TORCH (28 page)

"In the States, sir?"

"Correct. And legal drinking age there would be?"

"Nineteen, sir."

"In the northern wastelands of Canada, maybe. In our country, it's still twenty-one. Either way, Sinead is only fifteen."

"I see your point, sir. Thank you for explaining it to me."

Acting is turning out to be a little too similar to school for my liking.

©
Yvonne Collins & Sandy Rideout

MadLEIGH

Clash of the divas, round two…

All it takes is one wild drive and a humiliating dinner in the heart of Hollywood to make sixteen-year-old Vivien Leigh Reid question her decision to spend another summer with her flashy movie star mother, Annika Anderson. Last summer’s “mother/daughter bonding time” on a movie set in Ireland eventually turned out okay, but Annika is still the same world-class diva, and Leigh is determined never to be like her.

The bumpy road to romance…

Leigh’s also desperate to overcome Annika’s “bad relationship genes” and make things work with long-distance boyfriend, Rory, whose clever Irish wit continues to entrance her. She can hardly wait for his visit to Los Angeles. In the meantime, classes at a prestigious acting school lead Leigh to a role on a hot TV soap opera playing, of all things, a teenage diva. They also lead to her classmate, Gray, with his blinding good looks, his Hollywood pedigree, and a secret agenda of his own.

Being a diva might just be hereditary…

But Leigh has a few diva-like tendencies herself and soon the line between acting and real-life blurs, throwing Leigh’s relationships with friends, colleagues, and even sweet Rory into chaos. Leigh’s story is starting to parallel Annika’s in scary ways. While Annika is the ultimate diva, she may have a thing or two to teach Leigh about handling fame, runaway egos, guys, and how to spot a true diamond among the fakes. It takes more than being a diva to survive the shark-infested waters of Hollywood.

Excerpt

I am trapped in a moving vehicle with a madwoman—a madwoman who claims to be my mother, although it's never been proven through genetic testing. We are tearing up the 405 at breakneck speed and her eyes seem to be everywhere but on the road ahead. She jets past a lumbering Hummer and cuts off a Porsche without even signaling.

"Are you crazy?" I squawk, as the guy in the Porsche flips her the bird.

"Oh, chill," she says, either to Porsche Guy or me. She yanks down her visor, admires herself in the tiny mirror, and reapplies her lipstick with a flourish.

I stomp nervously on an imaginary brake as she crowds a BMW. "Watch out!"

"Darling, you're so uptight." This time I know she's speaking to me. What's more, I know she's silently adding "just like your father." It's only silent because this is Hour One of my visit to Los Angeles and we have to last eight weeks in the ring.

If I'd known she was deranged, rather than merely flighty, I wouldn't have agreed to spend a second summer with her. Last year, Dad didn't give me a choice before sending me to get to know her on her film set in Ireland, but this time I practically volunteered. Obviously I should have demanded danger pay.

When the Porsche pulls up alongside us, I rap on the window and shot, "Help! I've been taken hostage!"

Instead of being embarrassed, Mom giggles and gives Porsche Guy a flirty wave. He smiles and waves back, continuing keep pace with her. Many have fallen under Annika Anderson's spell before, but few at this velocity.

"I'm serious, Annika. If you don't slow down, I am calling the cops." I shake my cell phone at her. "And turn your lights on, it's nearly dark."

She flicks on the lights with an exaggerated sigh that's worthy of me.

"Why look at that," I say, pointing to the illuminated speedometer. "We've broken the sound barrier. I'll have a story to tell in Physics next fall."

"Whatever," she says in a tone also worthy of me, reaching for her cigarettes. I snatch them out of her hand and stow them in my purse. "Granny," she mutters.

I turn to stare at her perfect profile. "Pardon me?"

"I said you're a granny—a little old lady in a fifteen-year-old's body."

"Sixteen. And I am not uptight. I just want to make it back to Seattle alive. I can't believe this wreck even goes this fast."

"Wreck! This car is in pristine condition. I just had it custom-painted claret."

That would be maroon to anyone else. Mom could afford a nice car, but she chooses to drive this vintage Volkswagen Beetle because it reminds her of the first car she ever owned. In other words, she's clinging to her lost youth. I wish she'd cling to it in something with more legroom.

Screeching to a stop in front of a restaurant, Mom switches off the ignition. The attitude immediately disappears and she recovers her normal personality. I use the term "Normal" loosely: Annika hasn't seen normal in a very long time, if ever. She is a Grade A diva stuck in a B-movie career and that discrepancy had caused tectonic shifts all over the Earth.

"You're going to love this place," she says, tucking her long blond curls into a tweed newsboy cap and putting on her sunglasses.

"What's with the disguise?" I ask. "Are the police after you for piloting a rocket without a license?"

She surrenders the keys to the valet and leads me inside. "I just want to have a quiet dinner. I hate being pestered by fans."

If Mom really wanted a quiet dinner, I expect we'd be at her house in the Valley rather than at Kate Mantilini's in Beverly Hills. And if she valued her privacy, she'd have asked for a darkened booth along the wall rather than a table in the center of the room. No, the disguise is actually a desperate bid for attention.

