Easy on the Eyes (23 page)

I finally wrench free. “Good-bye, Trevor.” I walk away as quickly as I can, conscious of the cameramen in the lobby.

Trevor’s either too drunk or too angry to care. He shouts after me, his voice filling the hall: “You need help, Tiana. You’re
sick! You know that, don’t you? You’re sick.”

I’m shaking as I return to the table, yet I keep a smile fixed on my face as I take my seat, aware that I’m sitting surrounded
by members of the foreign press. Peter stands as I sit, and I turn my smile on him and thank him. Yet inwardly I’m just stunned.
Trevor’s behavior wasn’t just hurtful, it was frightening. Aggressive. Nothing like the man I dated for six months. How strange
to think that just weeks ago we were a couple. And then
boom!
It all fell apart. I didn’t even see it coming. Tabloid sensation to tabloid disaster.

Peter’s hand brushes mine. “Are you all right?” he asks me.

I nod. “Wonderful,” I answer with a dazzling smile before leaning forward to hear the joke one of the Finnish journalists
is telling.

Bright, shiny, happy, I tell myself over and over during the next hour and a half.

That’s all I have to be, that’s all I have to do. And it’s a good thing I’ve had fifteen years of broadcasting, nearly six
of those on national TV, because if there’s one thing I can do well, it’s fake a bright, shiny, happy mood.

My composure holds during the drive home. Peter thanks me for attending the awards, claiming that all the other tables of
foreign press were insane with envy. They had to sit with one another’s ugliness, but he had the beautiful Tiana Tomlinson
at his table.

As the limousine pulls up in front of my house, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “
Gemutlichkeit
.” He looks into my eyes, my hand still in his. “This is what I wish for you.”

I know the word. It’s a German noun that means cozy, happy, peaceful, well-being. It’s used to describe a warm family room
or a wonderful holiday like at Christmas. But it’s also a personal state of being, like a state of grace where everything
is warm and cheerful, happy and good.

He is wishing for me all things good.

A lump forms in my throat, and I squeeze his hand back and lean forward to kiss his cheek. “
Danke
. Thank you.”

Then I’m walking the short distance from the curb to my front door and letting myself into my house.

My shoes are off right away, and then, dress swishing, I lock up, turn off lights, and head to my bedroom to get out of my
clothes. It’s not easy. In fact, it might be impossible. Shannon hooked and zipped and stitched me into this gown, and now
I can’t get it off.

I’m beginning to sweat as I struggle to reach the second zipper. I want out of the gown. The bodice is tight and my waist
is squeezed, and I try and try to twist around and find a way to open the gown without tearing it— but there’s no way to get
it over my head or down my hips, not without the zipper unfastened and the hooks undone.

Where is the second zipper? Why won’t the hooks open?

Hot and frustrated, I tug at the fabric. I tug and tug and hear threads snapping, seams threatening to give way, and I let
out a frustrated cry.

I’ve had enough. Really, I’ve had enough.

I got drunk and threw myself at Michael last night. Trevor humiliated me tonight. And now I can’t get out of my dress.

Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. I wrestle with the gown, absolutely ruthless. With a violent yank, I manage to pull it over my
hips. I ignore the tearing sound. I keep twisting, wriggling, right, left, arms up, pinned to my head.

I hate this, all of it. The dress. The shame. My life. When did I become the stuff of jokes? When did I become ridiculous?

Hot, flushed, I finally yank it over my head and toss it onto the bed.

I see myself in the full-length mirror, red-faced, eyes watering. I’ve lost weight these past few weeks, and my hips are gone
again and I’m back to very thin, which looks sexy and svelte in a size two awards show gown, but naked I feel freakish.

Big head. Skinny body. Flesh-colored plunging bra and thong against a dark bronze spray-on tan.

All this primping and pimping. Hundreds of hours, and thousands of dollars, spent to look glossy and flawless on camera, as
if real women are glossy and flawless.

As if Hollywood is about real women.

I go to the bathroom to wash off my flawless face. The mascara runs down my cheeks in inky rivulets. It’s a hideous moment,
a moment of complete and utter self-loathing, and then I stop it. I stop the hurt and the self-hate.

