Soap Bubbles

  Soap Bubbles

  Denise Dietz

  Soap Bubbles cannot be pigeon-holed into one genre, nor should it be. It’s an array of mystery, romance, and legal drama. Often funny, sometimes shocking, Soap Bubbles depicts the glitzy microcosm of TV’s daytime drama, where rampant sexuality vies with an almost obscene lust for influence and power. Set during the 60s, 70s and 80s, a whole generation springs to life in this brash, voguish classic by the author of Fifty Cents For Your Soul.

  In the tradition of Judith Krantz and Jacqueline Susann, Denise Dietz recounts the tempestuous lives and careers of three ugly ducklings—Delly Diamond, Anissa Cartier and Maryl Bradley. Concealing childhood scars, each duckling-turned-swan learns how to make love, make money, and make believe. Each hopes that the soap opera, Morning Star, will afford an opportunity for the future. Instead, a studio fire and the resultant death of the soap’s reviled producer leads to a shattering confrontation with the past, as the book races toward a compelling and totally unexpected climax.

  PRAISE FOR SOAP BUBBLES:

  A fictional soap opera brings three friends joy and headaches in a nostalgic...glitzy...thriller..."

  ... Publishers Weekly

  Dietz's depiction of television provides lots of cutting, witty dialogue.

  ... Gumshoe Review

  Soap Bubbles draws the reader in from the first page as the journey through the lives of three complex women begins. Delly, Anissa and Maryl each have a childhood that contains events that will shape their self concept, scar their hearts, and lead them to each other in the land of Hollywood years into the future.

  Eventually their careers collide. Then, Anissa and Maryl must work together to find the person who started a fire, for which Delly is being accused, in the television studio. In this case, the character's real lives are more exciting than the soap opera in which Anissa and Delly star.

  Denise Dietz does a wonderful job of telling each woman's story and then bringing the ladies together in a plausible way for the second half of the book. You will find yourself crying, cheering and laughing as these smart characters search for happiness in a city where everyone wants something from them. There are many twists and surprises that make it a book hard to set aside.

  ... Affaire de Coeur

  “Vivid characters carry a star-dusted mystery thriller along at a breathless pace.”

  ... Lillian Stewart Carl

  “In Dietz’s Soap Bubbles, Valley Of The Dolls meets General Hospital meets a glitzy, very pregnant pair of Cagney and Laceys in a bang up, sexy, entertaining read full of characters who don’t let go when you close the book.”

  ... Bestselling author Terese Ramin

  “Denise Dietz once again proves herself the diva of witty dialogue and whiplash plot twists in this fascinating behind-the-scenes look at the soap operas we all love. Soap Bubbles is a richly detailed story with believable characters and a story line full of surprises.”

  ... Bestselling author Fran Baker

  “What’s a nice guy like me doing, reading a novel full of kaleidoscopic sins, behind-the-scenes show biz turned inside out, and story twists and surprises piled one on top of the next? Having a glorious time, that’s what. Thank you, Ms. Dietz.”

  ... Bestselling author Robert S. Levinson

  Copyright © 2010 by Denise Dietz

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition

  First Printing: April 2010

  Published in 2010 in conjunction with Tekno Books.

  Dedication

  This book is for Eileen Dietz,

  who played “Sarah” on General Hospital

  Overture

  August 25, 1985

  A ghetto blaster blasted Blood, Sweat and Tears.

  Delly Diamond covered her ears, but her palms couldn’t block out the music that coursed through her body like the throb from a stubbed toe.

  “I give it five for the words and nine for the beat,” she whispered.

  Once upon a long time ago, she had prayed on her knees. Prayed every night. Prayed to appear on American Bandstand. God, how she wanted to shake, rattle and roll. Maybe even shake Dick Clark’s hand. “Hi Dick, I’m Delly from Bayside, New York,” she would have said, “and I give it five for the words and nine for the beat.”

  Instead, her twin sister had appeared on Bandstand. The TV cameras honed in on Samantha during every dance. Sami, a professional amateur, didn’t even wave.

