Easy on the Eyes (3 page)

“No need for false modesty, Tiana. You’re America’s Sweetheart. Queen of tabloid news.”

For a moment, I can think of absolutely nothing to say. Is he paying me a compliment? Even if in a roundabout way?

Then I see his expression. Michael’s making fun of me.

Embarrassed, I snap the cap on the tube of lipstick, toss it into my makeup bag, and zip it closed.

What a jerk. He’s such a jerk. Michael O’Sullivan personifies everything I despise.

One of the
LKL
production assistants retrieves us from the green room and escorts us to the studio’s soundstage. As we walk, I smooth my
skirt and tug down the fitted knit jacket. Bronze is supposed to be a good color for me— brings out the gold in my eyes— but
only now do I remember it’s not a great color for the
LKL
set.

Oh, hell.

Suddenly I’m exhausted. The twelve-hour flight has caught up with me. I should be home showering and getting ready for bed.
I should be anywhere but here, getting ready to spar with Michael O’Sullivan on
Larry King Live
.

On the set, the sound technician runs the microphone cords up beneath our jackets and clips the head to our lapels. Larry
had been going over some notes, but seeing us, he walks over to shake Michael’s hand and give me a kiss on the cheek.

“We just got word that Jenna’s not going to be on tonight,” he says. “Her lawyer advised her not to do it, so it’s going to
be just the three of us and then we’ll open the phone lines.”

“Great.” I muster a smile. “We’ll still have a good show.”

Larry wags a finger at me. “Working too hard again? You’re looking tired.”

Ouch. Two hits tonight. I’m aging and I look tired. My God, these men are brutal.

“Too much fun in Paris,” I say, fighting for a cheeky smile, projecting as much youthful zest as I can. “Probably should have
slept on the way home instead of working all through the flight.”

“Good trip, though?” Larry asks as we take our seats on the stools around the set table.

“It was great.” I catch Michael’s arched eyebrow and turn my head away. His picture should be next to the definition of “annoying”
in the dictionary.

The technician steps over to adjust my mike. Someone else powders Larry’s nose and smoothes down a stray hair. Michael just
sits there in his dark suit, cool as a cucumber. I bet the man doesn’t even sweat. He’s probably Botoxed his armpits to keep
from perspiring.

A minute until we go live.

Larry chats with Michael about his wife and their plans for the holidays. He wants a white Christmas and cozy fire. She wants
beaches and sun and time by the pool.

I can’t believe the holidays are already approaching again. Is Thanksgiving really just a week away?

Thirty seconds until we go live.

As a kid, I loved Thanksgiving. I don’t anymore. I hate being alone on Thanksgiving, but even worse is crashing Shey’s family
celebration like an orphan. An orphan…

Fifteen seconds.

I take a deep breath, sit straighter, shoulders squared.

Ten seconds. Larry smiles at me. I smile back. Piece of cake.

Five seconds.

Michael leans toward me. “If you need any recommendations for a good plastic surgeon, just call me. I’ll get you squared away.”

And we’re live.

Asshole.

I
leave the building, shoulders slouched, absolutely exhausted.

That
was a disaster, I think, unbuttoning the top button of my jacket and exhaling hard.

Michael made mincemeat of me. I don’t know how he did it, either. He’s never bested me before. Maybe I didn’t feel enough
sympathy for Jenna Meadows. Maybe I was preoccupied with Glenn’s devastating news. But still, I’m a professional. I can’t
lose focus, not on national TV.

I drive home without seeing anything, drive lost in my world of disbelief. First Glenn drops his bomb and then Michael pummels
me. Ridiculous.

Hard to believe that only two days ago I returned from Paris and felt as if I were on top of the world. Now here it is Thursday
night and I’m facing what? Unemployment?

Fighting panic, at the next red light I text Shey in New York to see if she’s still awake: “
R u up?
”

Shey is one of my closest friends, and we go way back, all the way to our high school days when we met in boarding school
in Monterey County. Back then we were the Three Amigos. It was Shey, Marta, and me. And we were tight, really tight, and we
still are, although due to the fact that we live in separate corners of the country, we don’t see as much of each other as
we’d like.

