Easy on the Eyes (9 page)

“So how is he?” Max persists.

“He’s fine.”

“Yeah?”

What else does Max want me to say? What does everyone want me to say? Trevor is sexy. Trevor has gorgeous hair. Trevor has
a muscular body. Trevor has six-pack abs. And Trevor lives in London. He flies to L.A. every couple of months, but usually
it’s me doing the flying around, me putting the stress on my body. Truthfully, I’m tired. I’ve been tired for a long time,
and I’m not sure I can keep up this lifestyle. “Yeah.”

Max drums his fingers on the table. “You like him?”

Yes, I like him. But he’s not Keith. He’s definitely not Keith, and I want to find a Keith. Someone I can fall in love with
again. Someone I can believe in again. But I suppose to do that I have to stop dating men who live thousands of miles away.
“Yes, Max.”

“Good. When do you see him again?”

“I don’t know. As you’re aware, he’s on location in France. I work here. It’s not an easy commute.”

“So you’re going to leave him alone with Kiki?” Max asks shrewdly, knowing, as I do, that Kiki has a reputation for seducing
her co-stars.

“Max, I have a career, too. A career that might be in trouble— ”

“Yes, and Trevor’s good for you.”

What Max really means is that Trevor has upped my fair market value. I’m a hotter, more exciting commodity with Trevor attached
to my name.

So maddening. So L.A. But also so true.

Dinner is finally served at nine o’clock. Everyone has taken their places at our table save for two, and I’m delighted when
the salad course appears. I have never in my life been so happy to see field greens with beets and crumbled feta cheese.

The empty chair next to me scrapes back, and heads lift at our table, everyone pausing to welcome the final couple, Alex Frost
and his date— only Alex isn’t a man. Alex is a very tan, very sexy blonde, and Alex’s date is none other than Michael O’Sullivan.

Lightning, apparently, can strike twice. Lucky me. Alex takes the chair next to the gentleman on her right, leaving the chair
to my right empty, which means Michael and I are going to be sitting next to each other for the next couple of hours.

How is this possible?

I detest this man, yet he keeps turning up everywhere that I am. And of course his date, Alex Frost, is a voluptuous blonde
poured into a red beaded gown with a keyhole opening at the sternum, showing the firm magnificence of her breasts.

“I’m sorry we’re late,” Michael apologizes to the group as he helps Alex with her chair. “Alexis was paying homage to Jessica
Simpson’s hairdresser.”

Is he serious? Or is this a joke? But Alex beams. “I adore Ken Pavés,” she says.

I guess he was serious.

“She’s a huge fan of his work,” Michael says, grinning, as he sits next to me.

“We’re just glad you’re here,” says Irene, Max’s wife. “As I’m a huge fan of your work.”

Irene explains to the table that Michael is Dr. O’Sullivan, the renowned Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. “I owe everything
to Dr. O’Sullivan,” she adds, holding out a slim, bejeweled hand to Michael. “A couple years ago he gave me my pre-baby body
back, and then this year he erased the ravages of time.”

Max catches my gaze across the table and gives me a significant look.

He deliberately put Michael and Alex next to me. Max is hoping that by putting me close to Michael O’Sullivan, surgeon to
the stars, I’ll suddenly find plastic surgery less offensive.

I shake my head at Max and look away, catching Michael’s eye instead.

“Lucky us,” Michael murmurs, taking his napkin from beside his plate and spreading it on his lap. His arm bumps mine, sending
little frissons of feeling up my arm and down my spine. My chest constricts and I take a quick, surprised breath.

Why does he do this to me? I don’t like him. I don’t want to like him, but he has so much energy, such vitality, that I can’t
help but be aware of him.

“Someone’s laughing somewhere,” I answer flatly, trying to ignore the way his body takes up all the space, trying to ignore
the way my body responds to him. Not even sexy Scottish Trevor makes my skin feel hot and my nerves scream. I shuffle to my
left to put more space between us.

Michael notes my sideways maneuver. “Uncomfortable?”

