Dr. Chaz and Phyllis remained in their chairs, and I noticed that the kissy-kissy couple was far less cordial when the cameras weren’t rolling. At one point, Phyllis, script in hand, swept aside her husband’s assistant to point out what she obviously felt was a glaring error in the next segment. I regretted that their microphones were off, because the animated argument went on for nearly thirty seconds.
James Young’s arrival put an end to it. The lanky African-American executive producer seemed to be a calming presence on the set. After a few minutes in a heads-together conference, Young made changes that both of his media darlings could live with. Then the exec producer was off again when a technician alerted him to a problem backstage.
The taping resumed and the audience was introduced to an onstage couple whose last holiday season could best be described as a model train wreck.
Sobbing, a thirtysomething blonde identified only as “Tracy from Memphis” described her “worst Christmas ever,” which took place last year.
“It was a week before Christmas when I found out the truth, Dr. Chaz. I arrived late to my husband’s office party to find Todd and a coworker doing the nasty under the Rudolph the Reindeer display in the company break room!”
Members of the audience gasped.
Dr. Chaz nodded knowingly. “And how did that make you feel, Tracy?”
“Angry!”
The audience began to mumble unhappily. Sitting beside his estranged wife, Todd shifted in his seat and worriedly eyeballed the disapproving (mostly female) audience.
“So, Todd, tell me. What the heck were you thinking?”
Todd’s shrug was sheepish. Then he glanced at the sea of frowning females and cleared his throat. “I guess I was hurt, Dr. Chaz. Really, really hurt.”
The crowd around us began to mumble again. They seemed less angry now and leaned forward with interest.
“Hurt, Todd? Why?” said Dr. Chaz, feigning extreme curiosity. “Who hurt you?”
“My wife.”
Now the women in the audience began whispering. Todd began to act reluctant to speak, as if this were very hard for him to do. At the doctor’s slightest urging, however, he cut loose.
“I was hurt by my wife when she ran up our credit cards buying gifts we couldn’t afford for a ridiculously long list of family members and friends.” He shook his head. “I felt our kids’ futures were at stake, you know? That’s how I felt about it. Can you blame me?”
“I see. Anything else?” Dr. Chaz prompted.
“Yes! I was hurt that my wife couldn’t find the time between decorating the tree and stuffing the stockings to pay attention to my needs!”
“Sounds like you both made some mistakes,” Dr. Chaz said, nodding sagely.
In the second half of the program, Therapist Phyllis took over the questioning. Ironically the story of “Mona and Bill from Columbus,” aka the happy, functional couple, was far less interesting to the audience.
“Sad but true,” Madame remarked to me. “Train wrecks make front page news, not on-time arrivals.”
The final segment was a regular feature called “People Are Still Having Sex,” where both Dr. Chaz and Phyllis advised couples to keep romance alive during stressful times. “It’s important you find those little pockets of intimacy with your lover, especially during this crazy, hectic season.”
Film footage rolled, showing couples kissing beside a Christmas tree, embracing on a winter sleigh ride, exchanging perfectly wrapped gifts in bed.
“Mistletoe and music,” Therapist Phyllis suggested.
“Candy canes by candlelight,” added Dr. Chaz.
By the time the springy closing theme filled the studio and the hosts waved us all good-bye, the audience had swallowed enough soma to jump to their feet in teleprompted APPLAUSE!
As the music died, the exit doors opened and the crowd filed out. Madame and I gathered our things and approached an usher.
“Excuse me,” Madame said. “My daughter-in-law and I have a backstage pass. I wonder if—”
“Oh, you need to see Heidi,” he said, gesturing to a slender, ice blonde in a tightly fitting gray business suit. “Heidi Gilcrest.”
The woman took tiny steps, her high heels clicking like castanets as she hurried from the opposite end of the studio to greet us. “Well, hello!” Heidi’s eyes went nearly as wide as her pearly grin. “Mr. Dewberry told us to expect you, Ms. Dubois. Isn’t he a wonderful man? And those dogs of his are just scrumptious. Follow me and I’ll show you the place.”
The long-limbed dynamo led us through a maze of cables, curtains, and equipment. She paused patiently at a metal fire door, waiting for us to catch up.
“Here we go,” she finally said, pushing through to a long, carpeted hallway. “Back here we have our dressing rooms and offices.” She pointed to a line of mostly closed doors along the hallway. “If you’ll wait right here, I’ll see if—”
Right beside me, a door with a silver star on it suddenly jerked open and Phyllis Chatsworth charged out.
“Watch out,” she said, nearly knocking me over.
“Oh, Mrs. Chatsworth!” Heidi exclaimed. “I’d like you to meet two dear friends of Mr. Dewberry’s. This is Ms. Dubois and—”
Ignoring us completely, Phyllis Chatsworth addressed Heidi. “Did Simon get my e-mail about the bottled water?”
Heidi’s head bobbed. “I’m sure he did, Mrs. Chatsworth. I printed it out as a reminder and put it on his desk myself.”
“Well, there isn’t any water in my dressing room! The refrigerator’s empty, Heidi. Empty! And it’s been that way since before the taping started.”
“I’ll find out what happened—”
“I love the way you make sure my husband’s snacks are delivered like clockwork, but I have to wait for a few lousy bottles of water.”
“I assure you, Mrs. Chatsworth, I want to make you happy—”
“Then you tell Simon to straighten it out. Now. And while you’re at it, tell maintenance the overhead light in my bathroom has died. I don’t care if one of these guild bums has to work overtime for once. I want the light fixed today!”
Before the statuesque assistant could play doormat again, her “understanding, compassionate, and insightful” therapist boss slammed the door in our faces.
Sixteen
Madame and I squirmed during Phyllis Chatsworth’s cranky fit, but the nasty tone of the confrontation didn’t appear to dampen Heidi Gilcrest’s enthusiasm one iota.
“You can see how busy things get around here!” she chirped, lifting the receiver on a wall phone. “Let me buzz Simon, then we’ll continue our tour.”
A moment later another door with a star on it opened.
“What’s Phyl griping about now?” the male half of the Chatsworth duo garbled around a mouth stuffed with food. Then he noticed us and froze.
I have to admit, Dr. Chaz was even more striking up close. Still armed with easy charm and a ready smile, he also possessed a kind of natural elegance that even a pair of snack-stuffed chipmunk cheeks failed to diminish.
Stuck on the phone, Heidi mimed an apology to the doctor for not introducing us. Finding the situation amusing, Dr. Chaz crunched and crunched and finally swallowed his potato chips.
“Sorry about the food,” he said with a sheepish laugh. “I’m always ravenous after a taping. It’s the intensity of the show, I guess. Would you like one?”
Dr. Chaz offered the bag to Madame first.
“No thank you, Doctor. I prefer pommes frites!”
The doctor chuckled warmly at that. After I also declined the snack, he tossed the half-empty bag back into his dressing room and wiped his hands with a handkerchief, winking at us to dispel any awkwardness.
Madame introduced herself, then me, adding, “I enjoyed your show today, Doctor. I’m not able to watch every day, you understand, but I did especially like your episode on men who remarry but still love their first wives,” she said, shooting me a meaningful glance.