Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (23 page)

“Can’t remember. There’s so many people on that show.”

“Try!”

“Okay, okay, take it easy already. Think she said Remy. Gave her my card. Gotta keep the business goin’. Don’t worry, she’s no competition.”

I slumped deeper into the wheelchair and the next thing I knew I was being helped into the dreaded “We Do It One Day at a Time” van. I was mortified in every direction as Ms. Lava strapped me in and slammed the rolling door shut, before taking her place in the passenger seat adjacent to an enormous black driver. Wondering if this was the infamous
bottom
I’d heard about, I sobbed the whole way to Tranquility Tudor, realizing the wheels had definitely come off my wagon.

I was in desperate need of a drink and a Dramamine as we wound around and around up the side of a mountain for what seemed like an eternity. Weezi’s incessant yammering on his cell phone was driving me and everyone else crazy when mercifully we arrived at two enormous gates, automatically parting to reveal a lush and palatial estate: a Mediterranean villa set against mountains dotted with California poppies and Alpine gold.

After we came to a stop, my motion sickness about to get the best of me, I was assisted over the pebbled piazza on liquid legs. The haunting cry of a hawk reminded me of fleeing the back porch of my childhood.

“Hello, Eunice,” a man’s voice said.

Eunice? I knew he wasn’t talkin’ to me.

“Weezi Abramowitz,” came the reply, obnoxiously cutting in. “Calysta’s representative and adviser. Thanks for helping me out with an alias for my client.”

Now I
really
needed a drink.

“Pleasure. I’m Pat Quigley, founder and owner of Tranquility Tudor.”

“Nice establishment you got here, real classy, top shelf. Nothin’ but the best for my girl.”

The director’s face impressively covered his disapproval.

“Hello, Eunice, welcome to Tranquility Tudor,” he began again.

I grunted something unintelligible, wishing I could give Weezi a piece of my mind.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here. Just let Kelly or myself know if you need anything and we’ll do our very best to accommodate you.” He smiled warmly before walking away.

The debonair rehab director must have had a past of his own. Somehow I couldn’t believe this Sean Connery double was there out of the goodness of his heart; there had to be more to his humanity than running a sobriety clinic.

“Let’s get you settled, Eunice. I understand you have badly bruised ribs,” Kelly said, escorting me toward the villa, Weezi trailing behind.

Uniformed groundskeepers and kitchen staff scurried around unloading crates of fresh vegetables and other foodstuffs. The sprawling facility teetered precariously on the side of a cliff, and a huge chasm not unlike a moat lay between the rehab and the mountainside, making an escape into the wilderness virtually impossible.

A black sedan with tinted windows pulled into the tony compound and out bounded young, beautiful, rail-thin movie starlet Dolly Burke, covered head to toe in Isabel Marant, escorted by a TT sober coach.

As she breezed by in huge sunglasses, Weezi, unable to control himself, exclaimed, “Isn’t that Dolly Burke?”

“Incorrigible,” I muttered.

Kelly Lava whipped around. “Mr. Abramowitz, when you called Tranquility Tudor, I believe, six different times?”

Huh?
I thought.

“Our staff thoroughly explained how our world-class ultra-exclusive facility is as much a program about anonymity as it is steeped in sobriety. If you can’t show restraint we’ll have to ban you from visiting the premises.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry.”

At the door, Kelly stepped between Weezi and me, handing him two sleek Tranquility Tudor folders and saying, “These are for any other clients you may have in need of our services. This is where you say good-bye, Mr. Abramowitz.”

“But—”

“No buts. If you don’t leave, you’ll be trespassing. Rock!” she called.

Immediately, the TT van driver eclipsed Weezi, morphing into security. “Yeah man, gotta bounce.”

“Okay, but if I could have another second with my client?”

Kelly arched an eyebrow then nodded.

“Hurry up,” said Rock.

“Privately?”

“No,” Kelly said, scowling.

“Okay, okay. Calysta, I hate to lay this on you right now, but I think you should consider selling your car . . . what’s left of it, that is.”

“My Jag?”

“Gas, insurance, a whole bunch of stuff. Plus, you’re behind on a few bills.”

“Thanks for puttin’ me out on Front Street.”

