Always Young and Restless: My Life On and Off America's #1 Daytime Drama

By Melody Thomas Scott, Dana L. Davis and Camille Paglia

The renowned actress who played Nikki Newman on The Young and the Restless opens up about her sixty-year career in this scintillating memoir.
Melody Thomas Scott admits she is nothing like her character on The Young and the Restless, who's seen it all in her forty-year tenure on America's highest-rated daytime serial. But there's plenty of drama beyond her character's plotlines. In this captivating memoir, Melody reveals the behind-the-scenes saga of her journey to stardom and personal freedom.
As Nikki went from impoverished stripper to vivacious heroine, Melody underwent her own striking transformation, becoming a household name in the process. Raised by her abusive grandmother, Melody acted in feature films with Alfred Hitchcock, John Wayne, and Clint Eastwood—and endured abuse of industry men before taking control of her life and career in a daring getaway move.
Melody shares all this, plus juicy on-and-off-set details of what it's like to be one half of the show's most successful supercouple, "Niktor." In witty, warm prose, readers meet the persevering heart of an American icon. Prepare to be moved by a life story fit for a soap opera star.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Aug 18, 2020
• ISBN: 9781635766899

Book preview

Always Young and Restless

Copyright © 2020 by Melody Thomas Scott

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Some names have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

For more information, email [e-mail]

Diversion Books

A division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

443 Park Avenue South, suite 1004

New York, NY 10016

www.diversionbooks.com

First Diversion Books edition, August 2020

Hardcover ISBN: 9781635766943

eBook ISBN: 9781635766899

Printed in The United States of America

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Library of Congress cataloging-in-publication data is available on file.

To Edward, Jennifer, Alex and Elizabeth

With all the love my heart holds

XO

CONTENTS

Always Young and Restless

FOREWORD

In this vividly engaging memoir, Melody Thomas Scott describes her adventures and triumphs as a child actor, as well as her horrifying experience of routine sexual abuse in ruthlessly careerist Hollywood. Fans of The Young and the Restless, where she has played Nikki Reed Newman for more than forty years, will find this turbulent backstory disturbing and fascinating.

For me, Nikki’s struggles symbolize perseverance and resilience, writes Melody. This tenacity is on striking display in Melody’s account of her guerrilla warfare with her harshly dictatorial grandmother amid a chaotic home environment of unspeakable squalor. In these harrowing scenes of defiant resistance, we instantly recognize the early origin of Nikki Newman’s valiant and indomitable spirit. Melody, with her Swedish immigrant ancestry, gave Nikki her own Viking hardiness and stoicism.

Daytime drama, which has alarmingly lost ground to talk shows and reality TV, descends from the great women’s pictures of studio-era Hollywood, whose extravagant flights of heightened emotion paralleled those of Japanese kabuki and Italian grand opera. This baroque style has received new respect through the revival on Turner Classic Movies of director Douglas Sirk’s 1950s films, such as Magnificent Obsession and Imitation of Life. TCM has also highlighted Elizabeth Taylor’s films from the same period, leading to long overdue tributes to her stunning power.

The classic soap opera style of deep emotion and dynamic theatricality is still flourishing in hit telenovelas throughout Central and South America. But on current US television, only four major soaps remain. Acting has also changed, with newer soap actors sometimes applying a cerebral methodology descending from the Group Theatre’s progressive social realism of the 1930s. But ironically, despite their overt commercial framing, it is soaps that are more genuinely populist, as resoundingly demonstrated by their international mass appeal.

Melody Thomas Scott may be the last great practitioner of the soap genre—unless and until a new generation of young actors picks up the torch. Melody accepts and celebrates the unique protocols of her artistic process: as she frankly admits, soaps exaggerate: "Our medium is often not based in reality." Soaps exist in their own universe of tangled relationships, simmering passions, and bruising conflicts. There are no final resolutions: the lead characters marry a dozen times, and even the dead can return from the grave!

