Easy on the Eyes (7 page)

And it is rather funny that I— who can do so much— can’t get dressed without help.

As the doorbell rings, I wonder what a weekend in Los Angeles without events would be like.

Two days without hair, makeup, wardrobe. Two days without cameras and paparazzi.

Opening the door, I welcome Shannon and take a couple of the garment bags slung over her arm. Shannon’s a tall, willowy redhead,
a former costume designer who understands fabric and fit, two things definitely beyond my scope.

The dresses are all beautiful, but there’s a clear standout, a fitted Grecian gown in an unusual hue, the color somewhere
between plum and eggplant, by designer Naeem Khan, topped by a stunning thick silver collar that’s so ornate it might have
been worn by an Egyptian queen.

Shannon’s zipping my gown, and the zipper sticks for a split second. “Suck it in,” she commands.

I do and the zipper goes the rest of the way up.

“You might want to step up your cardio,” Shannon suggests. “You’re putting on a little weight.”

So it’s not just my imagination. She’s noticed it, too. “I’m working out just as hard as I used to. Maybe harder.”

“You’re getting older. Metabolism slows. You’ve just got to cut back on the food.”

“I hardly eat as it is!”

“No one said being thin is fun.” She steps back, studies me. “I like it. What do you think?”

I pivot to face the full-length mirror and admire the way the dress hugs my curves and kicks out at the hem. “I love it.”

“The fit’s great and the color’s gorgeous on you. What about your hair? You’re leaving it down tonight?”

“I’ve got a blowout scheduled.”

“Good. Keep it simple. Just the bangle on your wrist, and the evening bag. Nothing else.”

“Got it.” I start to unzip the gown and then notice Shannon is still studying me closely, a frown creasing her brow. “What?”
I ask.

She hesitates. “Glenn’s assistant, Andrea, called me early last week. The show wants me to start working with Shelby Patterson.
Apparently she could use some help, too.”

I go cold and clasp the unzipped dress to my chest. “Did you say yes?”

“It’s good pay.” She gives me a quick smile. “But I’m still your stylist. There’s no reason I can’t dress both of you.”

She leaves with the extra garment bags, and I stand in my bedroom feeling naked although I’m fully clothed.

It’s a familiar feeling. I’ve felt it at numerous times before.

Keith’s funeral.

Arriving at St. Pious in Northern California at sixteen.

My first day at Epworth, the boarding school my grandmother sent me to one week after my family died.

But of all days, that day at Epworth was the worst. Epworth is in Pietermaritzburg, Natal, the most English of South Africa’s
four provinces. I’d never been to a boarding school before. I’d never even gone to public school or worn a uniform in my life.
But there I was, still cut and bruised from the accident, in a shapeless blue cotton dress two sizes too big, wearing white
ankle socks and black Mary Jane shoes. I was a week shy of fifteen and dressed like an orphan. But then I was an orphan, and
my only living relative had just dropped me off at this strange boarding school, even though I’d just lost my parents and
sisters days before.

I cried for months in my narrow Epworth bed, my pillow over my head to muffle my sobs.

I missed my mom and dad, missed Willow and Acacia, missed our farmhouse in Stellenbosch, missed being home-schooled by our
mother, missed my father at the kitchen table, grading papers.

Missed everything. Missed everyone. Missed me.

That me, that innocent me, died with everyone else that day, and it’s never come back. That me, that little girl, died in
that car crash, too.

I blink and tell myself I can’t feel sad, can’t feel bad, can’t change the past. Life happens. Even when we don’t want it
to.

So I do what I’ve done for years— smash back the memories, smothering the feelings and needs, and focus on what needs to be
done. And as always, there’s so much to be done. Appointments, fittings, meetings, tapings, appearances. Being Tiana Tomlinson
is a full-time job.

Baby gift in the backseat of the car, I race to my blowout at Neil George, then head straight to Shutters Hotel in Santa Monica
in the festive beach casual attire requested for the baby shower brunch. I had no idea what festive beach casual meant, but
Shannon assured me that the outfit she selected (slim white pants, orange silk tunic with red, orange, and gold embroidery
accents, and pretty gold sandals) would be chic and fun.

Fun is big right now, because I dread, dread, baby showers. I like them about as much as funerals and wouldn’t be attending
this one if Christie hadn’t asked me.