Couldn’t believe he was asking me to give up one of the few things that gave me pleasure even though it was totaled. I’d worked damn hard for my ’54 XK120 roadster, and now I’d have to sell it for parts? Never! I’d heard somethin’ about all that surrenderin’ mumbo-jumbo stuff but
this was over the top. Still, I did have to ask myself,
you wanna live in a house or a crumpled car?

“All right,” I said reluctantly, too beat-up to fight back. “And while you’re at it see what you can get for my emeralds.”

Broke was not an option.

“Thatta girl. That’s why we do business. You’re stubborn but eventually listen to reason.”

“Good-bye, Mr. Abramowitz,” Kelly said pointedly, gesturing to a staffer. “Take Eunice to intake.”

“Call me if you need anything, Calysta.”

I was too pissed to turn around.

“Mr. Abramowitz! Her new name is Eunice,” Kelly reminded him.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry. She’s so not a Eunice. I’ll get the hang of it though.”

“If you secure more business for us, you’d receive an even bigger commission. And if
you
should ever need our services Mr. Quigley would extend a special discount.”

“Cool!”

“No calls during the week and visitation is on Sunday, nine to three,” she continued as Rock escorted Weezi to the van. “So as not to interrupt this vital rehabilitative process.”

“But what if Calysta—I mean Eunice gets an audition?”

“Mr. Abramowitz, do you realize that if your client doesn’t get the necessary treatment she needs there may be no next time?”

The van door slammed shut.

Concerned about the business transaction I thought I had just overheard, I shuffled through a side door and into the intake office. There I waited.

“Eunice, please have a seat,” Kelly Lava said.

“When you stop callin’ me that name. I don’t need an alias.”

“Fine. Suit yourself. Calysta, we need your credit card.”

“What?”

“We need your credit card so we can complete processing.”

“Wait a minute. How much is this place costin’ me?”

“Didn’t Mr. Abramowitz tell you?”

“No. How much?”

“Thirty-six thousand for six weeks.”

“
Thirty-six thousand bucks?
Have you people gone and lost your minds? You better look like turnin’ that druggy buggy around, I ain’t stayin’ nowhere for thirty-six K.”

“Ms. Jeffries, need I remind you, you have been court-ordered? If you’d like to leave we can make arrangements for the sheriff to pick you up and escort you to jail, that’s free. Furthermore, this isn’t an outpatient facility. You’ll be receiving equine therapy, top-notch medical attention, nutritionist, hypnosis, psychotherapy, Pilates, yoga, massage and spa privileges, shopping excursions, gourmet meals, and much, much more.”

Hmm. That didn’t sound too bad, actually.

I sat back down and handed over my AmEx Centurion, thinkin’,
All this over two Xanax and a split of champs.
After payment, I was met by a voluptuous nurse whose uniform was unbuttoned one too many. She took my vitals, noticing my blood pressure was high, and administered a Klonopin.

Good, more sleep.

Shockingly, she took a Polaroid.

“What the hell is that for—blackmail? I paid in full.”

“It’s for our files. Don’t worry, it’s all confidential.”

“Better be.”

Kelly Lava stepped in. “Okay, Calysta, let’s get you to your room.”

The hallway walls were appointed with the 12 Steps like Stations of the Cross. Shuffling into the room I was horrified to see two adult-size Princess Barbie canopy beds with matching gold-speckled vanities. My bed was adorned with crystals, dream catchers, and an assortment of ruffled throw pillows.

“Are you kiddin’? I’m sharing a Barbie playset for thirty-six thousand dollars?”

“Calysta, if you’re going to make any progress here you have to leave your ego at the door. And by the way, this is one of our premium suites. We’ve paired you up with Gretchen Gibson, who’s been here for three months and is one of our model clients, to be a sort of mentor for you, show you the ropes. Now, you’ve just taken a Klonopin and you need to rest. We’ll wake you for supper where you’ll meet the TT
family.
” Kelly walked out, closing the door behind her.

The family? They better not slip me any Jim Jones juice while I’m here,
I thought as I climbed into my toy bed.

The last thing I saw before falling asleep was the Serenity Prayer embroidered in big gold letters above me on the inside of the canopy. I began reciting, “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can andthewisdomto . . .”

E
ntangled in a steamy embrace to the pulsing beat of Esperanza Spalding’s “Samba em Prelúdio,” heightened with a few drops of Spanish fly, Javier’s body pressed Shannen’s into the cushions of her dressing room sofa. It took her a few moments to hear her phone vibrating on the vanity.