In the glory days of Hollywood, the superstars did not disappear into their roles. On screen, they maintained a subtle channel of communication between their real selves and the audience, for whom they acted as proxies and surrogates in film after film. When Melody writes of craving a life in front of the camera, she is defining the magic territory she inherited from her primary precursors, Elizabeth Taylor and Lana Turner, whose emotional purity, clarity, and simplicity were gifts that cannot be taught. As a bonus, Melody is also a deft comedienne, a master of priceless double takes.

With Eric Braeden’s broodingly magnetic Victor Newman, Melody belongs to one of the most glamorous and charismatic super-

couples in television history. Yet on camera, with her luminous, watchful gaze, she retains a heroic solitude, a legacy of her painful past. This book movingly chronicles a dual metamorphosis: the transformation of both a hard-working actor and her impish TV persona into the gracious, genial grande dame of today.

—Camille Paglia

PART I

THE

BEGINNING

1

I’M NOT ACTUALLY

STARTING AT THE BEGINNING

We’ll begin with my fortieth anniversary party. (Because who doesn’t love a good party?) I’d spent forty years playing Nikki Newman and a grand celebration was being planned. I should probably mention that no one on the show had ever officially celebrated forty years before I did. Doug Davidson, who plays Paul Williams, has been around for longer than I have; but, choosing to celebrate the milestone privately, his anniversary passed quietly.

Not mine. I’ll always jump at a chance to celebrate something special. Spending forty years as a part of CBS’s The Young and the Restless was indeed very special. And so I wanted this to be quite an event—which is exactly what it turned out to be.

I have heard, in roundabout ways, that some people who don’t know me very well will come to one of my parties (I do like to throw them) and expect to see a scene out of the Lifestyles of The Rich and Famous. A glamorous event with only the upper echelon—actors, celebrities, that sort—in attendance. Perhaps they might find glamour, but they’ll also find something quite normal. Regular people, my personal, non-show biz friends. Which makes me smile. Because normal is something I’ve been searching for my whole life.

The anniversary party was attended by so many of the people I love and adore. Sure, the actors and celebrities were there, too. But there were also former crew and cast members, make-up artists, hair stylists, old friends, people I hadn’t seen in years. Each and every person in attendance had a connection both to The Young and the Restless and to me.

Like Diane Davis. You might not know who she is, but Diane was my longtime agent who sent me on the audition for Nikki back in 1979. And Bob Olive. Bob was my very first personal publicist, back before I even knew what a publicist did. Without him, it would’ve been a very different story—you probably wouldn’t be holding this book right now and I certainly wouldn’t be celebrating, at last, finding my normal.

Now don’t think for a second that normal means boring. I believe in his speech that day, my beloved co-star Eric Braeden called me obstreperous. (Confession: I had to look it up in the dictionary. It means noisy and difficult to control. But I would have to respectfully disagree on both counts!) I think what my dear, cherished friend Eric was trying to call me, at least I hope, is unpredictable. Guilty as charged . . . I am, after all, the girl who stabbed Clint Eastwood with a needle—but I’ll get more into that later.

I think perhaps people see me and think of Nikki. They see a fluffy blonde from Hollywood. They think I’m pampered. Spoiled. That I have an air of importance. A nose pointed toward the sky. But I think my longtime Southern buddy, Bob Caudle, said it best during his speech at the party. He told the story of how he took me fishing shortly after meeting my husband and me in North Carolina for a charity function. He didn’t think I could catch a fish. Honestly, he probably thought I was more worried about breaking a nail. But on his boat, on lovely Lake Gaston, with a bottle of bourbon, I caught more fish than Bob did!

This is my normal. Traditional and grounded, sure. But fun. Normal for me is real connection. Normal for me is so much more than playing Nikki Newman or being a Hollywood actress.

The closing of my fortieth anniversary celebration would bring me to the microphone. Speeches aren’t easy. And before you say, But you’re an actor!: know that it’s not the same. When I’m in front of a camera I become someone else. But giving a speech, I’m myself, baring my soul. That’s a horse of a very different color. I fretted about what I would say for weeks, because I knew I wanted to speak my truth. For the first time, I was ready to tell my story to my coworkers, my friends, my loved ones of so many years.

