Easy on the Eyes (10 page)

We eat on the Terrace with its terra-cotta pavers and elegant stucco arches. My fish entrée is perfect, and the service is
superb. As my plate is cleared and the pink linen tablecloth is scraped of crumbs, I can’t help wishing this was how life
really was. Beautiful. Calm. Peaceful.

I wonder if this is how the public imagines my life. Glamorous. Pampered. Luxurious.

It’s funny, but Hollywood is the least glamorous place I know. It’s a creation for the cameras, achieved with lights and makeup
and special effects. Turn off the lights, put away the cameras, and what we do becomes just another job.

“I have some good news,” Max says, waving off the waiter with the dessert tray.

“What’s that?”

“Last week
America Tonight
trumped its competition. Glenn just gave me a breakdown of the week’s numbers, and as expected, those numbers were highest
on Friday with all the tabloid press about your trip to Paris with Trevor.” He looks at me, and there’s a gleam in his eye.
“I think the secret is keeping you and Trevor in the news.”

I totally disagree but am careful expressing my opinion. “Manufacturing ratings?”

“It’s done all the time.”

“I know, but I haven’t succumbed to a steady diet of sensationalistic news yet.”

“Which is why your show needs Shelby,” he answers bluntly. “She understands that this is business, and sex and scandal sell.”

“So I’m to date a progression of hot young actors to keep my name in the news?”

“We can’t milk the cougar thing forever. We need a long-term plan as well.” He drums his fingers on the table. “I see two
options. The first is a complete but discreet make-over. Face-lift, drop ten pounds, and a new wardrobe. And the second is
the make-over coupled with a new show format. Partner you with a sexy young male co-host. New high-energy stories. A new fun
set to showcase your youth and chemistry and sex appeal.”

“You know plastic surgery scares the hell out of me. I
like
my face.”

“And so do I, but I like you even better employed.” He pulls out his iPhone and opens the calendar icon. “What’s your schedule
like? When could you schedule the surgery? It’d need to be done prior to your contract renewal. I’m thinking late December
is slow, which would be ideal. You could take the last couple weeks of December off to recover and be back on the show early
to mid-January. Depending on the swelling and bruising, of course.”

I don’t have my desk calendar here, but I can see it. The spaces are packed with dates, times, appointments. I use a huge
desk calendar along with my BlackBerry to keep track of my commitments. “Max, I don’t have time to pee, much less take three
to four weeks off for surgery.”

“You’re missing the big picture here, Tia. You deserve a nice break. Think of it as a paid vacation. A spa thing.”

“Spas don’t hurt.”

“Spas can hurt. My wife went to one— not the Golden Door, I think she liked that one— but she said it was the most miserable
experience of her life. Worse than childbirth.”

I arch an eyebrow. “You do know you’re not helping your argument, don’t you?”

He closes the calendar and reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a business card. “You were sitting next to Dr. O’Sullivan
at the party. I noticed you didn’t talk much, but I hope you got a feel for him. He’s a great surgeon, one of the best, and
you should at least go see him for a consultation.” Max hands me the business card, and it’s Michael’s. “Call him, schedule
an appointment, okay?”

I’m just leaving the Bel-Air Hotel when my phone rings. It’s Madison on the line. “Where are you?” she asks frantically.

“Leaving the Bel-Air.”

“Get here fast. The studio execs have been hanging out with Shelby for the past half hour and now she’s going to tape your
tease for Wednesday’s show.”

“Why is she going to tape my tease?”

“I think they’re testing her tease, checking numbers.” Madison gulps a breath. “Tiana, what’s happening? Are they replacing
you?”

“No.” My voice is firm, no-nonsense, belying my own inner panic. “It’s just a numbers thing,” I continue crisply. “It’s sweeps
month, so the studio heads are always looking for a new gimmick to punch the ratings up.”

I’m at the HBC tower in twenty minutes, but the execs are gone by the time I arrive. Shelby has already tracked Wednesday’s
teases and is just stepping off the soundstage.

Shelby spots me as I enter the room and comes over to greet me. “I hope you don’t mind that they asked me to tape. We had
some really fun headlines, too.”

She smiles, and nothing moves on her face except her lips as they part to reveal very straight, very white veneered teeth.

