Retail Therapy (3 page)
“Well, at least this time she came into the building,” one of the cameramen muttered. In the past, on days when she didn't like the script, Deanna had refused to leave her limo outside the studio, but phoned the executive producer from her cell that she was stalled on Fifty-seventh Street. “I'm waiting for the rewrite,” she'd call to the assistant director through the sliver of open window. When the AD, who had been sent to get her told her that the writers were not revising, she would simply shake her head, say, “Oh, yes, they are,” and ease the window shut.
The cameraman's gaffer moved a fat cable and straightened with a grin. “Yeah, so it can't be that bad. Maybe she just wants to buy a little time, have some breakfast.” He tucked his thumbs into his belt loops. “Let's get to the craft services table before all the muffins are gone.”
Rory yawned. “I'll be napping in my dressing room. Wake me up when hell unfreezes over.”
I tinkled my fingers good-bye and flopped back into one of the director's chairs. Should I go over my lines again, or would that make my performance too stale? Memorizing was not a problem for me, but sometimes the lines were so pat that I felt as if I were reciting a nonsensical children's poem.
Wiggling my toes in my beautiful shoes, I hoped that wardrobe would give me something halfway decent to wear today. Since my character had been discovered swimming in Indigo Falls, I'd been stuck in weird turquoise bodysuits and spangly green gowns that made me look like a carp doing the Charleston. Much as I begged for something different, our wardrobe designer simply shook her head. “This is what Gabrielle wants,” Jodi kept telling me, with that uncomfortable glint in her eye indicating it was all beyond her control. Translation: Gabrielle had put the kibosh on wardrobe changes in deference to Diva Deanna, whose exclusive size-two wardrobe needed to far outclass any other attire on the show. Deanna shimmered in Chanel. She dined in Dior. She cruised in Calvin and waxed opulent in Oscar. Yes, our wardrobe designer, Jodi Chen, has a fine eye for costuming, and she's been rewarded with two daytime Emmys. But it's always Deanna who wears New York's most spectacular designs soon after they strut down the runways of Seventh Avenue. As for the rest of us, Jodi has to dress us on the down low so that Deanna can reign supreme in fashion splendor.
Did I mention there was a pecking order?
In theory, the executive producer is at the top of the pyramid, and in fact, when Gabrielle is on the set, everyone gives a little nervous smile, knowing that this is the woman who calls to let you know you're off the show. She's very pert and polite, sort of the antithesis of most casual production people with her shiny pantyhose, cashmere sweater sets, and home-blown hair. While the crew usually resembles the leftovers from a collegiate beer blast, Gabrielle comes off like a schoolteacher from an old Disney movie.
So at the top of the pyramid are the executive producerâour very own Mary Poppinsâas well as a bevy of network executives who dabble with casting, fuss with the writers on story issues, and attend all the parties.
Then there's the team of writers, whom the actors either love or hate, depending on whether they pass down scripts with lots of dramatic close-ups or meaningless drivel to be recited over cold mugs of coffee. As the writers work in another building, we almost never see them, though when we do have a chance to engage, I notice them eyeing the actors with the wariness of an allergy patient at a petting zoo. Are they confusing us with the characters we play? The indigent, lying, conniving, serial-killing, merry folk of Indigo Hills? I do wonder.
The director has a certain amount of clout: the director is king or queen for the day, with limited power, since various pros trade off in directing each episode. Our directors are fairly easy to work with, as long as they get along with you-know-who.
Today's director, Stella Feinberg, was one of my personal favorites, a no-nonsense woman whose oversize sweaters and nurturing concern made you want to initiate a group hug.
“Ok, ladies and gents,” Stella called some thirty minutes after Deanna's dramatic exit. “We have a revised script to work from. Sean and Iris are giving out copies. Read over your lines quickly and we'll do a run-through.”
