Jr. had assured his father he wouldn’t bring up the sensitive topic again.

I can’t leave that to chance,
Augustus reasoned, reaching for the bedside phone, dialing his high-powered attorney’s office in Century City.

“Mason, it’s Augustus.”

“Hello,” he replied. “How are you feeling?”

“Never mind all that. I need you to get on the first plane to Baltimore.”

“Is everything all right?”

“It will be,” Augustus swore. “Just as soon as I make some changes to my will.”

One of the first things soap fans ask bubblers is “What’s it like to do love scenes with So-and-So?” In the minds of our fans, the very thought of getting paid to bump, grind, and grunt, simulating love scenes with impossibly beautiful soap gods and goddesses, must be the closest thing to paradise on earth, right? Uh yeah . . . not so much.

Now don’t get The Diva wrong, I’ve had plenty of fun during coitus with a few soap stars over the years, especially a young tenderoni with a body that wouldn’t quit and the libido to match. Shhh! Don’t tell.

Then there are other bubblers, the ones with the breath of a mastodon without water for a week, climbing into bed on-set still smelling of the actor or actress they’d just finished, um, running lines with in their dressing rooms.

Trust me, darlings, there is a distinct disparity between love in the afternoon and real life. Too bad it takes some bubblers much too long to know the difference.

The Diva

H
aving read somewhere, “Music is the wine that fills the cup of silence,” I had Miles’s
Bitches Brew
playin’ in the background. I knew the next two hours were going to be sheer heaven.

If there was one thing I hated, it was a lazy, selfish lover, and Derrick was far from that. I never had to take the lead. Always ready to put my pleasure before his own and light my fire, he was willing to give me as much as I could take.

Careful to pick my paramours, I refrained from a bad trait that occasionally crept in, being overly possessive, sometimes turning me into an Alex Forrest stalker.

After taking a hot bath and moisturizing with Crème de la Mer lotion, I lit lavender candles on my nightstand and sprinkled rose petals on my California king.

I nervously waited in my black satin Valentino peignoir, wondering how much my body had changed since our last rendezvous two years prior.

Hearing his Phantom roar up, I felt my adrenaline surge as I bolted for the door. Heart pounding, I let him ring the bell three times before I opened it.

There he was, my soap opera perfect bull, all six foot two of him, insanely handsome with his Gucci silk shirt half-unbuttoned showing off his eight-pack, a bottle of champagne in his fist.

“Got here fast,” I greeted him.

“Said it was important,” he replied, kicking the door shut, his masculine arms wrapping around my waist, molding my body into his.

Derrick laid a smoldering French on me for what seemed like an eternity. Feeling his
l’érection,
my instant recall kicked in, remembering what a generous lover he was.

“How ’bout we head upstairs, cut the lights, ’n’ do more than kiss?” he said right out.

Dizzy, I said, “You read my mind.”

Effortlessly, he swept me up as I locked my arms around his thick neck, stroking his curly hairline, inhaling his spicy cologne.

Derrick took in the ambience of my bedroom and said, “Nice,” while gently placing me on the bed and unbuttoning the rest of his shirt. And I wasted no time unbuckling his belt.

My fiery, well-endowed lover couldn’t wait to get started. Removing my negligee, revealing my youthful 36-24-38, Derrick crooned, “Baby, you got the kind of liquid body that makes a man sweat.”

I have to agree with that proverb, “Age is just a question of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it don’t matter.” My last lover couldn’t keep up, though younger, and was bewitched as much as he was amazed by my sensuality and unexpected bedroom acrobatics. But not Derrick, he just indulged.

“Damn, girl, what you been doin’ keepin’ that body so tight?”

“A little Kundalini now and then,” I said. As we slowly glided our soap-a-licious bodies between the Egyptian cotton sheets, I gave Derrick an all-access pass.

“Yeah, I’ma lay some Hip Woo Wong on you to
night
.”

“No freaky-deaky, okay, Derrick? It’s been a minute.”

“I gotchu, no worries,” he said with a mischievous grin. “I’ll hit that sweet spot just the way you like it, nice and slow. Just lay there and be the Nefertiti you are.”

Being a Taurean, Derrick hadn’t forgotten one lick of what I liked.

I loved the weight of his sculpted body, his penetrating eyes locked on mine before he buried his face in my cleavage.

Temperatures rising, the flowmaster’s powerful, hot tongue traced slowly and deliberately downward, canvassing my quivering torso beyond my Brazilian, devouring me. I lost all sense of control, honey pouring between my thighs, intense pleasure covering my face, eyes rolling back, savoring every moment as I moaned, “Don’t stop . . .”

“Just gettin’ started,” he whispered in his molasses voice, workin’ my body in reverse, seductively adding, “Time for the main course,” wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Derrick, I can’t, I can’t . . . ”

“Good. I like it when I leave you breathless.”

He wasted no time, separating my toned thighs with one of his own, arching my back, and sliding his thunderous arm under my hips, lifting them.

With the influence of Venus ruling, Derrick thrust further as we moved in unison increasing our rhythm, my sculpted legs locked around his broad back clearly indicating we had done this before. Not caring if my neighbors heard, I screamed a lick from an oldies favorite,
“You arrre my starship, come take me out tonight . . . ,”
before exploding into silky ecstasy. This was exactly what I needed before all the b.s. tomorrow.

I was set to begin taping the big Wedding of the Century scenes on
The Rich and the Ruthless
and knew Randall, Emmy, and the rest of the
haters were plotting to do whatever they could to make my exit as memorable as possible. At least now I’d go to work perfectly relaxed.

With the whir of a ceiling fan above us, we floated in rapturous delight, basking in the afterglow two hours later in each other’s arms.