Easy on the Eyes (6 page)

“Hello,” I say, arriving at our table and bending down to kiss Celia’s cheek. “Sorry to keep you waiting.”

“No problem. I’ve had plenty to do.” Celia finishes her text, presses send, closes her BlackBerry, and looks up at me with
a smile.

Celia is beautiful. Jennifer Lopez meets Catherine Zeta-Jones beautiful. Tall, slim, olive skinned, with long thick, glossy
black hair, Celia has learned to work not just the red carpet, but life itself, and I admire her for that. She’s one of those
women with a take-no-prisoners attitude, and in that respect, she reminds me of Marta. Marta has never apologized for being
beautiful or brilliant, and maybe other women don’t always immediately warm to her, but she has confidence and peace. She
knows who she is, she knows what she is, and she’s good with that.

I’d like to have that kind of self-acceptance, but between the pressure of my industry, where everyone’s always judging and
criticizing, and my own inner demons that don’t let me forget what a bratty, self-centered kid I once was, it’s hard to feel
good about myself.

I know that growing up, all kids go through a bratty phase. But that doesn’t change the fact that I was at the height of my
hatefulness when my parents and sisters died. It doesn’t change the fact that for years, I secretly believed it was my hatefulness
that killed them.

I’m old enough now to know that’s just survivor’s guilt, but they did die without knowing the real me. They knew the selfish,
preoccupied me, the one who wouldn’t talk, the one who didn’t want to spend time with them, the one who expressed contempt
every time they opened their mouths and told me what they thought.

And this is the part that haunts me.

My parents were good people. Wonderful people. And they will never know how sorry I am for being selfish and treating them
as if they weren’t important.

They will never know that I’ve worked hard to become who I am to make up for who I was then.

I know I was just fourteen, but still, I was wrong to be rude and to always act so irritated with them. I was wrong to walk
away when my mom was talking to me and my dad was trying to explain things. I was wrong to tell them that I didn’t love them
and I couldn’t wait to leave home.

But I can’t even tell them that. Can’t even say sorry.

“Tiana, you okay?” Celia’s looking at me over her menu and her expression is concerned.

“What?” I say blankly, my chest tight and heavy. I’d still do anything if I could just make amends. I’d do anything to bring
them back. And I’d do anything to have them know I love them and miss them with all my heart.

Celia gestures at my face. “You’re uh, crying.”

Frowning, I reach up, feel damp lashes. So I am. I had no idea. I force a smile, the smile that makes the world think I’m
just so damn lucky and happy. “It’s the smog,” I say, nonchalantly wiping them dry. “I’ve had that problem all day.”

The waiter appears at our table to take the order, and once he’s gone, Celia’s thoughts are in a different direction. “I confess
I have an ulterior motive for meeting you tonight.” She looks at me, one black eyebrow arching. “I wouldn’t bring it up if
I weren’t concerned.”

“What is it?” I ask, wondering if this is about Trevor and the Paris stories.

“It’s your girl Shelby. Rumor’s on the street that she’s taking over your anchor chair the first of the New Year.” Celia pauses
to wave off the basket of bread the waiter has brought us. No point in having temptation sit on the table and stare you in
the face. “Didn’t know if there was any truth behind the talk or not.”

We both know there’s nearly always a kernel of truth behind gossip. Even if it’s a very small kernel, and in this case, it’s
not so very small. “She wants it, that’s for sure.”

“But it’s not hers?”

“Not as long as I have any say.”

“Do you have any say?”

I flinch. I’ve known Celia too long to object to the question, but it’s a hard one, and it further undermines my increasingly
shaky confidence. “I don’t see why I wouldn’t. I’m still the host. My contract’s not up until March.”

Celia looks at me for a long moment and then shakes her head. “Shelby’s hungry.”

“I know.”

“Be proactive. Don’t wait for the other shoe to drop. It’ll only get worse if you do.”

Dinner over, I drive home, park in the garage, and enter the house through the side door. I stand in the hallway off my kitchen,
clutching my briefcase. It’s so quiet.

It’s always so quiet.