“What was one of the headlines?” I ask.

She smiles even more brightly and straightens her shoulders, about to deliver the line the way she would on camera. “Jamie
Spears’s baby already on Prozac? The doctor’s orders, on the next
America Tonight
!” Her on-camera voice and posture drops and she looks at me, giggles. “Good, isn’t it?”

Good?
Jamie Spears’s baby’s on Prozac? That’s the big tease for Wednesday’s show? “Who wrote the headline?”

“Mark.”

“But Jamie’s baby is two and he’s definitely not on Prozac.”

“Of course he isn’t.” She laughs. “But it’s juicy and people will tune in to hear what’s happening in the Spearses’ household.”

And okay, this is snippy, but is this really the job I’m fighting to save?

Maybe what I need to fight to save is the show itself. Maybe it’s time to take back our programming. Women, our key demographic,
must want more. I know I want more.

Although I could conference call in for the nine a.m. production meeting Tuesday morning, I put in an appearance instead.
With a four-day holiday weekend looming, I want to make sure everybody remembers that I’m still the host of this show and
plan on remaining the host, too.

Upon arriving at the office, I find that the books I ordered on plastic surgery from Amazon are here. I take a couple of the
books into the production meeting with me and pitch the idea of doing a series of stories in the New Year on plastic surgery.
I tell them I’d like to interview men and women who’ve had work done and see if they’re happy.

I draw the
New York Times
article from a folder and slide it across the table so everyone in the meeting can see. “This just ran in the Sunday
New York Times
. Cosmetic surgery is a two-billion-dollar industry and growing. So are people who are spending the money happy with their
decision to get work done? Did surgery give them what they want, and need?”

“Tyra Banks just did a show like this last week,” Libby answers. “Most of her guests had disastrous experiences and terrible
scarring.”

“But she probably solicited for the horror stories,” Harper points out. “I think Tiana’s wanting a more balanced view.”

She looks at me for confirmation, and I nod. “That’s just it. Are most people happy with their decision? Are they not just
physically, but psychologically, satisfied?”

“Is there a celeb angle?” Mark asks bluntly.

“No,” I answer honestly. “I was looking at interviewing ordinary men and women, people like our viewers. In fact, I thought
we could use our Web site blog and ask viewers to share with us their experiences.” I glance at Glenn. “But I’m sure we could
sprinkle some celebs into the piece. That would be easy, and I think that’s a great idea, Mark.”

Glenn nods. “I like it. Just hammer out the logistics and let me know who will handle the screening, the number of segments
you intend to do, and what week you anticipate the stories running.”

I smile, feeling victorious. “Will do.” Finally a story I like, a story that’s appropriate, and a story I vow to make good.

Back in my office, I flip through the plastic surgery books while returning phone calls. I closely study the before-and-after
photos of everything from lipo thighs to breast lifts to breast reduction to eyelids and necks and full face-lifts. There
are photos and surgeries for everything. Upper arms. Inner thighs. Tummy tucks. Nose jobs. Chin implants. Labiaplasty.

Labiaplasty.

My stomach churns as I read about the procedure—the prep, the recovery, the technique. Normally not squeamish, I find it difficult
to look at the before-and-after photos. I can understand doing the surgery if one honestly can’t walk or function, but for
beauty’s sake?

Is it something I’d seriously consider?

No.

Marta calls me while I’m typing up my ideas for the feature. I haven’t talked to her in ages, and I sit back in my chair,
happy to hear from her. “Happy almost-Thanksgiving. How are you?”

“Great,” she answers, and in the background there’s a loud screech. “That’s Zach,” she explains with a good-natured laugh.
“He’s discovered the joy in vocalizing.”

“I can’t wait to see him again.”

“He’s grown so much. He’s a brute.”

“Just like his dad?” I tease, as Marta absolutely adores her husband, Luke, who is a gorgeous specimen of a man at six feet
seven, with the coloring of a Celtic warrior.

She laughs appreciatively. Marta with her long, straight dark hair is biker tough on the outside, but on the inside she’s
fiercely loyal and almost too tender; her children and husband are her Achilles’ heel.

God, I want this for myself. A baby. A family. People I belong to. People who belong to me.

