Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (36 page)

I told the pedicurist, “Traditional, no polish,” and blissfully slid my feet into the hot bubbling blue water, the spine of the chair massaging my tight back.

The creamy leather supported my head while I closed my eyes . . . forgetting.

“Hello, Beulah.”

Startled, I stared face-to-face with reptilian Randall Roberts.

“What are you—”

“Such a unique name,” he continued; then, waving away the nail technician, “Not now.” He turned back to me. “Did you know in Hebrew it means ‘married’? I see why you changed it. I paid a visit to your hometown this weekend, saw the sights. That Jacob at Pride-All is quite the tour guide. Saw Church of the Solid Rock, haunting. Even stopped by your grandma’s place, quaint. And that neighbor Miss Whilemina sure is a busybody.”

I was no longer able to feel the exotic lady buffing my heels; my pedicure went from pure pleasure to walkin’ on hot coals.

“Speaking of your grandma, what’s her name again? Ah yes, Candelaria. Spotted her holding court on set yesterday. Sweet lady, frail though, heard she ran off and left town after that unfortunate fiasco with Roger Cabott. Imagine that’d be enough excitement for any woman her age, what’s she pushing eighty? Hope nothing else scares your grandmother into . . . say, a heart attack, with her high blood pressure and all,” Randall wickedly whispered, never breaking eye contact. “Yeah, that Greenwood sure is charming. Gotta wonder how you turned out so corrupt?”

Grandma taught me “the best defense is no defense,” so if you weren’t sure you could win, keep your mouth shut.

Randall reached into his jacket for a newspaper clipping and extended it to me.

As I reached, he teased, “Now, now, not so fast. You already know what it says. Here’s what we’re going to do. There’s an important vote tomorrow morning to change the balance of power of
The Rich and the Ruthless
and
The Daring and the Damned
, and I’ve learned that you’re an integral part of it. It’s in both our interests that you cast your vote to sell in my favor,” he warned, refolding the paper. “I think you’ll agree.”

Leaning in closer, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, he said, “Tomorrow you
will
vote to sell Barringer Dramatic Series, making me king of the soap opera world, and in return, I won’t spill the beans about this messy business with Pastor Winslow . . . I mean, your murdered daddy. Otherwise . . .”

I could only manage a small nod and concentrate on not flaring my nostrils.

“Sir? Are you ready?” the pixie technician asked.

“You know, on second thought, I don’t think I’ll get a service today. Give my friend here a manicure. I want her hands to look real pretty when she’s strokin’ that Montblanc tomorrow,” Randall said cockily, throwing down a hundred-dollar bill. “Keep the change.” He winked, walking out.

“Where do you think you’re going, Calysta?” Kelly asked.

“My
buddy’s
still gettin’ charms glued on her big toes. I need some fresh air, the fumes are makin’ me nauseous.”

“Okay, but don’t go far and come right back. I’m timing you.”

Soon as I got outside I flew across the street to Howdy’s Taqueria.

“What do you got pre-mixed?” I asked, out of breath and still shaking.

“We’re running a special on margaritas,” the hostess replied.

“Gimme a pitcher.”

Seated at a nearby table with two empty carafes, toasting with drinks of their own, Dylan and Dolly laughed out loud, waving. “Ovah here, Calysta.”

The van stank like a tequila distillery as Kelly furiously ripped us a new one. “I hope you all realize this sets you back to square one. I can’t believe
the blatant disregard you’ve displayed for the rest of the TT family. The fumes alone in this van could cause a relapse and TT would be held liable. I’m not naming any names, but when we get back I want urine from every person in this van. After supper, Mr. Quigley will discuss disciplinary action.”

Looking over his shoulder to inhale my Jose Cuervo breath, Erroll whispered, “It’s bad to admit, but I have such alcohol envy. Next time, take me with you.”

Dylan and Dolly drunkenly giggled in the back ignoring Kelly’s tirade, while the rest looked out the child-locked windows. Mad. I was scared to death Randall had somehow dredged up my past.

Self-sabotaged, I was marched to my room by moody Kelly, who didn’t leave until I supplied her with a measured cup of wee-wee.

An hour later, there was a knock at the door.

“House of Ruby, come in.”

Lying across my Barbie canopy bed three sheets to the wind, I stared upside-down at stone-faced Kelly Lava standing over me, who suddenly looked Chinese. I burst out laughing. Then laughed some more. I laughed so hard my face hurt. Then she went Linda Blair ballistic on me.