  The kid with the ghetto blaster headed for an exit door. Delly freed her hands from her ears and switched her tote from one shoulder to the other. Bloomingdale’s buzzed like a payphone’s busy signal. Stationed near the cosmetics counter, a mime squirted sample perfume. Before she could object, Delly was engulfed by a cloud of disgusting musk. The mime patted his heart and held up the bottle. Delly squelched the impulse to gesture with her middle finger. Samantha would have blown him a fingertip kiss. Or blown him for free perfume.

  Delly’s throat clogged and her heart slammed against her ribs. She squeezed her eyes shut then opened them again because her shrink said that stage curtains only momentarily hid the sets and actors.

  She found a table with sample cosmetics. She stared into a magnifying mirror as she applied eye shadow, mascara and lip gloss. Then she smeared thick goop beneath her eyes. What a difference! Without the raccoon smudges she looked ten years younger—twenty-two rather than thirty-two.

  Her dress helped, too. The lilac silk whispered against her bare legs. Could a dress whisper? Okay, so it swooshed. But it swooshed seductively. That was important because she had to show Judith Pendergraft that Delly Diamond could still look young and sexy.

  Her sneakers ruined the effect, somewhat. She’d hoped to find the perfect pair of sandals on sale and had: an adorable pair with fake gemstones, size five-and-a-half. But she’d forgotten that her credit cards were maxed out.

  “I’m just an ugly duckling,” she sang, “with feathers all silky and puce.”

  A woman with a babushka and a baby stared.

  “So I’m not Blood, Sweat and Tears, so sue me,” Delly said to the Babushka Woman, who continued staring—how rude—as Delly pushed open the doors that led to Lexington Avenue.

  Hot. Very hot. Above Lego-stacked buildings, the sky was filtered with canary-yellow sunshine. New York City shimmered and Delly felt dizzy.

  Maybe her dizziness wasn’t caused by the sun. Maybe she was hungry. She’d spent last night inside the bus station, dozing, using her tote as a pillow. Supper had been a bag of peanuts from a vending machine.

  Running her tongue across her lips, she thought about what she’d order at the luncheon meeting. Less than an hour to go before she was due to dine with Judith Pendergraft. After lunch she’d join Anissa Cartier and Maryl Bradley for a matinee at the Winter Garden. Delly hadn’t seen her two best friends in ages and she felt a happy twinge when she pictured the reunion. Then, dismay. Anissa played the lead on a popular soap. Although Maryl was a mom, she could still easily grace the cover of Seventeen. What would they talk about? Delly nudged a curbside candy wrapper. She’d invent something plausible. Was the lead in a new Neil Simon play plausible?

  Mentally totaling the money in her wallet, she decided it wasn’t enough to justify a cab. Even a bus ride across town would deplete her resources. She had a few subway tokens, but she’d traveled to Bloomingdale’s via the subway and she shuddered at the thought of re-submerging herself underground.

  Until a few years ago she had gaily traipsed through the subterranean grottos, heading east side, west side, all around the town, rarely giving her surroundings a second glance. But this morning she’d focused on the dirt, the obscene graffiti, and the bright posters advertising movies. A new movie co-starred Amy Irving. Furtively, Delly had slashed through Amy
Irving’s name and printed DELLY DIAMOND with a black felt-tip pen.

  Panting like a woman giving birth, Delly trudged block after block, finally reaching the street with the scriptwriter’s apartment building. She walked past it, retraced her steps, and stood under a small burgundy-and-white striped entrance awning. The building was nondescript, sandwiched between a luggage store and a shoe boutique. At seven thousand a month, she had expected at least one naked fountain Cupid, its sculpted penis urinating mineral water. But she’d been in Hollywood too long, forgotten how Manhattan grows up.

  Walking through the entrance, she caught her reflection in the mirrored wall that deceptively enlarged the tiny entrance foyer. God, she looked pale. But suntans were for tourists and she was an ersatz-native Californian who had lost any trace of a New York accent.

  Long bangs curtained her forehead and shaded the corners of her green eyes. Her thirteen freckles gleamed beneath her sample makeup. She’d never counted her freckles until the night Jon played connect-the-dots on her nose, his abacus a lipstick pencil.

