Feminine Governance

Interview Three

Interview ThreeNormally one is saddened to learn that the once blossoming career of an actress has come to an end. But no one seems to feel remorse for Ms. Cassandra Neville. Aspiring to higher levels of theater than cheesy soap operas, the rumors concerning her past have made great grist for the tabloid press and obviated more substantial roles... all casting directors well aware that viewer questions such as ‘Isn’t that the woman who...?’ can quickly overwhelm dramatic intent.

And so as the directors of the soap in which she has spent three years starring as an alluring mistress write her out of the script... stabbed by a jealous housewife... the malicious stories of her past preclude her from procuring other roles.

Once again the Bouvier influence proves to be useful. I gain access to the soap opera set. As a day of filming ends, Cassandra Neville remains hospitalized, her character clinging to life as the stab wounds refuse to heal. I suspect a forthcoming tearful scene in which the philandering husband visits her bedside as stubborn infection ends the role and thus the career of an otherwise glamorous actress.

Cassandra Neville emerged from nowhere five years ago and quickly gained notoriety in the role of Asian temptress. Long dark hair, almond eyes, perfect English with just a tinge of Chinese accent, she proved to be the s****l antagonist the typical female viewer envisions as wrecking the home of Donna Reed, wickedly enticing the wayward husband into furtive rendezvous of unbridled fornication.

But as her stardom rose, so did the interest of the tabloid press. With a paucity of authentic background information available, Cassandra Neville’s bio was open for invention... a sort of ‘fill in the blank’ undertaking on the part of squalid reporters with questionable talent.

Born Ling Wong, age 28, immigrating to the Untied States from Hong Kong, all else uncovered on the internet cannot pass the criteria of certainty. Yes, with the tabloid feeding frenzy there are more questions than answers concerning the true curriculum vitae of Ling Wong.

“Cut!”

All tension begins to subside with the end of the day’s shooting. Cassandra Neville’s character will have one more day, possibly two. But as with all soaps, it is not a question of ‘if’ but instead ‘when’ the characters and new antagonists are spirited into the storyline.

Arising from the hospital bed, Cassandra is surprisingly scantily clad. A white hospital gown parts to flash smooth, olive skin and more curves then expected on an Asian woman of some five foot four inches. The crew mainly ignores the brief display of flesh, I suppose watching daily Ms. Neville ply her craft in any number of sultry scenes.

“A visitor, Ms. Neville,” a stage hand of apparent seniority leaning to whisper in her ear and point to me.

The head turns, the almond eyes focus and I understand the initial selection of the casting director in engaging Ms. Cassandra Neville... aka Ms. Ling Wong... in the role of stealing the hearts of husbands. She is incredibly photogenic.

Ms. Neville approaches, her practiced walk bringing an alluring sway to hips and buttocks sculpted to perfection. The stage hand, I am sure, not detailing the Bouvier’s financial interest in the main sponsor of the soap, probably just utilizing the letters ‘VIP’ in assuring her attention. With her role on the cusp of extinction, Ms. Neville knows to be courteous. Only one scripted paragraph separates her career from an untimely demise.

“I am Elizabeth Bouvier, Ms. Neville,” extending my hand.

She smiles and nods, offering her hand in return.

“I have heard of the name... in the business press. I have made it a point to stop reading the lifestyle pages.”

The wry smile reveals her awareness of the sordid stories... her avoidance understandable. I have learned that in dealing with the egotistical persona of the stage attention must be gained.

My arsenal can offer a five hundred pounder from the start.

“All those nasty stories of you being a dominatrix. Tsk. Tsk. Must be tiresome for you.”

As this is a subject she cares not to broach before the dozen or so remaining film crew, she will quickly shepherd this VIP into seclusion.

“My dressing room is this way, Ms. Bouvier,” her smile quickly waning.

She walks. I follow.

Yes, she is a temptress, gathering the hospital gown such that much feminine charm flashes with each step. I envision her bare feet in knee high leather boots, the hand grasping the folds of the gown instead donning a whip. Whereas stories in the tabloid press are rife in number but vaguely licentious, the internet blogs are pornographically blunt. Posted are supposedly true life monographs which chronicle being dominated by a television starlet, her name chivalrously not used. But more malicious readers have ascribed the anonymous but allegedly true tales to her.

The malignancy has metastasized to where the writers of the soap opera have fictionally placed her on her deathbed, her image for nastiness exceeding that mandated in playing the role of seductress. The rumors divert instead of augment the interest of viewers.

“Most of our visitors are fans... of the production. Not expressing... shall we say interest... in alleged off screen activities.”

We reach her dressing room. Surprisingly modest, I note that much has been packed in boxes. An opened envelope from some law firm rests prominently on her dressing table... the legal entanglements of the stars...

“No leather garments... no whips... no chains,” she whimsically offers in response to my roving eye. “I do not mix hobby with business.”

She sits letting the hospital gown fold open. Her breasts are perfectly proportioned, not large, not small, but engagingly firm. She is comfortable in exhibiting herself.

“Cigarette?”

I decline. She lights.

“I allow myself one per day... after the wrap.”

She sits back, the gown completely falling from her shoulders to expose all to the waist. Yes, she is well cast, a male visitor would be entranced... tempted. She inhales then tilts her head back to blow a lungful of grayish blue smoke into the room air.

“I’ve done women, if that’s where this is going to lead,” her voice calm.

“You’re blunt. I have wondered why you have not set a pack of mongrel lawyers on the myriad of specious internet sites which disparage your reputation. Not so specious in reality?”

She nods, her look one of calm and confidence.

“It’s coming to an end. My character is about to die of a rapidly spreading, incurable staph infection. The rumors are so many they cannot be separated from the facts at this point. Sorting out who I whipped and when would be self defeating. Though I would love to bring a taste of reality to those who allegedly felt the sting of my crop. I’d like to offer to make their fantasy account authentic. Such fun I’d have.”

A brazen admission, confirming what I have learned. She dominates indeed!

“Well, Miss Neville, I’m not of that ilk... no one ‘does me’. Of late, I have more of a penchant to do others.”

“Really, Ms. Bouvier. A person of your social rank? Such wickedness,” she muses.

I smile, pausing as Ms. Ling Wong extinguishes nearly half of her cigarette.

“I keep the nicotine to a minimum. Everything in moderation.”

“Everything? The stories about you abound with excess.”

She chuckles.

“The stories, true or untrue, have ended my career.”

“I have seen your work. Perhaps it is time for a new role. One more aligned with your... ‘hobby’.”

I divulge my intent, the offered remuneration attractive even to a well paid actress. And in exchanging thoughts I learn that in engaging in her so termed hobby, Ms. Ling Wong is far from being a dilettante.

I have the right woman.