It was the story of how I found my way home. Crazy or not. Good or bad. Obstreperous? Not really . . . But unpredictable? Oh, absolutely. My fortieth anniversary party was a beautiful celebration that afforded me a platform to say thank you to all of those who have helped and blessed me along the way. But most importantly, it gave me the courage to finally open up and share the hurt, the pain, the near-death experiences (Oh yes, I’ve had them too). And now I am ready to share my story again.

With each and every one of you.

2

CHAIRWOMAN OF THE HOARD

Igrew up in a house where the dust was so thick you could measure it—literally. I’d guess that it was a quarter of an inch or more. The kitchen floor would be sticky from spilled RC Cola and food debris, discolored from years of foot and paw traffic. The carpet was so filthy and embedded with animal hair that you could practically dig through it. Sure, we had a vacuum cleaner, but nobody ever used it. There was no order; furniture was strewn about and hundreds, perhaps thousands, of newspapers were stacked on the dining room floor. The table was overflowing with dirty dishes, dried food, and old, discarded packages.

Sometimes out of sheer disgust I might attempt to clear space in the kitchen. The roaches would scurry as I filled the sink with soapy water. The dining room table would be littered with so many dirty dishes, molded food, and trails of ants approaching from each and every direction that you could hardly see an inch of the tabletop. Besides, it wasn’t as if anyone cared about my pitiful attempts to clean. The mess would simply pile up again, bigger and more impenetrable than before.

The filth of my childhood home is quite the contrast to the one in Beverly Hills I share now with my husband of thirty-five years, and an even bigger contrast to the home Nikki Newman lives in on Larkspur Trail where I will notice if even a tiny figurine is out of place. Now, back in the seventies, the term compulsive hoarding had not yet entered the popular lexicon. The home I lived in, with the roaches and the ants and the piles of trash and dirty clothes covering every square inch—it was simply called a big ol’ mess.

So imagine my shame.

I knew other kids weren’t living the way that we were. That caused me such pain. I longed for normalcy, but I knew we were anything but.

In the fall of 1956, my fifty-three-year-old grandmother was loading me up into our light-blue, Chevrolet Bel-Air sedan. Though she never allowed anyone else to sit behind the wheel, she certainly should have. Even now, I can remember her driving over curbs, barreling over mailboxes, crashing into things, trash cans . . . animals. She was a terrible driver, but I’ll get more into that later. For now, she’s loading me up for our daily drive to Santa Monica High School. My real mother had transferred from her former high school to avoid the embarrassment of anyone discovering that she was a sixteen-year-old mother—this was the fifties, after all. She was forced into marriage by my grandmother (to right the wrong of my conception, I suppose), and was living with my father somewhere near Los Angeles.

Every day my mother waited despondently during her school lunch hour for our arrival. I can only imagine her tapping her foot impatiently, her arms folded under her chest, her green eyes rolling in tempered frustration until she saw that Chevy in the distance and was finally able to join us on the outskirts of the schoolyard, where we would park on an obscure side street. She’d jump into the car to quickly and discreetly feed me, while my grandmother supervised.

I remember the disconnect. I can vividly recall the way she held me, as if I were a chore, as if some sort of parasite were attached to her nipple, sucking the very life from her. She did not want me. She did not love me. Don’t ask me how I could understand and feel this at less than one year of age. I simply could.

This may be a good time to tell you that I have a rare gift/curse. A freakish memory, if you will. For instance, I clearly remember being a one-year-old. Two years of age? Yes. I remember that, too. I can remember events that happened when I was three as if they were yesterday. Ask me what scene I shot last week onstage at CBS and I may not be able to tell you. But ask me about my early childhood? I’ll tell you anything you want to know.

Though my grandmother took on the duty of raising me, she was just as disconnected and quite obviously discontented with my existence as my mother was. Please don’t imagine, even for a moment, that she was rocking me to sleep in a wooden chair on the porch, with a cool glass of lemonade at her side, while cookies baked in the oven. I don’t think that there was ever any love involved, or cookie baking, for that matter.