One of us has matured this year, and it isn't Annnika.

©
Yvonne Collins & Sandy Rideout

LuvLEIGH

Diva meets warthog...  

Aspiring starlet Vivien Leigh Reid’s professional reputation is in tatters, thanks to her previous diva behavior in front of the cameras. But this time she’s determined not to blow it, even if it means wearing a hideous costume in an otherwise sexy action-adventure series, Freak Force. Her first task is to find a way to charm an all-male cast who aren’t exactly thrilled to be working with her. Her second one is to avoid injuring them while doing her own stunts.

Not exactly love at first sight…

Julian Gerrard is Leigh’s hot co-star in the popular TV series. He’s no happier than the rest of his cast-mates to have a girl added to the all male crew of super humanoid mutant characters. Especially a girl like Leigh, with her reputation as an out-of-control diva. Even if her mother, Annika Anderson, is engaged to the producer of Freak Force. Maybe Leigh doesn’t deserve her diva reputation. Then again, maybe she does…

Double divas, double trouble…

To add to the pressure of keeping her inner diva under control, Leigh’s helping her mother, a movie-star-diva-turned-Bridezilla, plan a wedding, while fending off a pair of wicked step-sisters-to-be. As Leigh’s romance with Julian heats up, Annika’s meltdown spells impending disaster. But never underestimate the power of two divas working together when their hearts are set on happily-ever-after!

Excerpt

It's the bodysuits I notice first. Any girl would. In fact, it's tough to notice anything else. There must be strategic padding in there, because no human male could look that good without help.

Mind you, these aren't human males, but humanoids—a blend of wild animal and college freshman. And they're my costars on Freak Force.

I just arrived at the studio for the first time and I'm waiting in the shadows for the director to surface. The rest of the cast is in the middle of shooting a scene in which they're stalking an armed man in a technology laboratory.

There's nothing for me to do at the moment but admire the scenery and marvel over the wardrobe department's genius in creating the sleek and futuristic costumes. It'sMatrix meets the savannah. The Gazelle is wearing a taupe bodysuit with two black strips running down the sides and a headpiece with horns. The Cheetah's bodysuit is gold and black and the actor has amber hued contact lenses. And the Panther—the hottest of the three—is wearing a shiny black bodysuit, a hood, and a skinny visor over his eyes. All the actors' faces are slightly enhanced by prosthetics which makes them appear almost like mythical creatures: part human, part god.

I think I've found a new religion.

The Panther advances slowly across the set toward the villain and crouches behind him. Sensing a threat, the villain spins sees the Freak Force, and bolts. The Cheetah bounds across the set, tackles the villain, and pins him to the floor. The Panther circles menacingly. Meanwhile, the villain's sidekick appears in the doorway, and the Gazelle crosses the room in a single leap to kick the gun out of his hands.

I watch, mesmerized, as the actors perform a series of martial arts moves. It's almost like a dance. They lunge and leap and kick in a controlled, graceful way. There are thuds and grunts and scraping noises that I assume will be overdubbed later with suspenseful music to heighten the drama.

It's so different from my last show. In Diamond Heights, the characters mostly shopped, hung out at clubs, and dissed each other. The only stunt I got to perform was my character's death scene, and then all I had to do was flail around and fall off a stage.

Dad teased me later that it wasn't acting—it was just taking my natural clumsiness to new levels. But I don't think I'm that clumsy. Sure, I've been known to walk into stationary objects or fall off curbs, but only because I don't always pay attention to what's going on around me. Grandma is probably closer to the truth in saying I have a "busy brain." I can focus when I need to focus. Still, learning the superhero choreography is probably going to be a stretch for me.

Hopefully my character is one of the less adventurous savannah dwellers. A zebra, for example. As far as I can tell, all they do is graze and maybe make a run for it when the lions are hungry. Even I can run. Plus, black-and-white stripes would be perfect to distract viewers' eyes from the skintight bodysuit. Knowing how television works, however, I won't get off that easily. I'm the only woman in the cast and they're probably going to want to put me in some sexed-up Elektra-style costume. I'd prefer to be known for my acting skills rather than my physique, but the stiletto boots would be fun. I can see myself now, twirling through the air, looking chic while high-kicking the crap out of the bad guys…

"CUT!" The shout brings me back to reality. It's obviously the director, but he must be watching the action from monitors behind the set because I can't see him.

"Let's do another take," he says. "Rudy, I need you to hold your head up when you do the leap. I want to see that pretty face."

Pretty face? That's an odd thing for a director to tell a male lead. Come to think of it, that whiny petulant voice sounds familiar. And not in a good way.

"My horns get stuck in the guide wire if I raise my head," says Rudy, the gazelle.

"YP, not MP," the director says.

Uh-oh. The expression means "Your Problem, Not My Problem" and there's only one person I've met who's rude enough to use it: Chaz, the assistant director on Diamond Heights. For some reason, Chaz loathed me on sight, and when my character ultimately got the axe, he did a dance of joy.