“That was fast,” someone commented as I flipped through the revised script in search of my only scene of the day. There it wasâa scene with Deanna, not cut, thank God, but significantly changed. In the previous version, my character, Ariel, who was trying to figure out her past (like whether or not she was a mermaid) had approached Meredith (Deanna's character) and accused her of locking Ariel in the pickle barrel and pushing her over Indigo Falls.
No more.
Now Ariel was threatening suicide, confessing that she'd locked herself in the pickle barrel, telling Meredith that she had nothing to live for. The scene ends with Meredith demanding that Ariel pull herself together. When Ariel curses her for caring, Meredith slaps my character across the face.
Smack! Wham!
“How's that for ending with a punch?” I said aloud. The abrupt violence surprised me, but then again, what did I expect when the writers had squeezed this one out in a matter of minutes?
“Hailey?” Stella glanced at me over her reading glasses. “A word?”
“Sure!” I followed her over to one of the darkened sets, a graveyard scene with a stained statue of a fierce angel in the foreground. Creepy. “What's up?” I asked cheerfully, ever hopeful that she had something to say about my recent performance or Q ratings or a new contract. Directors didn't usually deal with personnel issues, but hey, I could hope.
“It's about the rewrite.” Stella threw an arm around my bare shoulders and pulled me into her cable-knit sweater. For a second, I got a mouthful of fuzz and soapy smell.
“My new scene with Meredith?” I lifted my head and wiped a bit of fluff from my lips. “You're not cutting it, are you?”
“No, of course not. But tread carefully, sweetie. The rewrite? The suicide intentions? The slap?” Her brown eyes held a doleful expression. “They were all Deanna's ideas.”
“Oh.” I tried to absorb the meaning of it as Stella nodded knowingly. “But what does it mean? I mean ... is Deanna trying to get rid of me? Doesn't she like me?”
Every once in a blue moon, the writers and network took it upon themselves to explore an “issue”âsort of a public service announcement. For the actors, it meant weeks of anorexia, infertility, alcoholism, or Alzheimer's. Recently, there had been some buzz about exploring youth suicide, which could be compelling, yes, but I didn't want my poor Ariel to be the victim of the issue of the month!
“Please, tell me the truth, Stella,” I said. “Is Ariel going to kill herself on the show?”
“Honey, for all I know, Ariel could turn into the Easter Bunny and hop off to China. Actually, that would be more interesting than some of the stuff that's come from the writers lately.”
“Oh, no.” My heart began to pound in my chest, the beginning of a minor panic attack. This couldn't be happening to me, and on the heels of a minor heartbreak. My boyfriend, Walker, had just ended our relationship in a totally rotten way, not calling me back for three weeks. Three weeks of torture ended when I showed up at his office at lunchtime to confront him and he acted like he didn't even owe me an explanation. “Sometimes, things just don't work out,” he'd said with an awkward shrug.
A shrug! After three months of intimacy, I had to stalk the guy to get a shrug. I have to admit, it weakened my spirit. I went on a bender with Diet Cokes, fat-free chips, and an armful of magazines, which didn't really help because no one really reports on nonrelation-ships with irresponsible men who don't even care enough to break up with you. I tell you this not to gain your sympathy; I only want to explain why I was feeling a few chinks in my armor when Stella hit me with the weird advice.
“Don't take it personally, Hailey.” Stella squeezed my hand, rubbing my wrist vigorously with that motherly vibe. “It doesn't mean anything. Consider the sourceâDeanna. It's a quick script fix to whomp up the drama for her, not necessarily a turn in the story line.”
But I couldn't let it go. “How can they cut me from the show? Did you see the guest spot I did on
Soap Central
two weeks ago?”
Soap Central
two weeks ago?”
“Not a worry,” Stella insisted. “It's a quicky rewrite done to get today's script past Deanna. Chances are, you'll never hear the word âsuicide' again.”
The pounding in my chest slowed. “Right.” I swallowed hard. “Unless they don't renew my contract.”
“Oh, you!” Stella patted my shoulder as she escorted me back toward the living-room set. “Just wanted to give you the heads-up, so you don't step on any toes.”