I am not this. I am so much more.

For the first time in weeks I sleep soundly, sleeping all the way until eight-forty. I wake up and roll over and feel a moment
of utter well-being. And then I remember who I am and where I am and the status of my life.

But before I spend any time thinking, I’m definitely going to need coffee.

Maria, my housekeeper, doesn’t arrive until ten, so I have time to sit on my couch and be lazy. Coffee and papers in hand,
I sit on the living room couch and open the papers, flipping to the entertainment section for a round-up of last night’s awards.
But along with the awards is a photo of Trevor, his face contorted. S
UPERSTAR
M
ELTDOWN!
reads the headline.

Heart thudding, I skim the short text. Apparently, an intrepid photographer caught the interchange between Trevor and me.

If this made the paper, it probably made the morning news. I turn on the TV and flip through channels, checking to see if
any of the morning shows are discussing last night’s awards ceremony.

Live with Regis and Kelly
at nine a.m. does not disappoint me. The opening dialogue is all about the Golden Globes. They mention some of the stars
in attendance along with those notably absent. Regis mentions a beautiful gown Jennifer Aniston wore. Kelly cracks a joke
about the number of babies Angelina wore.

“But the big news last night was Trevor Campbell’s meltdown,” Regis segues, turning to face Kelly. “You saw it?”

“I did. Ouch!” Kelly pulls a face. “I bet Trevor Campbell never expected that to end up on the national news.”

Regis shakes his head. “I admit, I feel for Tiana Tomlinson. But she handled herself like a lady.”

Kelly’s expression grows earnest. “This is a tough business, Reg. Not a lot of love or loyalty at times.”

“We both know her, don’t we?”

“She’s been a guest host here on the show with you, hasn’t she, Reg?”

“Several times.”

“You liked her.”

“Great host. Lovely lady.”

Kelly leans forward and speaks to the camera. “Tiana, we just want you to know we’re on your side.”

Regis crosses his arms over his chest. “And you’re welcome back anytime. Come see us. We love you.”

They cut to a commercial and I sit on the couch, thinking but not thinking, feeling but not feeling.

They were good to me. They didn’t beat me up. If anything, they protected me.

Emotion washes through me. They didn’t have to be nice.

But I’m glad they were.

Glenn calls just before noon and asks if I can meet him for lunch. “I’d like to talk to you. Could you meet me at the Terrace
at one?”

“Glenn, I’m not ready to come back.”

“I’m not going to talk to you about coming back early. I just have an idea you might actually like.”

Interesting. This I want to hear. “I’ll see you at one.”

The Terrace restaurant at the Sunset Tower has the best view of Los Angeles, and unlike some other area roof restaurants,
it’s never too blazingly hot to enjoy your meal.

I’m just about to go for my standard uniform of black T-shirt and black pants when I realize I refuse to look as though I’m
in mourning. There’s nothing wrong with my health, and there’s nothing wrong with my career.

An hour before lunch, I shower and dress. Feeling feisty, I select a rather wild Dolce & Gabbana print dress. It’s a modern
twist on the sixties, and I take a leather belt and cinch it at my waist the way Shannon showed me. I pair it with a twig
bracelet and chunky bead necklace, and with strappy leather high heels I look confident and casually sexy. Definitely sexy.
Sexy’s good. I give my reflection an approving nod.

It’s not a long drive to the Sunset Tower, but there’s a ridiculous amount of traffic and I valet my car just minutes before
one.

Glenn’s already upstairs waiting at our table, and he stands as I appear in the doorway and lifts a hand to acknowledge me.
I smile and, conscious of nearly every head turning as I move toward the table, I slow my pace and make it a catwalk stroll.
I’m not hiding. I’m not running away. Feel free to stare.

Our table’s near a potted palm tree, and we have the luxury of light shade.

“You look good,” Glenn says, surprised.

“I’ve had a couple weeks off.”

“Mike and B.J. had photos of you from last night. I have to say I loved what you wore. The red gown was perfect. Very powerful
and yet feminine.”

“Thank you.” I don’t bother telling him it was difficult to put on and a nightmare to get out of.

