Paparazzo No. 2

One day last month, I abandoned my normal life and became a soap star.

Leaving Manhattan’s claustrophobic Pine Valley set behind, ABC’s “All My Children” packed up all its drama and headed to Florida to film the 10th wedding of Erica Kane (airing in episodes this week at noon on KXLY-4 in Spokane).

And in a well-crafted publicity stunt, ABC offered the chance for this mild-mannered entertainment reporter to take on the role I was born to play: myself.

Full disclosure: I’m no soap fan. I’ve never seen an entire episode of “AMC,” but I do know Erica Kane, the glamourpuss matriarch played with extreme sassiness by Susan Lucci. After that unprecedented Emmy losing streak, who doesn’t know her?

Kane has been married nine times, a mighty feat even in a soap. This special trip to the Sunshine State is in honor of her much-anticipated nuptials to Jackson Montgomery, the hunky lawyer with a heart o’ gold.

“This is the way it should be,” Lucci tells me. “This is how all the storytelling has been going. The fans have been clamoring for this for about four years.

“We had a near-marriage a couple of years ago that was stopped by Greenlee (Montgomery’s daughter) and the fans were so disappointed. This is a really a gift to the viewers.”

At first, details of my scene were sketchy. It entailed a group of reporters crashing the ceremony. I’d have lines.

Before leaving for Florida, the wardrobe department phoned me twice to insist I wear a light-blue top and khaki pants for my scene. I splurged on an enchanting turquoise shirt. Upon arriving, the staff fashionistas nix the threads – too bright. I’m ushered into the makeshift wardrobe area, a conference room lined with racks of clothes for each character. They toss me a cream-colored striped shirt to slip on under my blazer.

After becoming one with the “AMC” color palette, I saunter down to the set, where the ceremony is in full swing. The wedding party, wearing a color I later learn is buttercup, stands under a picturesque banyan tree. Visually, the ceremony is stunning – a perfect wedding that little girls dream of and grown women are rarely granted.

But this is a soap opera. I keep waiting for an amnesiac to show up or a fistfight to break out. After much starting and stopping and starting, the only drama comes when two cages of doves are released after the “I do’s.”

Just as I’m bordering on boredom, I finally receive my script. I plow through the handful of pages to find my lines, and I’m shocked. My character is referred to as “Paparazzo No. 2.”

Paparazzo?! I am a journalist!

No time for a temper tantrum, though, as I’m quickly introduced to Paparazzo No. 1, the beautiful and bouncy “Good Morning America” correspondent Marysol Castro.

The stage manager places Castro and me behind gold velvet ropes in a crowd of local Florida media, who will provide atmosphere by waving microphones and cameras and screaming “Erica! Erica! Erica!” behind us.

As a prop, I offer up the actual tape recorder I use to record actual celebrity interviews, but the stage manager informs Castro and me we’ll be given hand-held mikes bearing the call letters WRCW – Pine Valley’s local TV station.

I begin to wonder about my backstory: Where do I live in Pine Valley? How long have I worked for WRCW? Do I have an evil twin?

I quickly pocket my delusions. It’s time for my big moment. We run through the scene once with wedding party stand-ins. Then we do it a few times with Lucci and company.

“Were the Pine Valley wedding plans just a decoy?” Castro, aka Paparazzo No. 1, screams from afar as the wedding party departs the ceremony. “Was Oprah supposed to be maid of honor?”

“What do you say, Erica?” I snark. “Is the 10th time the charm?”

Damn, I’m good.

Kane doesn’t answer us. She merely smiles.

Kane and Montgomery share a long kiss. The actors are sent away and the director sends in a camera operator to capture close-ups of the paparazzi. Castro and I run through our scene again – and it happens.

I forget my line.

It’s a combination of not being able to hear Castro because of all the “Erica!” howls, and nerves from the camera lens being right in front of my face. I eventually get it right and we’re wrapped.

My blunder weighs heavy on my mind for the rest of the afternoon. This is no way to start my soap career. So I do what any self-respecting soap star would do: I go to the resort’s spa for a stone massage.

When I arrive back in New York, I call up Lucci as quick as I can because, you know, we’re co-stars.

“How did I do?” I ask.

“I thought you were very effective as Paparazzo No. 2,” she coos.

“But Susan,” I reply. “I’m a journalist.”