Easy on the Eyes (17 page)

But the day’s still not over. I promised Joy I’d put in an appearance at her holiday party at the Sunset Tower, and I make
one more change, this time into black slacks, a white satin blouse, and a little silver shrug.

Joy Kim is a talented young clothing designer whose line, O Joy, has become wildly popular with the beautiful people; we became
friends after she sent a dress for me for the Cannes Film Festival last May. I was wearing her slinky barely-there metallic
bronze gown the night I met Trevor. The neckline plunged, the back plunged, the fabric molded to my breasts and hips so that
very little was left to the imagination. Photos of me in the O Joy gown were splashed all over the Internet and in the tabloids
of the foreign press.

The extensive press coverage helped launch O Joy internationally, and once I was back from Cannes she sent two dozen white
roses and lilies to thank me for wearing her gown on the film festival’s red carpet.

After pulling up to the hotel, I hand my car keys to the valet and take the elevator to the penthouse floor, where Joy’s throwing
the party. It’s a young crowd hanging out, and I recognize a few faces, mostly young actresses, a couple of musician types
and their girlfriends, and some reporters from rival entertainment shows.

I find Joy, hand her the hostess gift I’ve brought, and chitchat for a few minutes until her next guest claims her attention.
I slip out of the penthouse suite and down the hall to the elevators, and as the doors open I breathe a sigh of relief. God,
I felt old and overdressed in there. The young trendy crowd is so not my scene.

I’m waiting for the valet attendant to bring my car around when I hear my name called. I know that voice pretty well by now.

Slowly I turn to look behind me, and there is Michael, leaning against the building, smiling.

“What are you doing out here?” I ask, drawing my coat closer over my shoulders. The days might be warm, but the evening definitely
cools off. “Coming, going…?”

“I had a call. Couldn’t get good reception at the party.”

“Joy’s party?”

Like me, he’s overdressed, dark slacks and a long-sleeved white shirt with the cuffs rolled back on his forearms. The crisp
white cotton fabric speaks of money. The shirt is probably Frette. His leather belt and shoes are equally pricey. “I saw you
arrive,” he answers. “And you’re leaving already?”

“It’s a young crowd.”

“You’re young.”

“But not nineteen.”

He smiles at me, and my pulse quickens and my spine tingles. “Thank God. Women with a little life experience are infinitely
sexier.”

I walk toward him, one slow step at a time. “Have you abandoned your date again? Or is she off foraging for drinks?”

His smile deepens, warming his eyes. “I’m pulling a Tiana Tomlinson. I’m facing the party scene alone.”

“Oh my. You do live dangerously.”

“You don’t know the half of it.” His deep blue gaze wraps me, holds me, warming me from the inside out. “I’m barely civilized,
Ms. America.”

“That’s no surprise. I could have told you that.”

He just smiles down at me, his lips crooked, his eyes darkly blue and lit with amusement.

Once I hated that he found me amusing. Now I almost enjoy his sense of humor. Almost.

And just admitting that truth, I feel heat flaring inside of me. How annoying. He makes me feel so much, and it’s strange,
so strange, after seven years of feeling nothing like this around men.

I probably would like Michael if he didn’t make every alarm in my head sound.

My car’s headlights appear in the driveway. “That’s me,” I say as the attendant parks the car in front of us.

“Tiana,” Michael says as I hand the valet attendant a folded ten-dollar bill, “if you should ever need a date, I’d be happy
to clean up for you.”

I hesitate next to my car. “I’ve seen you in action, Doctor.”

“Have you?”

I nod once. “You’d abandon me at the first opportunity.”

“Never.”

My gaze meets Michael’s and holds. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

“I never do.”

The heat in his eyes scorches me. Unnerved, I climb in behind the wheel and start the car even though it’s already running.
The car squawks in protest. Heart hammering, I pull away from the curb and head home with Michael’s words,
I never do,
ringing loudly, if not a little ominously, in my head.

H
ome, I wander restlessly around my house, unusually hyped. Michael always throws me. He just has that effect on me.

I open the fridge, see the new bottle of white wine chilling, close the fridge. Don’t need liquor tonight. I’m drinking more
than I should. I’m sleeping less than I need.

After changing into my pajamas, I climb into bed with my laptop to prepare my interview with Susie Fleming tomorrow, but I
find Michael popping into my thoughts as I read through my notes for Susie’s interview.

But I don’t want to be thinking about Michael, and I don’t want to be distracted.

Susie was one of the show viewers who answered my blog when I asked if any of my Los Angeles–area viewers had had plastic
surgery and if they’d be willing to talk to me on camera about their experience. Within a day, the comment box was flooded
with nearly a hundred volunteers. Some of the volunteers never had work done and just wanted to be on TV. Others were aspiring
actors and actresses who’d undergone cosmetic surgery to improve their appearance and hoped to share their story on TV. Those
I also weeded out.

Libby and Jeffrey screened the volunteers and pared the list to twelve. I talked to all twelve on the phone and will interview
five on camera. Susie is the first interview.

I check my e-mail before I open my Word program and scroll through the in-box. Madison has forwarded an e-mail to my personal
account from an organization in Tucson that wants to honor me with a lifetime achievement award at their annual black-tie
fund-raiser in February. Every year they select a member of the arts to recognize, someone from Tucson or who started their
career in Tucson, and this year they’ve selected me.

I read it through twice and then forward it to Madison with a note asking her to get more info on the event. Who were some
of the past honorees? How visible is the group? And then, putting everyone and everything out of mind, I begin typing up possible
questions for my morning interview, because that’s what’s important now.

Glenn sees me Wednesday morning in the break room as I’m pouring myself yet another cup of coffee. “Good interview with the
Rock on Monday,” he says. “You had a nice rapport.”

“Thanks.”