  She found the name Pendergraft on the call-board and pressed a button. A carved wooden door buzzed back and the hallway expanded briefly, ending with a tiny wrought-iron elevator. Its wrought-iron arrow quivered—one-two-three—and the lift slowed to a bumpy halt. Delly stepped into a green and gold vestibule. It smelled musty, like the inside of Mom’s old attic trunk, the stupid trunk where Samantha had found Mom’s music. If Sami hadn’t found Mom’s music—

  “Hello, Delly, how are you?”

  “Fine. You look great, Judith.”

  “Yes. New York agrees with me. But I’ve kept my house in Malibu, the one on the beach. Remember how Drew called it the house on the bitch? Something to do with the friggin’ Wizard of friggin’ Oz.”

  Following Judith, Delly stepped into an enormous living room and blinked at the brightness. The walls and ceilings were pure yellow, the floor a highly glossed parquet. An eclectic mixture of paintings crowded the walls. Delly recognized Andy Warhol, Peter Max, and Renoir. Her gaze lingered on the Renoir, and she wished she could step into the painting. In a Renoir there were no cameras panning for a close-up, no directors screaming for another take, no rejection. Renoir’s flowers have no smell, but they don’t die. Renoir’s people have no smell, but they live forever.

  Once she had believed that actors lived forever.

  Opposite the entrance were recessed windows with open drapes. The city skyline looked exactly like the picture postcard she’d sent Jon this morning. She’d written no message; they’d said it all before her … pilgrimage.

  In the middle of the living room, denting a couch cushion, sat a chubby man, a pencil threaded through his thinning hair. Delly didn’t catch the quick introduction, issued just before Judith grabbed her purse and ushered Delly back into the musty hallway.

  “Wish I had time to show you the whole layout,” Judith said. “Both floors. But time flies when you’re having fun.”

  “Define fun.”

  “Success.”

  Delly had expected a sexual innuendo so she swallowed her next words, which would have been something about how soap operas turn back the clock. After all, the director counted backwards. Ready, action, three-two-one.

  Crossing the lobby, both women instinctively checked their reflections. Although Judith was four inches taller and thirty-five pounds heavier than Delly, the contrast went beyond that. Judith’s short blonde hair looked like a lacquered bathing cap. Delly’s shoulder-length, chestnut-colored hair suffered from terminal humidity. Judith wore lime green slacks, a white blouse with a lace collar, and high-heeled sandals. Her blood-red fingernails were un-chipped. Delly’s ragged nails showed the remnants of subway grime, and Magic Marker marred her thumb. Once upon a long time ago, the cops had blotted her fingertips with ink, blotting out her life.

  With that remembrance, she felt her eyes blur. Bad memories, like bad onions, brought on tears.

  Forget the past. Turn back the clock. Three-two-one.

  Judith recommended a restaurant five blocks away. Her heels clicked rhythmically along the sidewalk’s pavement. Slanted store awnings interrupted the sun’s spotlight. Judith looked cool as a cucumber but Delly felt sweat dot her brow. Worse, perspiration began to shape half-moons beneath her armpits.

  Blessed air conditioning orbited the restaurant’s plants and wicker chairs. Several caged parrots fluttered their wings, and diners had the slick appearance of highly glossed antique furniture. I shouldn’t be caged inside a fancy restaurant with parrots, Delly thought. I should be feeding pigeons in Central Park.

  After the two women were seated, Judith ordered a vodka gimlet. Delly hesitated. Should she drink on an empty stomach? So much depended on this meeting. “Club soda,” she said.

  Drinks delivered, the waiter stood, pen poised. Judith ordered her “usual.” Delly ordered chicken and artichokes in a vinaigrette sauce, trying not to be obvious as she reached into a cloth-covered basket. With sensual satisfaction, she spread unsalted butter across a slice of warm, seeded rye bread. She took a big bite and chewed slowly, savoring every seed, every crumb, every glob of melted butter. Then she quenched her thirst, downing the club soda, sucking on the lime as if she were a tequila addict.

