She was television's most famous virgin--and, as Aaron Spelling's daughter, arguably its most famous case of nepotism. Portraying Donna Martin on Beverly Hills, 90210 , Tori Spelling became one of the most recognizable young actresses of her generation, with a not-so-private personal life every bit as fascinating as her character's exploits. Yet years later the name Tori Spelling too often closed--and sometimes slammed--the same doors it had opened. sTORI Telling is Tori's chance to finally tell her side of the tabloid-worthy life she's led, and she talks about it all: her decadent childhood birthday parties, her nose job, her fairy-tale wedding to the wrong man, her so-called feud with her mother. Tori has already revealed her flair for brilliant, self-effacing satire on her VH1 show So NoTORIous and Oxygen's Tori & Dean: Inn Love , but her memoir goes deeper, into the real life behind the rumors: her complicated relationship with her parents; her struggles as an actress after 90210 ; her accident-prone love life; and, ultimately, her quest to define herself on her own terms. From her over-the-top first wedding to finding new love to her much-publicized--and misunderstood--"disinheritance," sTORI Telling is a juicy, eye-opening, enthralling look at what it really means to be Tori Spelling.

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A Bonus Story and Family Photo from Tori Spelling

The Manor

People are always asking about my parents' mansion, which they called the "Manor," but I don't really spend much time talking about it in sTORI Telling because I didn't grow up there. After demolishing Bing Crosby's former estate in Holmby Hills, a fancy neighborhood in west L.A., they spent six years building the Manor. It's about 46,000 square feet (slightly over an acre) and has 123 rooms. Not that I counted or measured. I got those figures from the press, just like everyone else. Anyway, we moved in when I was seventeen and I only lived there for two years. In some ways the house is like a normal house, but everything is on a bigger scale. It has four floors: the basement (which we call the "Lower Level," probably because that's its designation on the elevator) and the first, second, and third floors. The first floor has a kitchen, a breakfast room, a dining room, an office, a family room, a living room, and a projection room. There's a grand foyer with sweeping staircases on each side. Oh, and there's also a guards' room and the staff dining room. Everyone except fancy guests comes through the service entrance into a hallway with the guards' room and the kitchen. The kitchen is gigantic, and my fondest memory of it is from when I was twenty-one and had just moved back in after splitting up with a boyfriend. I came home drunk with some girlfriends, and we pillaged the two double-sized Sub-Zero refrigerators. There was always bulk food in there for the staff. We pulled out a big vat of chicken salad and a tub of peanut dressing, both of which looked like they'd been made for giants. Somewhere in the middle of our feast we decided to have a food fight, and the five of us started flinging food at each other. Soon we were covered in peanut dressing from head to toe and the pristine kitchen was a mess. Then we heard a ding, the elevator doors opened, and there was my mother. She stared at us in silent disbelief. I said, "We're going to clean it up!" She just said, "Mmm hmm," and left the room. I felt a surge of love for her in that moment. It took us hours to clean the kitchen, but it was worth it. That moment made it feel, for once, like home. --Tori Spelling