Retail Therapy (2 page)
2
Hailey
F
irst, let me tell you how I was dressed that day on the set, because I'm the kind of person whose confidence hinges on the right attire. I was wearing my favorite pair of jeansâworn soft on the thighs and knees, the blue washed out to a powdery shade, the pockets jutting hard over my hipbones to reveal just a hint of tight tummy. I have always been thin with the long legs of a dancer (though I don't have the moves to survive Simon on
American Idol
) and jeans suit me well. Denim can be so flattering on beanpole legs, and I think blue jeans are reminiscent of the good things about America, like baseball and apple pie. With my golden blond hairânot from Bergdorf's, I swear!âand my wiry, athletic legs, I think the jean thing sort of rings midwestern for me, which should give me a squeaky edge when I'm competing for a part against scores of cold, semi-goth beauties and sultry brunettes with a blue henna sheen on their hair that makes your eyes fritz.
irst, let me tell you how I was dressed that day on the set, because I'm the kind of person whose confidence hinges on the right attire. I was wearing my favorite pair of jeansâworn soft on the thighs and knees, the blue washed out to a powdery shade, the pockets jutting hard over my hipbones to reveal just a hint of tight tummy. I have always been thin with the long legs of a dancer (though I don't have the moves to survive Simon on
American Idol
) and jeans suit me well. Denim can be so flattering on beanpole legs, and I think blue jeans are reminiscent of the good things about America, like baseball and apple pie. With my golden blond hairânot from Bergdorf's, I swear!âand my wiry, athletic legs, I think the jean thing sort of rings midwestern for me, which should give me a squeaky edge when I'm competing for a part against scores of cold, semi-goth beauties and sultry brunettes with a blue henna sheen on their hair that makes your eyes fritz.
Of course, I dressed up the jeans with a fabulous shell pink tank and off-the-shoulder three-quarter sleeve T from Nine West, with matching pink sandals that tied around my ankles. The sandals and the tank had tiny pink and black polka dotsâmaybe you saw them recently in
Vogue
?âand the two-inch heel in the back made my legs look impossibly long, combining denim cool with flirty spring fashion.
Vogue
?âand the two-inch heel in the back made my legs look impossibly long, combining denim cool with flirty spring fashion.
Not that I think I'm all that or anything, but I figure that if I want to be a major player in daytime television, it's time that I started dressing like a star. Two years ago, I landed the part of Ariel on
All Our Tomorrows
. I'm the girl found swimming in the river under Indigo Fallsâthe one who may or may not be a mermaid, may or may not be the sneaky heir to the fortune of Preston Scott, may or may not be the child of Meredith Van Allen, the megadiva of daytime played by Deanna Childs. Ten or so years ago Deanna's baby was snatched from her crib by a pack of wolves and reportedly carried off into the hills where she was raised by toothless mountain men. By my math, that would make me about ten years old; fortunately, soap-opera time can be conveniently warped.
All Our Tomorrows
. I'm the girl found swimming in the river under Indigo Fallsâthe one who may or may not be a mermaid, may or may not be the sneaky heir to the fortune of Preston Scott, may or may not be the child of Meredith Van Allen, the megadiva of daytime played by Deanna Childs. Ten or so years ago Deanna's baby was snatched from her crib by a pack of wolves and reportedly carried off into the hills where she was raised by toothless mountain men. By my math, that would make me about ten years old; fortunately, soap-opera time can be conveniently warped.
Need the
Soap Opera Digest
version? Suffice it to say that I'm a young actress from the Midwest who got a thirteen-week contract to play a mysterious character in the show that stars the Hope diamond of daytimeâDeanna. The show's producers have re-signed me a few times, but so far, reception to my character seems to be a little lukewarm, which really hurts me. Even if I don't write the story, it's me that's stepping out there. That's me, Hailey Starrett, on your TV screen, and although I played it cool and even on the set, inside I was crumbling.
Soap Opera Digest
version? Suffice it to say that I'm a young actress from the Midwest who got a thirteen-week contract to play a mysterious character in the show that stars the Hope diamond of daytimeâDeanna. The show's producers have re-signed me a few times, but so far, reception to my character seems to be a little lukewarm, which really hurts me. Even if I don't write the story, it's me that's stepping out there. That's me, Hailey Starrett, on your TV screen, and although I played it cool and even on the set, inside I was crumbling.
“I'm not sure if people like me,” I'd worried to my friend Alana one day over a skim decaf cappuccino. I'd been suffering a self-confidence freak prompted by a phone call from my agent during which she'd relayed that the show's executive producer wasn't sure she wanted to sign me on for another thirteen weeks. My agent, whom I'd nicknamed Cruella, for obvious reasons, never minced words when delivering bad news. “I don't know what to do,” I whimpered as I tore at the cardboard sleeve around my coffee cup. “What if they don't like me?”
“Of course they like you,” Alana had insisted. “Don't be getting all misty-eyed over the whims of a bunch of producers who talk up their asses. You're a talented actress, and you know it.”