For a moment I droop, fatigue rushing over me in waves. I can feel the weight of my computer in my briefcase, the hard adobe
tiles beneath my heels, the pinch of my thin, snug bra straps. Standing there, I can feel the quiet night like arms wrapping
me, holding me, and it’s suffocating. Suffocating and lonely.

Keith.

For the first time in a long time, I miss him. Badly.

If only he was here. He’d know the right thing to say. He’d give me a hug, and a kiss, and tell me that everything’s going
to be fine. He’d remind me that I have to be a fighter, and strong. And then he’d give me another hug, and kiss me and offer
to get me a glass of wine.

I try to smile but can’t.

I wish he was here. I could use some Keith Heaton advice. Keith was great at giving advice. Sometimes he gave a little too
much advice, and sometimes his advice was a little too black and white, but in the end, it’s what attracted me and kept my
respect. Keith knew what was right. And even though he was ambitious, he had this incredible inner moral compass. He was a
man who couldn’t be bought, couldn’t be had, and that’s a rare find in our society.

Throat aching, I walk slowly to the hall table and put down my briefcase and look around a house I bought for Keith and me.
Of course he was dead already, but I knew he’d love this house. I could see us in this house.

I kick off my heels, one and then the other, then shrug off my coat and drop it on the back of a living room chair. Even though
it’s almost Thanksgiving it’s a warm night, and I head for the French doors and push them open. The potted Meyer lemon tree
on the patio is in bloom, and the heady citrus scent perfumes the air.

It doesn’t happen very often anymore, but sometimes at night I dream Keith’s still here, still with me, and then in the morning
I wake and roll over, warm and happy, and it comes back to me. He’s gone and he’s never coming back.

Which is why I date and why I want to fall in love again. But Keith will be a tough love to replace.

He was beautiful— a blond Graeco-Roman soldier— and smart, so incredibly smart. I loved looking at Keith while he worked.
I loved looking at Keith when we were sitting having coffee and reading through a dozen papers every morning. I loved watching
him sleep, whether it was in bed or in his chair, where he wrote and edited. He was warm and self-deprecating, funny, heroic.
The only thing he feared was not getting the story right. Not getting the truth.

He taught me more than anyone else and in the shortest amount of time. After that meeting on the side of the highway, I didn’t
see him again for months, until we were seated across from each other at an industry awards dinner. We were both attending
the dinner with different people, and yet there we were, directly across from each other, and every time I looked up I somehow
caught his eye, and every time I did, I smiled.

I couldn’t help it.

There was something in his face, something gentle and intelligent, kind and loving, and the best way I can describe it is
think of the actor Greg Kinnear. He had that kind of face. Open and curious and yet most of all kind.

Kind. So very kind to me. So full of love, and God knows how much I needed it. How little I’ve had of it. How much I still
want it.

And here I am, in my beautiful little historic Mediterranean bungalow, alone. I’m so sick of alone. Which is why I’ve continued
dating Trevor. Even though he’s far away, and even though we’ll never be soul mates, he makes me feel that I matter. He fills
the time, if not the space. But he doesn’t challenge the memory of Keith. No one does, and I suppose I’ve liked it that way.
Keith’s memory is safe. No man who enters my life can compete.

But it does limit the personal life. It means that my home is quiet. It means that I live with ghosts instead of people. Makes
it tough to have a family. Or kids. Which I do want.

If only Keith had made me pregnant. If only he’d left me with a piece of him before he died.

Because I want a life that begins when I open the front door. I want voices here in my house. I want conversation and lights
and activity. Hugs. Talk. Laughter.

I want.

Catching myself, I turn around and head for the kitchen, where I open the stainless steel fridge door and take a look inside.
Two prepackaged meals delivered by In the Zone delivery, a Tupperware of trimmed radishes, celery, broccoli, and carrots,
a bottle of pomegranate juice, and an opened bottle of white wine.

I reach for the white wine and pour myself a tiny glass. Wandering out of the kitchen, I grab my phone and dial Trevor’s number.
It rings five times before kicking into voice mail.

“Trevor, it’s me. Just wanted to hear your voice before I went to bed.”
I want to hear someone’s voice before bed. I want someone to say good night to me, someone to say “I love you” to me.