“Not at all,” I lie.

He muffles a laugh and leans toward me, his tuxedo-clad shoulder nearly brushing mine. “You remind me of my favorite Sunday
school teacher, Miss Littleton,” he says softly, his voice pitched so low that I feel as if he’s telling me something very
serious. “She was twenty-one and beautiful and very, very virtuous.”

He pauses, dense lashes lifting, revealing those deep blue eyes that aren’t natural at all. “And then she ran away with the
priest Father Flaherty.” Michael clucks. “Tragically, Father Flaherty was excommunicated.”

“And what happened to her?” I ask, curious despite myself.

“She became Mrs. Flaherty and had five little Flahertys.”

I don’t know if it’s the hint of an Irish brogue in his voice or the glint in his eyes, but I blush. “That’s not a true story.”

“It is. Every word of it.”

Alexis suddenly wants to be part of our conversation, and she laces an arm through Michael’s and leans across him. “What’s
not a true story, darling?” she asks, her blue gaze fixed on me.

In her mind I’m competition.

If only I could tell her I loathe her man.

“Father Flaherty and his five little Flahertys,” Michael answers with a half-smile.

She frowns, arched eyebrows flattening. “I don’t understand.”

Michael introduces us instead of attempting to explain. “Alexis, this is Tiana Tomlinson. Tiana and I were on the Larry King
show Thursday night. Tiana, this is Alexis Frost, an expert on cosmetic surgery.”

Obviously, I think.

Alexis looks at me critically. “Are you considering having work done?”

I smile, but it feels brittle. “No. I’m not a fan of plastic surgery.”

“Why not?” she asks.

Michael gestures to her. “We met on the show— ”

“His show,” Alexis interrupts. “
Dr. Hollywood.
You’re familiar with it?”

This is torture. I can’t believe I have to sit here next to these two for dinner. “I’m familiar with it, but I never had the
chance to watch it. It was on for only a year, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but it’s in syndication now.” She glances at Michael. “I had a guest role on an episode. One thing led to another, and
here I am.”

And here she is. A work of art.

Michael’s gaze meets mine. A smile tugs at his mouth. I’d love to ask him what he sees in Alexis. I’d love to ask him why
he— by all accounts a brilliant surgeon— is with a blonde bimbo, but I know the answer to that. Men love beauty, even if the
beauty is brainless, which means even brilliant, charismatic surgeons can be shallow.

I’m feeling very shallow the next morning when Trevor calls me and we struggle to find something to discuss other than his
movie.

I’m sitting curled up on the couch with my morning coffee, sunshine streaming through the windows, the phone tucked between
my chin and shoulder as I leaf through the Sunday papers while we chat.

“I can’t believe it’s only been a week since you left,” he says. His voice is rough, and he sounds tired.

“Long week?”

“Very.” He yawns and then adds with a grumble, “Sometimes I hate the long-distance thing.”

“Me too.”

“So when will I see you again?”

“When is your next break?” I ask.

“I don’t know. We’re behind schedule. Two of the producers are here this weekend, and they’re tearing into the director as
we speak.”

“That’s not going to help things tomorrow, is it?”

“No, but the money people don’t care.”

And just like that we run out of things to say. Again. Always. I struggle to come up with a new topic and grab at the first
thing that comes to mind. “So how’s Kiki?”

“Why do you ask?” His tone is less friendly now.

I try to make a joke of it. “Everybody keeps teasing me that you’re on location with Kiki Woods.”

“And what does everybody say?”

He’s not laughing. He’s angry. I swallow hard.

“What are they saying, Tiana?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, don’t be coy now.”

“They say she’s a man stealer,” I answer defiantly.

“Then they have it wrong. Kiki doesn’t steal men. I don’t know why you’d repeat gossip.”

I close my eyes, press my fingers to my brow. “I’m sorry.”

He’s not mollified. “I don’t know why you’d believe garbage like that.”

“I was trying to make conversation. I’m sorry.”