“We’ll see how funny you think it is when you find yourself sitting at Tranquility Tudor tonight instead of going out to the Brentwood meeting with the others, forfeiting a stop at Starbucks. Reading chapters from the Big Book with Dolly, Dylan, and
me,
then journaling about what you’ve done and going to bed without snack!” she shouted, slamming the door behind her.

Through an oncoming migraine Randall’s threat stuck like chewed gum on the bottom of a shoe. “You
will
vote to sell Barringer Dramatic Series, making me king of the soap opera world, and in return, I won’t spill the beans . . .”

About to fall apart like a two-dollar suitcase, I reached for Augustus’s
letter under my mattress, clutching it like a lifeline and not having to open it to know what it said.

“. . . the future of my shows rests in your capable hands . . .” I recited, slowly straightening my spine. After all, I’d only had four margaritas. I told myself
Get a grip, girl, show up and show out.
I would fix this and fix it tonight.

W
oozy but determined and Big Booked to death, I crawled out of my bedroom window in skips, dressed like a ninja, creeping low to the ground to avoid TT’s prison camp lighting. Fueled with enough caffeine to kill a cow, I used my homegirl technique to scale the stucco wall, makin’ a mad dash into a waiting Rover.

The bass rocked D’s ride as he listened to Drake, the unmistakable scent of sinsemilla giving me an instant contact high.

“Thanks, D.”

“Anytime, babe,” he said with a broad dimpled smile. “But can a brotha get some sugah?”

Derrick didn’t know I needed to plant that kiss more than he needed to receive it.

“Whew . . . nice.” I exhaled. “D, honey, I kinda ‘slipped’ today, you know, snuck in a few cocktails and I’m, um, sort of on punishment at TT so I have to get back before they find me missin’.”

“Don’t worry, shortie, I gottchu,” he said, chowin’ down on a Lay’s.

This may be a random thought for sure, but one worth sharing; I loved the way black men ate their chips, especially Derrick.

He knew how to put style into crunch, first snappin’ the bag open, gently tossing the crumbs to the bottom. Then pluckin’ out a fat chip, never lookin’ down . . . piggybackin’ his index and middle finger like spoonin’ lovers, he placed a Salt ’n’ Vinegar on the tip of his dexterous tongue, lettin’ it rest there for a nanosecond like a meltin’ snowflake before flirtatiously retractin’ it . . .
crrrunchhh
between his African-white teeth. This was always a turn-on for me. He did this over and over till he got to the last. Selfish with his chips too. Better ask if you wanted that hand back.

With a mint-flavored toothpick parked in the corner of his mouth he asked, “Turn here, Calysta?”

“Huh?”

“Turn here?”

“Yeah, right,” I covered.

I was trippin’ comparing eating chips to sex. I should’ve been thinking about making amends to Derrick like I told Kelly I would earlier, when she grilled me on what badness I’d done in the past.

“Derrick, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

“Lay it on me.”

“Well, remember how I used to get when you’d flirt with the ladies while you were seein’ me?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Well . . .”

“C’mon, girl. Can’t be that bad.”

“Okay, but first pinkie promise me you won’t get mad.”

“Pinkie promise.”

“I’m the one who spray-painted ‘2-Timer’ on your car.”

“Think I didn’t know? You’re the
only
one who could’ve tagged my bronze rims with pink glitter spray paint.”

“I’m sorry. Forgiven?”

“Like I could resist.”

Winding up Benedict Canyon to Augustus Barringer’s estate, I felt my heart race as I thought about seeing him and the vote tomorrow.

“I thought you mainly drank champagne.”

Not wanting to tell him the truth, I said, “I’ve been feeling kinda lost not having much control over my life lately.”

“Wanna take a detour?”

“Nah.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, got a lot on my mind.”

“Okay, but don’t say I didn’t offer. Honeys been blowin’ up my phone. Guess since money’s tight, folks be lookin’ for more economical recreation. Timin’s a little off, though. Been on a chick
de-lite
diet for the past few. Break my fast for you, Calysta,” he said, turning up Young Jeezy.

“Thanks, but my sex drive’s on hold.”

“Wow, okay. Already told ’em when I resurface I ain’t takin’ nobody out to Yang Chow’s, just Roscoe’s Chicken and Waffles. They say I can whet their appetite a different way, ‘romance the D stone.’ Yeeaaah baby, I am pop-u-lar. Keep tellin’ ’em I’m ovah-extended as it is and they say that’s a good thang. Had to scramble my digits . . . again.”

