Stories From Candyland (8 page)

Mrs. Spelling,

Your email is going crazy. Is everything all right? It will take a few days to forward it all. I’m sorry.

TMS

I figured my spam filter—whatever that was—wasn’t working.

No. It was people who’d watched or heard Tori talking about us and had decided to contact me directly.

Nothing prepared me for what came next.

Thousands of e-mails later, from all parts of the country,
from people of all ages, grandmothers and grandchildren, psychologists and steelworkers, I heard from all of America.

Some were downright nasty.

You are heartless. How much money do you need? Your daughter needs money. Give it to her,

wrote a stranger who said she was from Dixie.

I wondered if the woman from Dixie would care that I’d set up multimillion-dollar trust funds and education funds for my grandchildren, just like Aaron and I did for Tori and Randy. Probably not. The next week this one came:

I think you are a b———, and I think a magazine will name you worst mother of the year. If you gave your children money, you should continue to give them as much when they grow up.

That woman had marked her e-mail “urgent.”

I wondered if the e-mailer ever thought about how all the inns, houses, luxury SUVs, vacations, clothes, furniture, toys, parties, caterers, gifts, and everything else highlighted on Tori’s show had been paid for. Memo to writer: Tori has lots of money, and she spends it on whatever she wants.

Some e-mails were sweet:

I have been watching your daughter’s show, but I truly believe you are a wonderful Mother and Person. I think she complains too
much just for the television cameras. You have wonderful advice for others, like good mothers do,

wrote a woman who said she was Tori’s age.

I love all your husband’s TV series. Like some of the characters on his shows, I think you are misunderstood. If you write a biography, I will definitely read it. I want to know more,

was the sweet message that arrived from a woman who said she hoped to be a grandmother soon.

Many messages took the middle of the road, like the following one, from a man who admitted to being a constant TV watcher.

I didn’t know too much about your family until I watched some episodes of Tori’s TV show. That sent me to your Web site, and I love it! I think that, despite how much Tori complains, she obviously loves and needs you, and she also loves and needs drama and to be the center of attention. I think anyone who the public knows for the love and kindness you have is someone I want to know. Will you get your own show and write a book?

Almost everyone had an opinion. I was a good mother. I was a terrible mother. Tori was a good daughter. Tori was a terrible mother and daughter. Her husband, Dean, should take off his glasses. Dean should shave. My grandson,
Liam, is adorable, but he should be eating less and sleeping more.

Week after week, talk show appearance after talk show appearance, Tuesday night meant my Web site crashing and the webmaster losing sleep.

Many people demanded to know “everything” about our family’s finances. Others had memories of my husband’s shows. Some said they couldn’t imagine their own children talking about them on television week after week. A few people sent photos of their families and pets for me to see.

I answered most of them. At the time, I didn’t reply to the stories Tori told. I’m the mature mother, I had to keep reminding myself. I replied to some of the stories people told me about themselves and their families. I was asked for a lot of advice about fields I know nothing about, and was sorry I couldn’t help. My ego expanded one moment when some praised my charity work; and the next e-mail made me think, Who the heck does this stranger think she is, saying these nasty things about me when she doesn’t even know me?

I’m not sure what Tori means when she says our relationship is complicated. I wish she would call me, rather than say on television, “I should call my mom.” I wish she’d tell me that she was unhappy about something that happened when she was in the sixth grade that I thought was a highlight of her life.

Tori does usually end her dissertations about our life with “We love each other.”

We do. And we always will.

Chapter 5
The Sounds of Silence:
Golden or Dangerous?

O
ne of the first maxims I remember learning is “Silence is golden.” I don’t recall if I learned it before I found out “Children should be seen and not heard,” but, whatever the order, I got the message.

It was all right with me. I was painfully shy, and I was relieved that silence was a virtue. So I could be golden and well behaved by being shy, instead of being labeled as having some social deficiency.

It hurt a lot when people said I was “cold” or “snobbish” or “haughty” or just “antisocial.” I wanted to tell them I was just painfully shy, but I was much too timid and insecure to break into their conversations, even when they were about me.

Over the years, I realized that my shyness enabled me to hone my listening skills. I knew I had to be a good listener because I needed to make sure I’d be right if and when I spoke. So I paid attention to every conversation to make sure I wouldn’t make a mistake when I gathered the courage to be part of the discussion.

I knew I had allies when I first heard the words of a 1964 hit song by the Four Seasons. I decided it would become my secret anthem.

                            
Silence is golden, but my eyes still see
        Silence is golden, golden
But my eyes still see.
                                   Talking is cheap, people follow like sheep. . .