For years I had two best friends— Marta and Shey— but Christie’s snuck into my heart and managed to take up some serious real
estate there along with Marta, Shey, and their children.

Christie, an independent filmmaker, and I met four years ago at the Sundance Film Festival, and what was merely a business
connection has turned into a very close friendship. Christie isn’t just funny and authentic, she’s also unbelievably talented,
and I’m a huge fan of her documentaries. She also juggles motherhood and art like no one else I know.

Traffic is light heading toward Santa Monica, but it’s a traffic jam in front of the hotel as Shutters’ entrance is small,
snug, more like a house than a luxury hotel, and everyone seems to be arriving at once. Jaguars, Bentleys, and Rolls-Royces
jockey for position as valets take keys and move cars as quickly as possible.

I use the time to check messages. Madison has sent me a few e-mails updating me on my schedule for next week, and Marta wants
me to call her, as they’ve decided to reschedule Zach’s baptism for after the holidays and they need to know when I’m free.
I move from e-mail to my voice mail, and as I listen to messages I flip down the visor and open the lighted mirror to examine
my face.

I have an oval face framed by thick chestnut brown hair, delicate arched eyebrows, good cheekbones, no lines at my mouth,
the faintest of creases near the eyes. But there is a hint of a shadow between my eyebrows that could use a Botox touch-up.

What else? I frown at my reflection and then squint and smile, and yes, there are faint lines on my forehead. Those probably
could use an injectible, too, but hell, it’s a face. It’s skin and muscle, and I’m not rushing out to Dr. Raj every other
day. I have a standing appointment every four months, and that’s enough.

Thank goodness it’s my turn to hand over my car keys. I scoop up the baby present wrapped in yellow polka-dot paper and tied
with an enormous yellow-and-white ribbon, take the ticket from the attendant, and head inside, wearing my favorite pair of
sunglasses, a huge black Jackie Onassis style that covers half my face.

A blonde, tan dynamo, Christie spots me right away and links her arm through mine. “Three cancellations all at the last minute,”
she whispers to me, “and twelve people who never even bothered to RSVP. What is that all about? Don’t people know what RSVP
means?”

“If you were Steven Spielberg, everyone would have RSVPed,” I say cheerfully, giving her a quick hug.

“Thanks. That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

“Thought so.” I grin. “Who’s everyone? Do I know anyone?”

“Brooke’s here, and Kate Beckinsale. Nancy O’Dell and Lindy Becker as well.”

“Good. I’ll go mingle. Let’s catch up later if we can.”

I join Lindy on the patio overlooking the ocean. Lindy hosts
Hello, Hollywood,
and over the years we’ve worked the red carpet together. We have our favorite shows. In terms of fun, we love the Golden
Globes, but the Oscars, not so much.

Lindy’s talking with a woman I don’t know. Not wanting to barge in, I take a moment to admire the view. Today the sky is one
of those rare perfect shades of blue that happen only when the Santa Anas blow or after a hard rain. It was breezy last night,
which explains this morning’s gorgeous blue sky. The water itself is darker, a murkier green blue that lightens in waves to
foamy white crests.

Having grown up in South Africa, I had a hard time getting used to the cold water off the California coast. The water off
the cape is incredible. While growing up, we went body boarding almost every weekend in the summer months, but I don’t swim
here.

Lindy spots me and interrupts her conversation to include me. “Tiana, do you know Eve Frishman? She’s a vice president over
at Sony TV? Eve, this is my good friend Tiana Tomlinson, host at
rival America Tonight
.” Lindy hits the word
rival
playfully hard.

I shake Eve’s hand. “It’s good to meet you. I’ve been hearing exciting things ever since your move to Sony.”

“It’s been busy,” Eve agrees, “but it’s a great fit for me.”

“You’ve been here four months now?” Lindy asks Eve.

“Almost six,” she answers. “Hard to believe. Time is moving so fast.”

“I know. I can’t believe how big my little girl is getting. She’s not a baby anymore.”

Eve looks at me. “Do you have kids?”

“No.” Somehow it seems so inadequate. I always wanted kids. I never thought I’d be thirty-eight and widowed and childless.
I came from a family of three. Keith and I had wanted children, too.

“That’s okay,” Eve says kindly. “Motherhood can be overrated. Not every woman has to have children.”