Giving him a look, I asked, “Can we change the subject, and how ’bout some classical?”

“You got jokes.”

“No, I’m serious. I’ve got a splittin’ headache. Plus, I’ve been listenin’ to Bach during collage therapy and it’s kinda sooth—”

“Listen babe, I ain’t no DJ, but I’m gonna break a brotha’s habit and give you what you want. Got some old school tucked away, Barry White, little Marvin . . . whatchuwant? That’s some classical shiz if you ask me.”

“Any of it’ll work. After the mess at
R&R
, I . . .”

“Yeah, what’s up with that? I heard Maeve took some metal, is it true?”

“Yeah, that’s what Shannen said.”

“Daaamn.”

“My grandma was visiting the set too and was so freaked she took a cab to the bus station by herself and headed back to Mississippi.”

“A bus?”

“Yeah, she don’t fly.”

“Oh, she old school, they do it like that.”

“Mm-hm, but I can’t help worryin’. I better hear from her tomorrow.”

“I think this is it,” Derrick said, as we pulled up to an iron gate and a security guard.

“Good evening, may I help you?” the uniformed guard asked suspiciously.

Leaning over Derrick, I said in my best Anglo-Saxon voice, “Good evening, Scott, it’s me, Calysta Jeffries, I’m here to see Mr. Barringer.”

“Who?”

“Ruby Stargazer.”

“Can you take off that hat?”

“No problem.”

“Sure is! Where you been, girl? Everybody been missin’ you on the story. Hold on, I’ll be right back,” he said, checking on a computer. “I’m
sorry, Ms. Stargazer, but it doesn’t look like the Barringers called with your name.”

“I know, it’s a surprise.”

“Hey man, you know who she is,” interrupted Derrick. “She been on the show for a million years, you know me too.”

“I knew it, it
is
you . . . Dove Jordan, you are the
man
! You know since I got a job I haven’t been able to keep up on the stories. Did you ever get off that deserted island after your plane crashed? My mamma loves you, can I get an autograph?”

“Uh, yeah, but I haven’t been on the soap for like three years. I’m on
Pathological Murders
now.”

“Oh yeah, my wife loves that detective show. Can I get two autographs?”

“If you open the gate I’ll give you five on my way out.”

“Okay, I guess, but I still have to call ahead, don’t want any mess with the Barringers. Gotta let the butler know, otherwise he’s liable to see you all and you know—”

“Man, come on,” Derrick said impatiently.

“No, he’s right, D. Remember what happened last year in Bel Air when that black doctor broke into his own house and the SWAT team tear-gassed him?”

“All right, go on up,” Scott said. “And I’ll be lookin’ for them autographs.”

The gate opened to a long tree-lined driveway, leading to the graceful Barringer estate, spread out over ten acres.

“Want me to go in with you?” Derrick asked.

“Would you?”

As we walked up to the carved mahogany doors, Derrick gave me a quick peck on the cheek and said, “Relax,” before gripping the brass lion door knocker. The sound echoed throughout the Marquina marble foyer, where I’d stood many times over the past fifteen years on happier occasions.

The huge double doors swung open to reveal Max, Mr. Barringer’s loyal butler.

“Good evening, Miss Jeffries, what a lovely surprise. You look so elegant all in black, but what on earth has brought you out so late?” he said with his British accent. “And you too, Mr. Taylor, I haven’t seen you in years. Please come in.”

Leading us into a dimly lit library, he offered, “May I get you something to drink?”

“Bitters and soda, thank you.”

“Hennessy for me,” said Derrick.

As Max turned to the full bar, I said, “I know this is completely unexpected and I don’t have much time, but would it be possible to see Mr. B?”

“I’m sorry, Miss Jeffries, here’s your drink, but Mr. Barringer’s under the strictest of orders from his doctor to rest.”

“Yes, I heard, but you must know this is very, very important. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have taken the risk—I mean shown up unannounced,” I said, downing the medicine in one gulp.

Handing Derrick a snifter, he stroked his goatee thoughtfully before saying, “All right, but we’ll have to be quick and quiet about it. Follow me. I’m sorry, Mr. Taylor, but you’ll have to wait here.”

“No problem.”

As we climbed the grand staircase, I asked, “Where’s Mrs. Barringer?”

“At the Armand Hammer Museum fund-raiser with Veronica.”