“You’re still using Shannon?” He sees me nod. “Good. I’m going to send her a bonus. She dressed you just right. It’s exactly
the image you want to be presenting right now. Beautiful, poised, sophisticated, and warm.”

I’m not sure where Glenn’s going with this, so I wait.

“Have you been following the news this morning?” he asks.

“I watched a little TV this morning, but other than that, the TV’s off and I’ve tried to stay offline.” As God only knows
what might be being said over at Perez Hilton or
TMZ
.

Glenn studies me, his eyes narrowed, his expression contemplative. “There seems to be a bit of a backlash.”

“I’m not surprised. Trevor’s everybody’s golden boy— ”

“Against Trevor.”

My eyes widen.

“Something’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. Not sure if it was Trevor’s tirade, or the way you carried yourself,
or the fact that you sat with members of the press, but certain members of the media are rallying around you.”

My throat grows tight. I take my napkin and make a show of spreading it across my lap.

“Regis and Kelly,” Glenn says.

“I did see them.”

“But they weren’t alone. Ellen DeGeneres. And Barbara Walters on
The View
.”

I look at Glenn, overcome.

“Not many women in this business have that kind of support, not from their peers.” He hesitates. “This is obviously very good,
and I want to use it to our advantage.” He hesitates a moment, as if formulating what he’s about to say next. “I want you
back. I want you where you belong, as host of
America Tonight
.”

Half a dozen emotions flood me. Exultation. Hope. Happiness. Doubt. Anger. Frustration. “What about Shelby?”

“The studio wants to keep her as co-anchor.”

I open my mouth in protest, but Glenn holds up a finger to buy himself time. “But maybe that’s good,” he continues. “Maybe
we can use Shelby in the studio and you in the field. You’ve said you wanted to do more stories again, real stories. Maybe
this is how we do it. Your plastic surgery pieces were wonderful. Our viewer feedback has been terrific. Perhaps we can have
you do more features, in-depth profiles, and one-on-one interviews.”

I close my mouth and let him keep talking.

“Sweeps month is next month. I’d love to run some more of your stories throughout the month. I could provide you with a cameraman,
but you’d be in charge of writing and editing and producing.”

This is getting interesting. “I like the sound of it.”

“Good. I hoped you would. Is there anything you’ve been working on?”

“Africa.”

He sighs. “Besides Africa.”

If he wants me back, if he wants my stories, then he’s going to have to meet me halfway. “I want to do the Africa stories,
and I’ve got a great lead. Beverly Hills plastic surgeon Michael O’Sullivan is part of the Rx Smile mission to Zambia. He’s
done these missions before, has promised to put me in touch with the organization’s PR director. Best of all, they’re leaving
in less than two weeks. The timing would be perfect for February sweeps.”

“I have to be honest, I’m not excited about Africa stories. But if you can make us care, and you can get people to tune in,
then I won’t tell you that you can’t do Africa.”

Victory. It’s all I can do to keep from grinning.

Glenn drums the table with his fingers. “The stories you choose are important. Think about each interview. Make sure every
segment conveys your warmth and charm and wit.”

“Not easy to do when you’re talking about malaria or the millions of children left orphaned by AIDS and HIV,” I say.

“Then maybe you pick happier stories. Or pick an angle that can be happy. As you know, people in this country are struggling
emotionally and financially. We’ve been in a protracted war. In the past several years Americans have experienced floods,
fires, and storms. Families have lost crops, homes, loved ones. It’s not an easy time for people. When our viewers turn on
the TV, they want to forget.”

And I, of all people, can understand that. “So how does this work?”

“Soon as you’ve got your plans made, our travel agency will handle flights and hotel arrangements. But we need your itinerary,
and I need a rough outline of stories that I can expect to air when you return.”

My head spins. “So theoretically, I could be on a plane to Africa in a week.”

“Theoretically, yes.” He allows himself the smallest of smiles. “Oh, and by the way, I heard you’re no longer with Max. Who’s
your new agent?”

“Don’t have one yet.”

“Even though your contract’s up for renewal soon?”

“Yeah, I know, but one thing at a time. And my first priority is this trip to Africa.”