Eve’s trying to smooth things over, but she doesn’t know how much I want a full house, a big family, noise and love and chaos
when I come home. “I do want kids. It just hasn’t happened yet.” My face feels warm, I feel warm. My tunic now sticks to my
back and grows tight across my shoulders. “It’s just turned out harder than I expected.”

“Don’t give up,” Eve says.

“I won’t,” I answer jovially, when on the inside I’m screaming because I never planned to lose everyone I loved. I never wanted
to lose my family and then my husband. I never wanted to be afraid to love again, or need again, or feel safe with someone.
It was hard enough trusting life to fall in love with Keith, but then to lose him, too… it’s absurd. Beyond absurd.

A woman in a white pantsuit comes up to speak to Eve, and Lindy takes my arm and draws me a few steps away. “I heard there’s
an opening on your weekend show,” she whispers, her voice low. “Do you know who’s leaving?”

They’re advertising Shelby’s job? I swallow hard, rattled all over again, and smile. It’s how I cope with everything. Smile
and pretend to be serene when on the inside I’m all pins and needles. No wonder I have problems sleeping.

Christie saves me from having to answer. She comes up behind me and grabs me by the waist. “Can I steal Tiana?” she asks.
“I’ve got somebody I want her to meet.”

Thank you, God.

I say good-bye to Lindy and walk with Christie back inside, whispering on the way, “You saved me, girl. I was dying back there.”

“Too much mom talk?” she guesses, squeezing my hand. She’s mom to three, and I’ve spent plenty of weekends at her house in
Laguna Beach attending recitals, birthday parties, and bat mitzvahs. “You’ll get your baby,” she adds with another quick squeeze.
“It’ll happen.”

That might have been my concern a week ago, but suddenly babies and my ticking clock are less relevant than keeping my job.
“Lindy told me
America Tonight
is looking for new talent,” I tell her as we approach a young brunette.

“Whose job is on the line?”

“I think it’s mine.”

“What?”

I nod. “We’ll talk later.”

Christie swallows her shock and introduces me to Liv, a pretty woman in her early twenties who has worked for Ashley Judd
for the last year as her personal assistant.

“Liv,” Christie says, “Tiana is the best news reporter in this business, and I know she’d be interested in hearing more about
Ashley’s involvement with YouthAIDS. I know Ashley’s been the global ambassador since 2002, but I don’t think the rest of
the world knows how active Ashley’s been with them. Maybe you can fill Tiana in?”

I look at Christie, and my heart just brims over. This is why I love the girl. She’s always thinking of others, always looking
out for me. In a world that can be callous and self-absorbed, Christie is a breath of fresh air. She’s sunny and strong. She’s
creative and brave, and she’s the first one to open a door, especially if it’s for another woman, and for Christie I would
do anything. For Christie I’d drive three hours in traffic just to watch her youngest dance for three minutes.

Two hours later, the shower winds down and Christie walks me to the lobby. “So, what’s this about your job? I haven’t been
able to stop thinking about it since you told me. What’s going on?”

“I don’t know. It all just happened Thursday. Glenn pulled me into his office to talk about adding Shelby as a co-host to
my show. He said my ratings are down, hers are up, and they’re hoping she can lift my ratings.”

Christie winces. “Ouch.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Is she good? Would she make a good co-host?”

I shrug. “She’s dedicated. She’s already had her eyes done.”

“How old is she?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Is that scary, or what?” Christie just shakes her head in disgust. “The industry’s soulless.”

“Unfortunately, the execs are proud of her for doing it. I think it’s what they want me to do.”

Understanding dawns. “They’re scaring you into getting a face-lift.”

“I know this happens,” I say as we step outside to give my valet slip to the attendant, “but I just didn’t expect it to happen
to me.”

We watch the valet run off to get my car. “I think that’s the problem,” she says after a moment. “We know intellectually we’ll
age, but we’re still surprised when it happens to us.”

That’s for sure. I honestly never thought I’d get old. My mother was thirty-eight when she died— my age now— and she’s forever
frozen in my mind as young, laughing, beautiful. Most children find their mothers beautiful, but my mom was a true beauty
queen who took second place at the international competition behind Miss Venezuela. My mother stopped men in their tracks.
But to me, she was always my mother, a mother who smiled, laughed, and chased us about the garden.