“But I want to keep this part. I need this part.”
“Honey, you don't need them.” Alana tapped powdered cocoa onto the foam of our cappuccinos and handed me a spoon. It was a ritual of oursâsavoring the foam of our skim cappuccinos as if they were ice cream sundaes. She lapped up the foam and stared off into the distance, calculating and dreaming as if a vision were playing out like an MTV video. “You know what you really need?” she said, her eyes alight like a clever cat. “You need some retail therapy. A shopping trip.”
While I knew my budget wasn't ready for Alana's whim, there was no denying the therapeutic charms of an inspired purchase. Although Alana and I had been roommates for a year at that time, the moment had forged a bond like no other. We'd decided that an aspiring star needed to dress like a real star. Before our lattes could cool, we'd hopped a cab up to Bloomingdale's, where I'd found a fabulous Marc Jacobs skirt with a flounced ruffle at the bottom and matching sleeveless top. After that it was Saks Fifth Avenue for new jeans, which is where Alana decided that denim was to be my trademark.
“You wear jeans so well, and with your blond hair, it just speaks of fields of daisies and cornflowers,” Alana said from her throne in the dressing room. She leaned over her brown legs to wipe a speck of soot from her Prada mules, then smiled in inspiration. “You're the leggy, midwestern girl-next-door, the girl every mama wants her son to date, the girl every boy wants to marry.”
“Do ya think?” A ball of insecurity, I modeled the jeans in the mirror.
“Absolutely. Jeans will be your trademark.”
From that day on, I worked to fulfill the image of myself as the young actress spotted around Manhattan in her casual jeans and designer tops. Alana's decree had reassured me, but it was the shopping process that provided the real breakthrough. Shopping eased the pain. Shopping washed away my insecurities. Shopping was something I could do pretty darned well.
And now, shopping was something I could do to advance my career.
That revelation had brought on a flurry of retail excursions with Alana, a girl with a fashion sensibility so powerful it should be bottled and sold in the boutique section at Henri Bendel's. Nurturing, generous, stylish Alana ... thank God for her! A store crawl with Alana made up for all the thrills I never had as a kid, the child of two latent hippies who fled their Wall Street investment careers to put up jams on a farm in Wisconsin. While girls in my class were stocking up on the latest “it” jeans and boots and sweater sets from Neiman Marcus, I was stuck wearing caftans made from weird fabrics hand-woven by alpaca ranchers in the Peruvian mountains. Rule to live by: never wear clothes designed by alpaca ranchers.
Anyway, it was Alana who had insisted that I spring for these amazing pink-and-black polka-dotted shoes, which I now admired. I sat in a director's chair on the set of
All Our Tomorrows
, flexing my ankles, worrying over a smudge of gray near the pinkie toe of my left foot. Had I stepped in chewing gum on the subway, or was it just one of those indeterminate spooge stains that plagued shoes that walked the streets of New York? Let me tell you, contrary to the mythology of
Sex and the City
, it is quite difficult to maintain the pristine condition of your favorite shoes in New York City; one misstep in the park and your favorite mules are history. Pigeons, pollution, and urinating men be damned!
All Our Tomorrows
, flexing my ankles, worrying over a smudge of gray near the pinkie toe of my left foot. Had I stepped in chewing gum on the subway, or was it just one of those indeterminate spooge stains that plagued shoes that walked the streets of New York? Let me tell you, contrary to the mythology of
Sex and the City
, it is quite difficult to maintain the pristine condition of your favorite shoes in New York City; one misstep in the park and your favorite mules are history. Pigeons, pollution, and urinating men be damned!
As I admired my retro Nine West shoes, the set began to perk up, with assistant directors summoning staff, the props guy wheeling out his cart, the cameramen taking their places and chatting with each other on their headsets. It was early in the morning and none of the actors were in makeup yet, since we would do a quick run-through to figure out blocking and camera angles. My friend Rory Kendricks stumbled over, coffee cup in hand, mimicking a zombie.
“Rough night?” I asked.
He checked his watch. “I closed the Rum Room about, oh, three hours ago.” In real life, Rory was a snappy piano playerâa blast at partiesâand at the moment, he was filling in for Karen, the regular late-night performer in the bar of the Hotel Edison. My closest friend on the cast of
All Our Tomorrows
, Rory played Stone, an aspiring songwriter who earned a living banging out tunes at the local inn. If you're filling in family trees, Stone was also the bastard son of Preston Scott, but that old story had run out of steam a few years ago.
All Our Tomorrows
, Rory played Stone, an aspiring songwriter who earned a living banging out tunes at the local inn. If you're filling in family trees, Stone was also the bastard son of Preston Scott, but that old story had run out of steam a few years ago.
He yawned. “Really, why do I let myself get into these situations? I need my beauty sleep.”
“You can sleep when you get old.” I crossed my legs so he'd spy the shoes.