My phone rings almost immediately. It’s Shey. Shey’s a former model and co-owns Expecting Models, an agency in Manhattan devoted
to pregnant models and new-mom models. She still models from time to time, and she deals with image all the time. I think
she’d relate to my conflicted feelings.

“Tell me I didn’t wake you,” I beg her, knowing that as I am the only unmarried left, we have very different schedules and
demands.

“It’s not even ten here, sugar, and I’m a night owl,” Shey drawls into the phone, her Texas accent still present, although
not nearly as strong as it was when she arrived at St. Pious as a willowy sixteen-year-old. “How are things?”

“Crazy busy.” I hesitate, dig my nails into my Jaguar’s leather steering wheel. “And just a word of warning, I’m pissed off,
so you’re going to hear me rant.”

“Has Marta already been subjected to the rant?”

“No, I called you first. Marta won’t be sympathetic, not to this.”

“Ah, it’s about your love life then.”

“No, although that needs help, too.” I pause, searching for the right words. “It’s my face.”

She smothers a laugh. “What’s wrong with your face?”

“
Exactly.
” Hard to believe I’m even having this conversation and I clench the steering wheel tighter. “There’s nothing wrong with my
face and I think it’s bullshit, absolute bullshit, that they’re even pulling this on me.”

“Who? What?”

“The studio heads. They want to promote Shelby to co-anchor.” Just saying the words aloud makes me sick.

She hesitates. “Isn’t Shelby the host for the weekend show?”

“Yes, and she apparently has phenomenal ratings.”

Another hesitation, and this coming from Little Miss Ray of Sunshine. “How are yours?”

“Not so good.” I take a deep breath. “And Glenn didn’t come out and give me any specifics other than Shelby’s young and fresh
and high energy.”

Shey is quiet a moment. “Maybe they just want to shake the format up, try something new after six years.”

“Maybe.”

“Or maybe they don’t want to replace you but they want a younger, fresher you.” She seems to be choosing her words with care.
“Have you considered that this might be their way of telling you it’s time to get some work done?”

I never thought of it quite like that. But it’s possible. I’m not wrinkly, but my face is softer than it used to be. I’ve
noticed at certain angles there’s definitely a bit of a droop near my mouth. If I’m smiling it’s not a problem, it’s just
when I’m caught without expression. “I don’t suppose they could come out and say get a face-lift, or else.”

“It’d be illegal, and discriminatory, but it might be what’s behind the drop in ratings.”

“No way. People aren’t that shallow. My viewers tune in for me. They’re women like me. They can’t expect me to never age—
”

“Oh, sugar,” she interrupts softly, “you of all people can’t play ostrich.”

“What does that mean?”

“You know what it means. It means you’re in an image business and image is king. It always has been, always will be.”

“So you think I need work done?” I demand belligerently.

“As a woman? No. As a friend? Never. As one of America’s most watched faces? Maybe.”

“No!”

“TV, media, magazines, it’s all a numbers game. Ratings equal advertisers. Advertisers equal profitability. Profitability
equals livelihood. I’ll tell you the same thing I tell my models— you do what you’ve got to do to stay alive.”

I exhale, hard. So it’s not my imagination. Those droops do show. People are noticing. How infuriating because I don’t
feel
old. I don’t feel droopy or flabby. I feel amazing. At least I felt amazing. “A face-lift?”

“Not a full lift, sugar. Maybe just the eyes, and some filler to soften the lines around your mouth and plump the hollows
beneath your eyes.”

Idling at yet another red light, I snap down my visor and open the mirror to inspect my reflection. I frown. Hard. A few lines
appear around my eyes, but nothing significant. “But it’s not absolutely necessary, is it? I don’t look bad— ”

“Of course you don’t look bad. You’re Tiana Tomlinson, and you’ve been in
People
magazine’s ‘Most Beautiful People’ issue how many times? Three?”