So, rather than being a cheap sheep follower, I listened and tried to learn.

I have to admit I was conflicted when Simon and Garfunkel’s 1966 warning to my generation hit the charts. So, with apologies to Paul Simon, who wrote:

    
“Fools,” said I, “you do not know
Silence like a cancer grows.”

. . . silence can be good for some of us.

One unexpected and very positive reaction to my years of silent shyness is that I developed a sense of security over time that permits me to go out by myself and do things alone.

Most of my friends, who are not the least bit shy, would be afraid to be seen alone in a restaurant or movie. Not me. I don’t mind the occasional solitude. More than that, I often learn things I’d never know if I were part of a group.

I’d like to think I’m attentive, curious, and patient, not just that I have excellent hearing. Hopefully, it’s a combination of all those assets.

When I go to restaurants by myself, it’s by choice. I have a lot of friends, so it’s not lack of opportunity. I just really enjoy learning from watching and listening to other people in restaurants.

I know I caught some network executives off guard in a recent meeting when one of them started explaining “web-isodes” to me.

“Wait,” I said. “I know all about webisodes.”

I first heard about webisodes when, in between bites of sushi, I overheard two TV honchos discussing this new development over dinner at Hamasaku in Los Angeles. I thought it was such a funny word, and knew that Aaron would have jumped right into their conversation.

So, just to show how far I’d come in my being-alone-is-okay period, I asked these two strangers questions about webisodes.

“You look very familiar,” the executive in the Ralph Lauren jacket said.

“Aren’t you someone?” his dinner companion asked.

He, obviously, had never learned the virtue of silence.

“My husband used to work in television. My name is Candy Spelling.”

“You’re kidding. Aaron Spelling’s wife! I’m so honored,” the Polo devotee said. His friend smiled, realizing, I guess, that I was “someone.”

And then they explained webisodes to me.

So, a few weeks later, I was prepared for the network guys in my meeting. In a very condescending tone, one of the online wizards began by asking me if I had a computer.

“Yes, several,” I said.

“Okay. Well, sometimes, if you watch little episodes of things, you might be watching webisodes.”

I smiled and said I knew about webisodes. I told them everything I’d learned while enjoying my sushi that night at the restaurant.

They were silent. My overhearing had made me heard.

Throughout my childhood, I was never really encouraged to know or say too much. My parents were protective of me, and as long as my cooking, sewing, and social skills were progressing, all was fine.

I didn’t have much incentive to study the classics, but I do remember reading Shakespeare in high school. One line resonated from
Much Ado About Nothing
:

                      
Silence is the perfectest herald of joy.
I were but little happy,
   if I could say how much
.

It sounded like Shakespeare was encouraging my journey toward perfection through silence. I liked that.

My husband was a wonderful man, but he really did consider me what later was dubbed a “trophy wife.” He didn’t want me to have friends, talk to strangers (unless they were
his
strangers), or interact more than superficially with the people with whom he worked. I was
his
. My knowledge was his (ours?). I was supposed to look good, smile, entertain when asked, and be his Hollywood wife.

At home, with the kids, it was different. We made decisions together, I was in charge of almost everything he took for granted, and we worked together on all aspects of his business. But my public “image” was as quiet, happy Candy, Aaron’s perfect wife.

I tried hard. I think I succeeded.

He wouldn’t have liked me asking strangers about web-isodes or telling network executives all that I knew about their area of expertise. But now I do what I think is right, more than what is just expected or anticipated of, um, “a
woman in my position”—whatever that means. Thus, this book.

I can’t count how many times I overheard him being asked if
Dynasty
was about our family, or if I was the model for Linda Evans’s sweet and innocent Krystle Carrington or Joan Collins’s ruthless, conniving, nasty Alexis. Aaron would credit me for helping design the shows, but he said neither character was “my Candy.”

My answer is that I’m neither and both characters. Linda and I looked alike, and I was able to contribute to her look. Many of Nolan Miller’s clothes were based on my tastes and ideas about the look of those glamorous and trendsetting characters. But I consider myself a sharp businesswoman like Alexis, albeit much nicer and without the heavy-handed and ruthless need to rule the world.

In personality, I was closer to quiet Krystle than attention-seeking Alexis. Whenever the script called for Krystle to speak out, I wondered if Aaron was afraid his Candy would someday speak out, too. He didn’t have to worry. I kept quiet in public, and certainly never exhibited any of the drama and angst of the
Dynasty
characters. In private, he and I were truly partners—again, minus the angst and drama of the TV heroines and vixens.