“Mmph, Javier. Javier, I need to get my phone.”

Method acting, her amorous lover responded with several kisses along her neck. They had been rehearsing a scripted love scene for an upcoming episode of
The Rich and the Ruthless
.

“Mmmm, no really, it could be important.”

Shannen wiggled out from under Javier and grabbed the phone before it went to voice mail, quickly checking to see that it wasn’t her husband. He’d been stalking her via cell since Big Bear and it was Hannibal
Lecter creepy. Calling randomly, breathing in her ear like a perverted crank caller.

Sometimes Shannen felt guilty about giving in to Javier’s advances before she was actually divorced, but Roger’s increasingly psychotic behavior, not to mention Javier’s smoldering prowess, always allayed those feelings. It wasn’t Roger, though, it was Calysta’s pestering agent.

“Weezi?” Her voice was still breathless.

“Hey, Princess, how ya doin’?”

“Fine.”

“Yes you are.”

Rolling her eyes at his overly familiar comment, she knew he was fishin’ for her commission, and was annoyed as hell that he’d interrupted her rehearsal with Javier, and how dare he not once mention Calysta.

Javier crossed over and slipped his arms around her itty bitty waist, nibbling on her ear, providing distraction as Shannen asked, “How’s Calysta?”

“Excellent. Just dropped her off and it’s swank; she loves it. Saw that starlet Dolly Burke out there too. But never mind all that, just wanted to remind you to drop off Calysta’s stuff today and, you know, say hi.”

“Mmm-hmm, I called her grandmother, Mrs. Jones . . . stop, honey.”

“What’s that?” asked Weezi hopefully.

“Nothing. I was saying Mrs. Jones is heading out by bus tomorrow, wouldn’t let me get her a plane ticket.”

“That’s great, kid, everything’s great.”

“I was, uh, in the middle of running lines?”

“Oh, right. I’m sorry, pussycat.”

“No worries. Already have Calysta’s stuff in my car.”

“You’re such a pro. Love that you rehearse and everything. Probably have to leave the bags with security; there’s a dragon out there running things. But no hurry, you’re a gem to do it.”

Shannen grimaced at his smarm, then with faux cheer said, “Oh, it’s no trouble at all. I’d do anything for Calysta.” She rushed on before
he could add anything, “Thanks for calling. Bye!” She hung up on his
“Ciao, bella!”

Swatting Javier’s hands away to free herself, she whispered, “Baby, I have to go,” grabbing her crumpled clothes from the floor.

“No go. Stay. More rehearsal,” he said suggestively in an Antonio Banderas accent that weakened her knees, but she stood firm.

“I think we’ve nailed that scene.” She smiled as she pulled her T-shirt over her head.

“Come, my
palomita
,” he pleaded, kissing her hand and pulling her down onto the couch. “Have
comida
with me.”

“I can’t, I have to do something super important and super confidential, Javier.”

He didn’t inquire what that was, trying to suck her toes.

“Okay I’ll tell you . . . and that tickles! Not a word to anyone. Calysta’s checked into a rehab in Malibu.”

“You bring my sexy back.”

“Javier! Did you hear what I said?”

“You make me
caliente
.”

“Okay, I really have to go.”

Shannen jumped up, grabbed her purse, and left the room before being sidetracked, not noticing the hidden camera light blinking from the air vent.

B
y the light of a sole fringed lamp, I made out the silhouetted profile of my super-enhanced roommate, poured into skintight liquid pants and a tiny tank top that showed off her glittering diamond navel piercing.

Bleary-eyed, I noticed my luggage had magically appeared at the foot of the bed.

“Hi, my name is Gretchen,” she chirped. Teased-out tresses framed what some might regard as circus makeup. “Time to get up, honey, it’s dinner and we can’t be late.”

She helped me with my robe and slippers and I shuffled down the hallway to the table, where four strange pairs of eyes stared back at me. The fifth pair of this little “family” I already knew. It was coked-out,
oversexed teen heartthrob Toby Gorman, my potential TV son-in-law from
the soap
. Ugh.

“Ohmagod, Calysta! What are you doing here? You too? Everybody, everybody, this is Calysta Jeffries! My future mother-in-law on
The Rich and the Ruthless
!”