“Tia, your numbers are still up. Substantially up.”

“Good.”

“Network heads are noticing.”

“Great.”

“This is the kind of attention you want.”

I just smile.

“So how’s the cosmetic surgery feature going?” he asks.

“First interview’s today. Susie’s coming in here. We’re using
This Morning
’s set for the interview so it looks cozy.”

“Good. And keep up the good work.”

I report to makeup forty-five minutes before I’m due to meet Susie.

As I sit in the makeup chair and Vanessa clucks over my tired, stressed face, I wonder what will happen when the rise in numbers
starts to fall. Because they will fall. Maybe not plummet, but at the first drop, will everyone panic again? Will Shelby become
overnight co-anchor?

I wish I liked Shelby better. Maybe I wouldn’t resent her success quite so much if she cared about the news, but Shelby isn’t
interested in news, she’s interested in ratings and fame. She’s interested in my job. Maybe more interested than I’ve been
lately.

Vanessa mists my face and wipes off old makeup to prepare for the new, and I find myself wondering if I’d feel differently
about being at this crossroads in my career if I had more, like a husband and children. Would I be more or less satisfied
with my success? Would the drop in ratings feel different?

Success is so bittersweet. The more you achieve, the more you expect yourself to achieve, so that the quest to do more, be
better, and reach higher never ends.

As Vanessa preps my face for the spray-on foundation, she tells me the big bosses stopped by to chat with her. “That was a
first,” she adds. “But then they were talking to quite a few of us today.”

My eyes are closed and my lips shut so she can get an even spray, but I make a sound in the back of my throat so she knows
I’m interested in hearing more.

“I don’t want you to take this the wrong way,” Vanessa adds as the cool makeup hits my face. She sprays in small, even circles
from my brow down to my collarbone. “But they were talking to the lighting guys about redoing your lights to try to take some
years off. Apparently new research shows you’re skewing older and they don’t want to lose the key, younger audience.”

The spray goes off. I wait a moment for Vanessa to inspect the work before I open my eyes. “What did they say to you?” I ask
her.

She shrugs uncomfortably. “Nothing much.”

“Come on, Vanessa. We’ve worked together too long. Tell me the truth.”

“They wanted to know how I liked working with Shelby.”

I clench my teeth together, livid all over again. I have worked so hard and my numbers are finally up, and the studio heads
are noticing, and yet it’s not enough. They still want me younger. Hell, I’d like to be younger, but I’m not. I am who I am
and I’m just beginning to realize that
America Tonight
could hit number one but that won’t satisfy the network heads. They want me to get the work done. This is more than ratings.
This is about image, and youth, and the fact that I am— like every human being— aging.

Vanessa begins applying glue to the delicate strip of black false eyelashes. “I told them she was fine,” she adds briskly.
“But I like you better.” When I open my mouth, she holds up a finger. “Don’t say anything. Just don’t cry. I’ll kill you if
I have to take off the foundation and start over.”

I manage a smile and begin mentally reviewing my notes for Susie’s interview.

Susie’s cosmetic surgery was to address her breasts, which were different sizes. Her right breast was a C cup and her left
breast not even an A. She’d spent thirteen years trying to hide the fact that her breasts were so very lopsided. She didn’t
swim, wouldn’t go to the gym, wouldn’t wear snug clothes. Her whole life revolved around hiding something she had no control
over.

Hair and face camera ready, I head to the stage to greet Susie. She ends up being an easy interview. The words tumble from
her. Her embarrassment, her shame, her inability to date or let any man close. The feeling that everyone stared at her, or
worse, laughed at her. The difficulty buying proper bras, having to fill one cup with everything from tissue to foam to silicone
pads.

“The surgery changed all that,” she says, pausing for breath. Her cheeks are flushed, but she’s not ashamed, she’s happy.
“I’m not afraid to meet people anymore. I’m going to Cabo for Christmas, and I’ve never been to a beach resort before. I wouldn’t
do a trip like that before the surgery. But now I feel like I have a whole new life. I can do anything.” Her blush deepens.
“I’m even dating a really nice man and it’s getting serious.”

“Does he know about your surgery?” I ask.

Her blush extends to her hairline, but she’s smiling broadly. “He knows. He didn’t until I told him. But he says I have a
great body. He says I’m hot.” Susie’s smile turns shy. “No one has ever said that to me before.”

She’s thirty-two going on eighteen. It’s as though she’s just discovered life. I wish I could embrace plastic surgery the
way Susie has. Her work has made her hopeful and eager, innocent and new. But her surgery was to correct a wrong. My surgery
would be to roll back time. It would be an end, not a beginning, because once I start down this slippery slope, where do I
stop? Where do the tweaks and fixes and lifts end?

It’s not just the cutting and stitching, either, it’s the mind-set, the attitude. I will have caved to the pressure, caved
to conformity. But I don’t want to cave. I can’t cave. Because honestly, no one can fake youth and beauty forever.

We wrap up the interview and I return to my office to check in with Madison, who was trying to reschedule a lunch date I’d
made weeks ago that won’t work now thanks to a reshuffling of some of the celebrity holiday stories.

I stop at Madison’s desk. “Lucy Liu’s holiday segment is today. Where am I meeting her?”

She makes a sad face. “Her publicist had to cancel.”

“Again?”

“It’s a nasty bug. Her publicist assures us we wouldn’t want it.”

I close the door to my office and sit at my desk and tap my keyboard, waking my computer from sleep mode and clicking on my
in-box. My in-box has thirty-one new e-mails; many are holiday greetings and e-vite reminders for holiday parties, plus an
e-mail from Shey thanking me for a great weekend, and then a follow-up from the Tucson group that wants me to join them in
February for their fund-raiser. They’re hoping I can confirm my attendance soon. Madison got me info on the event.