  “I didn’t have time for breakfast this morning,” she said, retrieving another slice of rye.

  “Don’t start skipping meals, sweetie pie. Your breasts look like pancakes.”

  Delly resisted the impulse to glance down and verify the older woman’s statement. Thin was in; pancakes were not.

  Finishing her cocktail, Judith talked about her move from the coast—“the only coast, my dear”—and the friggin’ hassles from network officials when her Morning Star contract had run out. She’d negotiated a new contract to become head writer for Chantilly Lace, and, with Judith at the helm, that New York based daytime drama had recently surpassed the ratings for Morning Star. Fixing her gaze on Delly’s flushed face, she said, “What’s going on in your life, sweetie pie?”

  Delly watched the waiter place Judith’s pink jelled salmon and her own chicken dish on the table. “Nothing much, Judith. Things are pretty slow right now. Summer. They’re talking about another director’s strike and—”

  “Bullshit! Don’t con a pro, my dear. You haven’t worked in how long now?”

  “A long time.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “Twenty-seven. And a half.”

  “Very good, Delly. Most actresses would say twenty-nine. Why, may I ask, are you trying to look like Mia Farrow as Rosemary’s baby?”

  “Mia was Rosemary, not the baby.”

  “Forget Mia. Why are you trying to look like Pandora?”

  “What makes you think—?”

  “Your hair, your makeup, your friggin’ socks and sneakers.”

  “Maybe I wanted to play Pandora because you knew me that way, loved me that way.”

  Judith swallowed a carefully chewed portion of salmon and a crisp lettuce leaf. “I still care for you, Delly. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t waste my valuable time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Killing time isn’t murder, it’s suicide.”

  “Cute, Judith, but I still don’t understand.”

  “Hours and flowers soon fade away. The moment Peter finished taping your last scene, you ceased to exist.”

  “Wrong! Fans stop me for autographs all the time. Why only this morning a woman in a babushka—”

  “Delly, Delly, Delly.” Judith wagged her first finger. “Pandora was a role. An actress can’t spend her whole life living off the memories of one small part.”

  “It wasn’t small!”

  “That’s because the writers made you important. We built the part. We gave birth to Pandora.”

  Delly nudged the pungent chicken with her fork. “Do you think what happened . . . the fire . . . is that why I can’t get past my first interview with casting directors? Do they still believe I had something to do wit
h Maxine’s death? Is that why I couldn’t get another part?”

  “No. Producers adore publicity and you were the victim in that sordid . . . installment. The reason you couldn’t get another part right away was because Pandora had become too distinctive, too unforgettable. Remember, Delly, patience is the art of concealing your impatience.”

  “It’s been two years, Judith.”

  “And look at you, still playing Pandora, dressed like a thrift shop slob. Do you know who dimpled my couch with his fat tush? An associate producer. I was ashamed to introduce you. I know how talented you are, but you look like shit.”

  “Would there be a part for me on your show?” Delly’s chest thumped so hard she feared her heart would fall out onto her plate and mingle with the artichokes.

  “Impossible. As you’re undoubtedly aware, Anissa plays Chantilly. That’s one of the reasons Morning Star plunged downhill in the ratings. Like an avalanche,” Judith added smugly.

  Sipping her melted ice cubes, Delly had trouble swallowing. Impossible? Why? Nothing was impossible when you slid down Alice’s rabbit hole and entered a world where some genius dreamed up a soap called Chantilly Lace, set it during the frigid fifties, gave each female performer a wiggle when she walked, and scored a huge hit. Delly twisted the napkin in her lap. “Anissa and I have always worked well together, Judith.”

  “That’s the point. We can’t have Pandora and Charl on the same show. You’re not eating, sweetie pie.”

  “Restroom, excuse me.” Delly’s sneakers found the floor. Weaving around tables, entering a lounge, assaulted by the smell of an ammonia deodorant, she bent her head over the sink. Then she turned on the water and watched her shrink, her shrinking shrink, go down the drain. She had opened her eyes and raised the curtain, only to find that Judith had changed all the lines. It simply wasn’t the performance Delly had mentally rehearsed.