“Hellooo? This may be the face of an angel, but the party days are over for me.” In truth, Rory does have a gorgeous face. He was just a teenager when he got his start as a print model for Northland, a shopping center outside Detroit. With stunning blue eyes and cheekbones Michelangelo would have liked to sculpt, he would have had a long future in modeling if he'd continued growing. But since it was not to be, Rory had moved to New York and worked as a lounge lizard between acting gigs.
“Don't try the hermit act on me,” I said. “Every time we go out, you're the one who stays to close the bar.”
“That's because I'm looking for love, darling.” He began singing, “Looking for love in all the wrong places ...”
I winced. “Please! It's too early for country and western, and I think your voice is a little strained from all that rum-running.”
He smacked my knee lightly, then stood back. “And what have we here? A new purchase, I take it?”
“You like?”
“I
love
.” He lifted one foot for inspection, then gasped. “Tell me these aren't the ones in this month's
Vogue
!”
love
.” He lifted one foot for inspection, then gasped. “Tell me these aren't the ones in this month's
Vogue
!”
I nodded like a bobblehead. “With the matching top.”
“Oh, you bad, bad girl. I thought you were on a new budget crunch?”
“Well, I am, but I figure Gabrielle is bound to give me another contract here, don't you think?”
His gaze darted back and forth across the set. “Ixnay on the op-shay alk-tay.”
“What? I never did get that code.”
He lowered his voice. “Our esteemed EP might be on the set this morning.”
I scanned the dark shadows at the edge of the set in search of the EPâthe executive producer, Gabrielle Kazanjianâwho is the show runner for
All Our Tomorrows
. She's the big boss, the figurehead at the top of the pecking order, though sometimes network people and stars like Deanna Childs try to elbow her to the side.
All Our Tomorrows
. She's the big boss, the figurehead at the top of the pecking order, though sometimes network people and stars like Deanna Childs try to elbow her to the side.
There is a very well-defined pecking order on the set of any soap opera, something I learned with chagrin the first day I showed up with my short scene in my sweaty little hands. One of the cameramen had slid his camera beside me, with an enthusiastic “Hey, how's it going?”
I spun around full of warm, fuzzy feeling. I was making a friend my first day on the set! “I'm fine!” I chirped.
But he had already gone on to something else, talking into his headset. “Yeah, he's on vacation this week. Taking time off to renovate the house.”
“Excuse me?” I said, not getting the fact that he was not talking to me. Since then I'd learned that his name was Les, but he's never spoken to me since the day I mistook his greeting and he responded with an awkward look. I had breached the cultural barrier, trying to engage someone from another social class, another unionâCamera Operators Local 385. Unbelievable. A few more friendly words and the snob police would storm the set and rip up my Screen Actors Guild card.
Two years later, I had learned a few valuable lessons. Never mess with the props or the furniture on the set, as most of it is flimsy junk. Knock on a door too hard and it will pop off its hinges. Bang on a wall and the whole flat might fall to the ground.
Another rule of our show: Diva Deanna reigns supreme.
“Are we ready to rehearse?” one of the assistant directors, Sean Ryder, shouted, holding up his clipboard. Sean Ryder's booming voice usually quieted things down, and today was no exception.
I slid out of my chair, ready to work, but the crowd seemed to turn inward, parting for a tiny figure dwarfed by cascading red curls. Deanna Childs.
Rory lowered his head to my ear and muttered, “All hail, the queen.”
“I'm still waiting on a rewrite,” Deanna said sweetly, her lips gleaming with supergloss. “I'll be across the street at Chez Jacques.”
As she marched off in a dignified exit, Rory sighed. “The bitch has left the building.”
Sean waved him off and tuned into headsetsâpanic mode. Deanna was refusing to do the scene as written. Nothing new, as she'd pulled this stunt a few times before.
“Can someone contact the writers?” Sean Ryder spoke urgently into the mouthpiece of his headset. “Do the writers even know that Deanna wants a rewrite?”
I crossed my arms and took a deep breath, wishing that one of the overhead lights would fall on her bobbing head and send her into a soap-opera coma that lasted until February 2006 sweeps. From the bored faces of the cameramen to the nervous flurry of the AD's clipboard, I knew I was not alone. Despite her impenetrably strong fan baseâa bevy of viewers who assumed Deanna was as sweet, good-natured, and hardworking as her character Meredith Van AllenâDeanna was difficult to work with. She'd gotten a handful of people fired for minor gaffs, had once jabbed a befuddled wardrobe assistant with a straight pin, and was once written up in the tabloids for throwing a tantrum while waiting in line at a local banking institution.
Was I obsessing again? Sounding like an ingrate when I was lucky to have a recurring role? The truth was that Deanna's smug attitude only emphasized that I was one of the little peopleâthe short-contract players who waited for that call week to week. OK, I was jealous, had just a little professional envy. Given half her successâor just give me a contract!âI would pop out of my limo with a smile and perform the scene as written. I'm a very accommodating person, maybe too accommodating. That's my problem.
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