Copyright © 2006 by Catherine Coulter.

Kodak Theater

Los Angeles, California

The 36th Annual Daytime Emmy Awards

Mary Lisa didn’t want to puke up the two Ritz crackers she’d eaten for dinner. She swallowed hard, tasted bile, swallowed again, and held herself very still. No way was she going to get sick on this beautiful dark green satin Valentino gown Signore Malo insisted she wear this special night. She put an Eclipse lozenge on her tongue, felt the burst of weird sharp flavor, and continued not to move a muscle.

The applause slowly died as Christian Jules LeBlanc, who played Michael Baldwin on The Young and the Restless, walked off the stage beside Crystal Chappell, the Emmy for Outstanding Supporting Actor clutched in his hand.

Mary Lisa couldn’t breathe. Her lungs were all hitched up. Forever went by. And then another six hours passed before Eric Braeden and Melody Thomas Scott, the two major staple stars from Y &R, strolled onto the stage, so confident, so beautiful, so very sure of their place in the sun.

Breath whooshed into her lungs. A good sign, surely, she was still alive. She felt Bernie’s hand clasp hers tighter, felt Lou Lou’s hand clutch her forearm. She could hear Elizabeth ’s sharp breathing behind her left shoulder.

“And the nominees for this year’s Emmy for Outstanding Actress in a Drama Series are…”

I won’t win, I can’t win, how can I? I’ve won two times, it can’t happen again. I won’t vomit. Those two times were a fluke, a gift from God for something I must have done that I simply don’t remember. It’s all over. No more bursting sun. No one would vote for me again, not again. I’ll be stoic. I won’t get depressed. Those first two wins-the Nielsen ratings were skewed, everyone was fooled. But now they know the truth. Ohmigod, she just read out my name, she didn’t stumble over it, and that’s good. And she’s reading out the four other actresses, all of them splendid, all of them-Fact is, I’ve tanked. I’ll be out of a job, no, wait, I have a contract so they’ll have to kill me off slowly over the next six months until my contract is up, or they can whack me close up and fast right at the end. I’m not going to vomit.

Clyde Dillard, Born to Be Wild’s producer, cupped her arm from the row behind her. And then Eric Braeden’s beautiful deep voice filled the vast auditorium. No man, no matter what age, looked finer in a tux than Eric Braeden.

His lips moved. There was laughter. He must have made a clever remark, but Mary Lisa hadn’t heard it. She shook her head to stop the buzzing. His voice deepened. She heard him say in Moses’s voice, “And the winner for the Outstanding Lead Actress in a Drama Series is”-pause, long, long pause, Eric, master that he was, stretching it out to infinity-“for the third year in a row”-third year in a row? No, impossible, he’s made a mistake, he’s going to correct himself now, say, I’m sorry, but I don’t have my glasses on, no, wait, he does have his glasses on, he does! An aneurysm then, he’s just blown something in his brain. No, wait, can it be? Really?-“Mary Lisa Beverly, as Sunday Cavendish, FOX, BORN TO BE WILD!”

What?

Suddenly there were hugs, shouts, screams, and applause from the cast of BTBW, rocking the auditorium around her. Then everyone else joined in, though understandably not with quite the same enthusiasm as the people on the show.

Bernie Barlow, executive producer and head writer of BTBW, pulled her to her feet, hugged and kissed her. “You did it, sweetie, you did it, oh, this is the best thing. We’re golden, we’re on top, we can do anything. Anything!” He gave her a little push. “Go get it, babe, you deserve it, but be fast, time is running down.”

And from Lou Lou, who was patting her shoulder, not wanting to disturb her hair or makeup, “You look gorgeous. Go get ’em, tiger.” Mary Lisa heard Elizabeth saying over and over, “I knew you’d get it, I knew you’d get it, you’re the best-”

So many voices she knew congratulating her. Lou Lou lightly shoved Mary Lisa into the aisle.

All the tension, the gut-knotting terror, the cannonball of nerves gripping her stomach, all of it disappeared in a flash. She’d won. She couldn’t believe it, but she had. She smiled hugely, right into the camera that was homed in on her face, and took her first step down the wide aisle. I won’t trip, I won’t trip, nice and easy now, shoulders straight, glide, glide. I’m a gazelle, smooth and graceful. My dress won’t fall down. I don’t look like an idiot, do I? I am an idiot, wearing these four-inch heels. No, a gazelle wouldn’t trip on her four-inch heels. They make the gazelle look awesome. Keep that smile. Oh my, oh my.

The applause kept going, loud and sustained. This audience knew very well the last thing an actor or actress wanted was to have the applause die when there was another thirty feet or so to go before the stage. And there, overlaying all of it, the cacophony of hoots and whistles and cheers, and they were chanting her name-Mary Lisa, Mary Lisa, over and over again-most she recognized as the dulcet voices of the nineteen members of the BTBW cast, the directors, the stage manager, all the crew, the makeup and wardrobe people, all of them at full volume. Bless them. Thank you, God, thank you, God, I can’t believe it, I just can’t believe it. Her smile became bigger as she approached Eric Braeden, whose smile, like Sean Connery’s, could fell a woman at fifty paces.

He kissed her cheek, whispered in her ear, “You want to come over to Y &R?”

She gave him a silly grin, and whispered back, “Only if I can marry you and have your baby,” to which he kissed her again, whispered against her cheek, “I’ll speak to Melody backstage, see what she thinks.” Then he formally placed the Emmy in her hands. She turned to hug Melody Thomas Scott, so very beautiful and talented, who was smiling at her, congratulating her, and then Mary Lisa stepped to the podium. She looked out across the overflowing Kodak Theater at the beautifully dressed people, all of them looking back at her. She nodded happily at the many faces she worked with daily, basked for an instant in the presence of all those great stars she’d watched over the years. She drew in a deep breath, raised the Emmy high, and thought, Damn, I’d sure like to thank three dozen people but there’s no time.

“I am so happy at this moment, so proud and thankful to all the wonderful people I work with on Born to Be Wild, that if I weren’t wearing this tight dress I’d be clicking my four-inch heels together. Thank you, Bernie, Clyde, all our actors and actresses, our directors, the incredible makeup artists-all of you know who you are-thank all of you so very much.”

She waved the Emmy, then carefully made her way back to her seat. She was so excited, her adrenaline level so high, she wouldn’t be surprised if it geysered out of the top of her head. She felt hands patting her, murmurs of Way to go! Congratulations! You deserve it. And then shushes because there were only two minutes left and Juliet Mills was quickly reading out the names of the Outstanding Drama Series.

Then Steve Burton opened the envelope, studied it, and with perfect timing called out, “…And the winner is…BORN TO BE WILD, FOX, Bernard Barlow, Executive Producer and Head Writer.”