“Thanks for that,” I said. With the new panic beating inside my chest, I felt totally unprepared to do the show today, a little skittish about facing Deanna, but there was no way out of it. Sucking in a breath, I tried an old yoga trick I'd learnedâenergy in, tension out.
Energy in, tension out ...
The breathing exercise helped, as did the mental exercise of focusing on pleasant thoughts: the fragrant cosmetics counter at Bloomie's, the splendid museum-lit jewelry cases at Tiffany's, the racks of gourmet gadgets in Macy's Cellar, the plush, brown-and-white-striped bathrooms at Henri Bendel's with stalls bigger than most Upper West Side studios ...
“People, I need you to focus here,” the director called, holding up her hands like a flight attendant flagging in a jumbo jet. “We're going to rehearse before we send the cast off to makeup and wardrobe.”
Oh, but I didn't want to focus on the awful scene that might spell the death of my soap-opera career! I wanted to think of the retail territory Alana and I would conquer when she returned from Europe. My mind floated off to the fountain in the Trump Tower, its water flowing steadily like a zen poem ...
“Oh, goody,” Ian Horwitz said in his crisp British accent. A handsome, white-haired chain-smoker, Ian plays a doctor who mistakenly killed his evil twin last season. He put an unlit cigarette into his mouth and opened his script. “Let's get this party started.”
Reluctantly, I released my euphoric department store reveries and tried to memorize my new lines as Deanna and her entourage appeared on the set. This time she had brought her dog, a loud little Yorkie with thin gray fur and a pinched face that reminded me of a bat's. The dog was always a show in itself, as everyone was obliged to fuss over it, and someone had to be there to hold and entertain the beast while Deanna ran lines.
“And how is Muffin doing today?” Stella said, nuzzling the pooch adoringly.
“Not too well, poor pookie.” Deanna handed him off to Sean. “I'm afraid it's ...” she lowered her voice to whisper, “diarrhea.”
I could see Sean wincing behind Deanna, nearly dropping the Yorkie, and it took all my acting ability to keep a straight face as Deanna turned to me. “Hey, you!” she smiled, showering me with fake affection. “Something is different about you today. A new hair color?”
I didn't tell her that the golden blond hue of my hair belonged to me; news like that might make a person like Deanna shrivel up and croak like the wicked witch in a downpour. I blinked shyly. “No, same hair.”
She tapped her chin, looking me over from head to toe. “That's it! The shoes.”
I modeled my Nine West polka dots demurely, trying not to show off. “You're right. They are new.”
“Hmm. Very nice shoes, but really ...”
“Really, what?”
“Oh, just the combination.”
I glanced down my body. “This shirt came with the shoes.”
“Yes, of course, dear. But the shoes and the jeans?”
An uncomfortable quiet wrapped around us as people shuffled and pretended to consult their scripts.
“It might sound silly to you, but jeans are sort of my trademark. You know, that I mix and match jeans with formal tops and casual Ts?”
Deanna gave a little laugh. “You and a few thousand other aspiring actresses.”
I wanted to wipe the smirk from her Botoxed lips, but I forced myself to veer away from career suicide. “Anyway.” I bent back one corner of my script. “The shoes are new. Nine West.”
“And they're lovely,” she said effusively, “though the combination is a bit gauche. Didn't anyone ever tell you not to wear ankle-strap shoes with pants?” She pronounced it as “paahnts,” so haughtily you'd think she was starring in a British comedy.
“But the jeans are my trademark,” I said, feeling mousy.
She sighed. “Of course they are, but not with shoes like that, dear.”
I lifted the fabric of my pants and glanced down at my beloved shoes. Was she right? Could it be that both Alana and I had missed a fashion mistake that would put me in the x-files of
Glamour
or
Cosmo
?
Glamour
or
Cosmo
?
“All right, then,” Deanna said, taking charge. “Shall we rehearse our new scene?”
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