Every morning I would be dressed in beautiful, expensive clothes. A photograph or two would be taken with our Kodak Duaflex and then I would be left unattended. Alone, I would spend hours gazing up into an empty room from my crib. I grew accustomed to being cast aside without a parent. In fact, by the time I was three years old, I went out of my way to avoid interactions with my grandmother altogether. If I should happen upon her, roaming about the house, I would freeze, terrified of a possible misstep, knowing that what typically followed an accidental encounter was yelling and screaming. I often bore witness to her fits of hysterical rage. I wasn’t the only one who was afraid of her. But I was the youngest one.

I was raised by my grandmother but my grandfather was in the house too—somewhere. You’d typically find him hiding in the attic, in a corner of the room where there was just enough space to fit the beautiful mahogany bed frame that held his old, dirty mattress, fitted with a sheet that never got washed. Most everyone called my grandfather Pop, except for me. I didn’t call him anything, since we rarely spoke to one another. To me he was just that guy. So I was raised by my grandmother with an occasional appearance from That Guy upstairs. Uncle Sven was living in the house, too. He was fourteen years older than me, so we were raised somewhat like brother and sister. I’d say my family was akin to a less adorable version of the Munsters. Remember poor, sweet Marilyn living in a house of freaks who think she’s the hideous monster with all the problems? Well, I would’ve traded places with Marilyn in a heartbeat. Because in my grandmother’s house there were strict rules to follow.

For one, I was forbidden to eat peanuts, because they would make me grow tall, and I was a child actor who needed to look younger than I really was.

Raw potatoes needed to be thrown backwards over my left shoulder to rid myself of calluses and warts.

Melted butter had to be drunk from a large spoon over the toilet to cure my colds and sore throats.

Showers were not allowed.

Bathing was only reserved for special interviews and auditions, and later, sexual favors for industry men.

Chewing bubble gum would give me cancer, so that was also forbidden.

Driving to Culver City would result in our untimely death, so if there were meetings in Culver City, we had to take a series of city buses that would take us hours and hours.

And though there were many piano teachers in the Larchmont area where we lived, my piano lessons needed to take place in Fontana, a small desert town an hour outside of Los Angeles. Because of my grandmother’s fear of freeways, it would take us twice the usual time to make the lengthy trip, as she would deliberately limit her highway speed to a slow crawl.

In addition to her strange phobias and unexplainable life rules, I was required to keep my show business activities organized myself or else risk her wrath. She did purchase my clothes and costumes, but truly her only real job was to supervise me on sets and during classes, and drive us around town, while harping on something.

Why can’t you dance good? All the other kids dance good!

That was terrible singing!

Your voice is too high! You’re always whining!

Do you know how unprofessional you are?!

You looked like an IDIOT out there!

Stop smiling so much! Your teeth are crooked!

You know that girl hates you? She HATES you!

She would also teeter-totter between overstated expressions of love and hate. She would buy me mounds of toys and expensive clothes to show love, but then she’d berate me with harsh words and criticisms, flying into a rage, personally blaming me for her state of unhappiness, and purposely ruining my own moments of personal happiness. It all served to keep me off balance, anxious, nervous, and angry. I never knew what she might say or do, or why she would say or do the things she did. I began resenting her overbearing presence in my life, as I was never sure which version of her I would be forced to deal with on a moment-to-moment basis.

Fantasy was my escape. I taught myself to be present only in body. In mind, I would travel far, far away to a place where I felt safe. There was a favorite fantasy of mine: a bathroom prison. Now, to most people, the thought of a prison might not seem too enticing. But for me, prison was the only space I could imagine that would ensure I could be kept locked away and protected from her.

In my fantasy, I would calmly count the tiles on the bathroom floor while I sat beside a bathtub filled with magical oranges. Magical, in that every time I ate one, another would take its place. Oranges were my favorite food and in my fantasy of solitude, they would be endless. My grandmother could scream at me until her tongue fell out. None of it could affect me. I was safe, counting tiles