But that’s not the relationship Trevor and I have. Ours isn’t love. It’s sex and passing time and keeping company. But that
has to count for something.

More brightly, I add to my message, “I’ll be up another half hour to an hour, so call me if you can. Otherwise I’ll talk to
you tomorrow. Night.”

I hang up, sip my wine, and look out the living room’s open doors to the sparkle of lights on the valley floor. I take a last
sip, finishing the minuscule amount I poured myself. I never drink too much because I don’t need the calories, but tonight
I want the taste. I want the warmth.

And there it is again. I want. Ah, the evils of wanting. I shouldn’t want.

I have more than most.

Except for love and family, I have everything.

The morning comes too early. I wake up and look at the clock. Six-fifty a.m. And then I remember it’s Saturday and I have
nothing to do until eight, when Dana, my trainer, arrives for my (ugh) workout.

I flop back down and tug the covers up higher, wishing I were starting the day without a workout. But there’s no room for
error here. Weight, face, and image must be perfect.

After ten minutes of not being able to fall back asleep, I roll over onto my stomach and reach for my BlackBerry, which has
been on the bedside table charging all night. After unplugging it from the charger, I check my calendar for my weekend schedule,
which I already know will be crazy busy.

8:00 AM Workout with Dana

9:15 AM Fittings with Shannon

10:00 AM Hair appt

11:30 AM Baby shower brunch thrown by pal indie film-maker Christie Hern at Shutters Hotel on the beach in Santa Monica

2–5 PM Pediatric AIDS fund-raiser hosted by producer Mel Savage and his wife, Meg, at their home in Brentwood

7–11 PM Political fund-raiser at the Getty with a pre-party at 6 hosted by CAA king Steve Lehman at his house for a hundred
of Steve’s closest friends.

I could possibly sneak out of attending the political fund-raiser— I already paid— they don’t need me physically there. But
the pre-party at Steve’s is important. Steve is one of Max’s closest friends and very dialed in, which means I have to go.
I’m there not for me, but to make my agent look good, so today wardrobe and hair really matter.

But then, I think, climbing from bed, when do I have a day when hair and wardrobe don’t matter?

Dana arrives at eight on the dot, arms full of stretchy bands and huge vinyl balls. She sets them down in the living room
and heads back to her car for her medicine ball, and I drag my stationary bike from the hall closet (this is L.A., we don’t
own a lot of coats) and unfold the treadmill that’s in the living room corner.

Back in my house, Dana swiftly shoves my sofa back and I move the coffee table and we have our workout space.

For the next sixty minutes, I do weights and reps between two-minute bursts of intense cardio. Sprints on the treadmill are
followed by a hundred lunges (seriously). Two minutes cycling as fast as I can at the hardest resistance I can bear is the
precursor to forty pushups. More treadmill and then squats with the medicine ball. More bike and then shoulder presses and
bicep curls and tricep kickbacks.

By the time she’s done with me, I’m sweating profusely and every muscle quivers. My legs shake as I push the bike back into
the closet and head for the shower. I’m still trying to recover when Shannon, my stylist, arrives fifteen minutes later.

Years ago, I learned the value of a good stylist after choosing my own evening gown to wear on the red carpet during the pre-award
interviews. I thought I looked beautiful and I felt like a princess in the salmon silk gown and with my hair curled. Instead
I ended up being horribly skewered by Joan and Melissa Rivers in their post-awards fashion roundup. They mocked me for looking
more like Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage than Cinderella herself. My dress was the wrong color, the skirt too full, the sleeves
too puffy, my hair beyond absurd. Apparently, I was the show’s fashion travesty. Didn’t I have a mother to dress me? Joan
asked.

I don’t, haven’t since I was a teen, but that’s not the point.

The point is, I don’t have good taste. There are women with an innate sense of style, but I’m not one of them. I now employ
a stylist for all appearances related to my position as host of
America Tonight
. Happily, it’s an expense Max got covered by the studio in my last contract, and that’s helped considerably. Best of all,
I haven’t been a fashion victim again, although Marta and Shey find it hysterical that I need so much help just getting dressed.
In my defense, unlike them, I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, which is why my bedroom is still white and my dream
of a terraced garden with a pool remains but a dream.