I used to think I should do what Marta did to conceive Eva and just go to a sperm bank and make a baby. But unlike Marta,
I don’t think I could be a single mom. I want a partner— a lover— to be there to raise a child with me.

“We have a new date for the baptism,” Marta says, “but before we confirm it and invite everyone, I wanted to make sure it’d
work for you since you’re going to be the godmother.”

I reach for my desk calendar. “What’s the date?”

“The morning of Sunday, December twenty-eighth. We hoped you could come join us for Christmas and then just stay on for the
baptism. That is, unless you have something else planned for Christmas…?”

Trevor flashes to mind, but I don’t see us spending Christmas together. I’m not good with holidays, never have been, and I
tend to spend them with friends who really know me, friends like Marta, Shey, or Christie. “December twenty-eighth sounds
great, and Christmas could work, but let’s leave that loose for now, okay?”

“But December twenty-eighth for the baptism is a go?”

“A definite go.”

“Eva will be so glad to see you. We all miss you. Aunt T is really loved around here, you know.”

I swallow the ache of emotion. “I miss you, too.” And it’s so true. For it’s when I’m with friends who’ve known me forever,
since we met at St. Pious when I was sixteen, that I feel the real me emerge. And the real me isn’t glossy and glam, but driven
and hungry and sometimes just damn confused.

Life hasn’t been what I thought it’d be. I’ve achieved far more than I ever expected, but it feels like so much less than
I wanted.

“What are you doing for Thanksgiving, Tia? You do have plans, don’t you?”

For the first time I hear a note of worry in her voice, and it touches me. Marta isn’t touchy-feely, but she sounds almost
maternal now. Being a mom has definitely softened her edges. “Christie, my friend in Laguna Beach, has invited me to join
her family for dinner. She has three girls and numerous in-laws, so it keeps things lively.”

She hesitates, then adds gently, “I know it’s not an easy day for you.”

For a moment I say nothing, my insides hot and excruciatingly sensitive. When it comes to Thanksgiving, my heart’s perpetually
bruised. I got word on Thanksgiving Day that Keith had been killed.

“Seven years, isn’t it?” she adds even more gently.

Marta knows these things. She and Shey were my bridesmaids. Keith and I married on Valentine’s Day. It would have been eight
years this coming February. Instead he died three months before our first anniversary.

For a moment I can’t speak. Even now grief is huge. Loss goes so deep. It’s like the ocean, vast and dark and endless. I am
here, on the other side, only because Marta and Shey swam me across. “I love you, Ta,” I say huskily. “I don’t know what I’d
do without you.”

“You don’t have to do without me. I’ll always be here. Shey, too. You’re ours.”

I blink, wishing I could jump on a plane right now and fly up to Seattle for a hug. “Give Eva and Zach a kiss for me, and
give my best to Luke.”

“I will. And Tiana, see you soon.”

After hanging up, I bury my face in my hands and squeeze my eyes shut to hold back the emotion.

I have read every book I could on grief, trying to come to terms with death and dying. People used to tell me that time would
heal. Time didn’t heal. Time just made me numb.

I go to the window and look out at the tidy towers and plazas of Century City and the wide boulevards below. I take a deep
breath. I hate being thirty-eight and yet feeling like a child instead of a woman. I hate the fear. I hate the emptiness.
I hate the inability to trust.

I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to date only distant, shallow men who don’t challenge me or ask for my love. I
don’t want to always be alone.

But if I love again, if I dare to love, I risk not just my heart but my sanity.

I can’t lose anyone again. I can’t go to that dark place again. I’m not that strong a swimmer. I’m tired, and God forgive
me, but this time I’d drown.

Thursday morning I don’t have to go to work, as Manuel’s handling the Thanksgiving show, and I close my eyes to sleep for
another twenty minutes. The next time I open my eyes it’s an hour later, and I’m groggier than ever. No reason to get up,
I think, pulling up the covers. But then, there’s no reason to stay in bed, either.

Sleepily I climb from bed, stagger into my robe, and head to the kitchen to start coffee.

While coffee brews, I turn on the kitchen TV to watch Macy’s Thanksgiving parade. For three years I co-hosted HBC’s parade
show and it was always freezing cold, but it was also good for me as it kept my mind off the day. I don’t like having time
on my hands on this day.