We say good-bye and hang up, and I sit for a moment feeling profoundly empty.

This is not the relationship I want. This isn’t going anywhere good. I should just end it with Trevor. Break it off. Be done
with it.

But if I break things off, then I’m completely single again, and I don’t like being completely single. Being single means
you have to start dating all over again and looking for someone new and being open and vulnerable. I’m not good being vulnerable.
Not good opening up and sharing.

Don’t think about it, I tell myself, reaching for the newspaper again. Don’t think about Trevor or dating or men.

It’s while reading the
New York Times
“Style” section that I spot an article on the rise in plastic surgery in the United States and fold back the newspaper to
read the article in its entirety.

The article doesn’t say anything I don’t already know. A year ago, I attended the American Society for Aesthetic Plastic Surgery’s
annual, just after Kanye West’s mom’s death. I’d gone to do research for a story on our American culture’s obsession with
self-improvement.

The products repulsed me— chin implants, breast implants, lipo needles, sponges, drains, forceps, dissectors, retractors—
but I was fascinated by the professional education offered. Workshops covered the newest medical tips and techniques, including
how to up sell your “client” to generate more income.

It was a lightbulb moment for me, the realization that medicine had moved from the necessary to the elective and that doctors
must not just compete but actively solicit for business.

A great plastic surgeon isn’t necessarily a gifted surgeon, but a brilliant businessman.

One of the workshops I sat in on was titled “The Malpractice-Free Practice,” run by a former physician who founded an insurance
company for physicians. Dr. Krupp urged every physician to brush up his or her bedside manner. “Communicate,” he lectured,
“become a good listener. Make sure you understand what it is your client wants. Don’t ever assume, and don’t— whatever you
do— don’t play God.”

Setting aside the paper, I realize I can’t fight it anymore, can’t relax. I need to be busy, get researching. I carry my laptop
downstairs to my terrace with the wrought iron table and chairs. Thanks to wireless technology, I’m able to sit in the warmth
of the sun and research everything I can on women, beauty, image, success, and self-esteem.

There’s a lot to be found.

I’m still reading when the clock on my mantel strikes noon, and I suddenly feel like Cinderella about to miss her own ball
as I rush into the bedroom and look for the dress Shannon suggested I wear to the Pixar film premiere. It’s a chocolate shirt
dress with a wide belt cinched at the waist. She accessorized it for me, too, so I throw on the wooden bangles and the gold
hoops and do a quick makeup and comb through before heading out the door, where Polish John, my other driver, waits.

While John drives, I wonder if more women would have work done if they could afford it. Is the idea of being cut not as frightening
to other women as it is to me?

Maybe it’s time I did another piece on plastic surgery, and this time not on the industry itself, but on the impact surgery
has had on women’s lives.

I know the bad stuff already. I know those who’ve died from undergoing the knife. Kanye West’s mother. Olivia Goldsmith, the
novelist. Ordinary women hoping for a make-over. But there are hundreds of thousands of people who have undergone successful
procedures without complications. I want to talk to those women, real women, who’ve had work done and find out why they did
it and if they’re happy with the results. Did they get what they wanted? Are their lives better now for having done it?

As the limo pulls up near the theater, I double-check my lipstick in my compact mirror and swipe a fingertip beneath each
eye to catch smudged liner.

I study my reflection for a moment longer.

Would I be a different person with a different image? And who would I become if I did allow myself to age?

M
ax’s assistant calls me Monday morning to schedule a late lunch for that afternoon. We’re to meet at the Bel-Air once I’m
done taping tonight’s show.

It’s a good choice, I think, arriving at one and handing over the keys to my car. As I head to the restaurant, I’m soothed
by the myriad archways, the gurgle of fountains, and the purple bougainvillea draping from pink stucco walls. I love this
hotel and stayed here for a weekend once when my house had a broken pipe. I suppose I didn’t have to stay here for three nights,
but it was so luxurious and I felt so pampered that I hated to go back to my empty house with moisture problems.