“Four,” I correct in a small voice. “And the last time was just two years ago— ”

“But you and I both know that two years is a long time in this business. And face it, Tits,” Shey says, using my high school
nickname, Tits, short for Tiana Irene Tomlinson, “highdefinition TV has changed the game. Until recently, great makeup and
lighting camouflaged a multitude of sins, but not anymore. Every wrinkle, every pimple, shows. I’m going through this with
my models. It’s not just you.”

I’d love to argue, but I can’t. I am where I am because of my face. My curiosity, tenacity, and smarts made me a good journalist.
But it was my photogenic properties that propelled me to bigger and more successful networks, eventually resulting in my current
position. Sad as it sounds, Max wouldn’t have found me appealing on Keith’s casket if I weren’t attractive.

“Tiana, if that’s what the studio is saying, I’d listen.” She hesitates. “Unless you want out?…”

Out? Out to where? Out to what? I’m thirty-eight and single. All I have is my career. Since Keith died I’ve poured myself
into my work, and I love my work. I live for my job. It’s who I am.

My phone beeps. I’ve got an incoming call. I check the name and number. Max. “Shey, it’s my agent to give me more doom and
gloom.”

“Talk to him and call me later if you want to chat some more.”

I hang up on Shey to take Max’s call as I pull up in front of my house. “It’s got to be upsetting, doll,” Max says.

I sit outside my house, engine still running. There’s not much curb appeal to my house, other than the trailing hot pink bougainvillea,
but the facade isn’t the appeal. It’s what lies on the other side of the exterior wall that I love: 3 bedrooms, 2.5 baths,
1932 Mediterranean-style home with high-pitched beamed ceilings, wood-burning fireplace, terraces and balconies on a secluded
woodland lot with views of the city and canyon. I fell in love with the house the moment the agent opened the front door.
Unfortunately it’s always so empty once I step inside.

“Upsetting is putting it mildly,” I answer tightly, feeling so angry and yet unable to articulate any of it. I’m not good
at expressing my feelings. I’m a doer, not a dreamer. If I want something, I go for it. And I have gone for it, heart, mind,
body, and soul. I worked night and day to make
America Tonight
a top-rated show. How can that suddenly mean nothing? How can I suddenly be worth so much less?

“But you know nothing’s done, no decision has been made. You said Glenn was just testing the water.”

I put the car into park, turn off the engine. My street’s narrow and dark without my headlights. My head aches and I press
my fist to my temple to stifle the pain. “I don’t want to share the job with anyone. It’s
my
job,
my
show.”

I realize that sounds arrogant, but I’m on call 24/7. When I’m not taping a story, I’m researching, writing, following up
on leads. And when it’s not
America Tonight
–related, I’m usually speaking somewhere to some group. My speaking schedule just gets busier, too. Everyone wants to hear
my story, how I’m a veritable phoenix from the ashes.

People can’t get enough of my life story. American girl achieves the American dream. Only I’m not your typical American girl.
My father was American, but my mother was South African, and I was raised in South Africa. It’s where my mom and dad settled
after they married. It’s where home once was.

But the public knows nothing about my childhood. They just see the face on TV, hear the accent I’ve developed, and they embrace
me. I could be them. One day I was just a lifestyle reporter for a paper in Tucson, and then months later I was host of a
new national television show. That’s the Cinderella story the public loves, rags to riches, nobody to somebody.

“If it does come to job sharing,” I continue flatly, “I don’t want to share the job with a woman ten years younger than I
am who will just make me look even older by comparison.”

“That’s a good point. But it sounds like they’re serious about improving the ratings— ”

“Oh, they are. I don’t doubt that. But there have to be other options. We haven’t even discussed those. Glenn didn’t seem
interested in those. But I suppose I could look into getting some work done.” My voice cracks. “Or we could bring on a co-host
who’s not a younger woman. Maybe we bring on a younger man. All I know is, it can’t be Shelby. I can’t lose my job to my protégée.”