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Chapter One
Tiana, how do you feel about a co-host?”
Only a couple minutes into the closed-door meeting with my boss, Glenn, the executive producer of America Tonight, and he drops that bombshell.
How can he be so casual about something so huge?
And something so bad?
“Co-host?” My voice doesn’t wobble, but I’m stunned. Horrified. For nearly six years I’ve been the sole host of the show. It’s a show that debuted with me as the host, a sh
ow that’s earned me the nickname America’s Sweetheart. “Why would I do that, when it’s my show?”
He hesitates, looks at me, thick sandy eyebrows shot with gray, before answering bluntly, “Your show’s in trouble.”
I silently count to five and speak only when I’m certain I’m perfectly in control. “You said it was a temporary blip. You told me twice in the past few months not to worry.”
“Unfortunately, I was wrong. The downward cycle hasn’t reversed, and the network wants changes. They’ve brought in outside consultants who’ve done extensive market studies. The consultants believe that the best approach is to bring in some young blood.”
The words young blood chill me.
I think of myself as a warrior. I’ve been to hell and back with the death of my family and then my husband. I’ve battled to build my career and sacrificed a personal life to be where I am today. But the one thing I can’t fight is time. I’m going to age. And apparently I already am.
But none of this matters. Nothing matters but ratings, stats, and demographics.
“Do you have any young blood in mind?” I ask, crossing one leg over the other under the hem of my bronze St. John skirt. I’d already changed for the Larry King Live interview and was just about to leave Horizon Broadcasting for the CNN studio in Hollywood when Glenn called me into his office.
“Shelby Patterson,” he says.
“Shelby?” My voice comes out strangled. I not only trained Shelby, I helped develop the weekend show for her because I thought she had so much promise. I was right. And they wonder why successful women are afraid to mentor younger women.
“Her weekend show has strong numbers,” he continues, “particularly with the younger viewers, demographics you desperately need.”
Desperately.
Young blood.
He and I are both wordsmiths, and these are not good words. This is not a good conversation. I’m in trouble.
My heart races and I press a hand to my lower rib cage as if I could slow the mad beating. Max, my agent, should be here. Max, my agent, should be defending me, protecting me. This is my career. My life. God knows I don’t have a life outside America Tonight. No husband, no kids, no hobbies or free time. Everything I have, everything I am, is invested in this show. “How good are Shelby’s numbers compared to mine?”
“She’s outperforming you by nearly twenty percent.”
Oh. Stunned, I suck in a quick, sharp breath. Those are unforgivable numbers in any business, but here, in the delicate world of television market share, that’s pretty much a catastrophe.
“We think the solution is to bring Shelby onto the weekday show and make Manuel the sole host for the weekend show. You and Shelby would be co-anchors, like Mary Hart and Mark Steines on Entertainment Tonight.” Glenn gets up from behind his desk and walks around to sit in the gray chair next to me. “Nothing’s been done yet. I just wanted to get a feel for your reaction before it became formal.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I feel as if I’m on a plane that’s going down and I can’t stop it. Can’t exit.
But I can escape this. I can survive. I just have to focus. Be calm, because I know how this goes. I’ve watched it happen a hundred times. You add a co-anchor to boost ratings and eventually the new young talent replaces the mature talent. I’m being phased out. He doesn’t need to say it, but if I’m not damn careful, this is the beginning of the end. “Have you considered other correspondents for the position? Like Manuel, for example?”
“He’s thirty-four. Shelby’s twenty-eight. She’s youthful. High energy. She’d bring a new dynamic to the weekly show and pull in some of those numbers we’ve lost.”
“You’re right, she’s great on camera, and she’s definitely high energy, but she doesn’t know how to write a story. She just delivers— ”
“We have writers who can write. We need charisma. Beauty. Poise. Charm. Youth.”
Youth. There it is again. Young blood, desperation, youth.
“I’m too old?” I ask quietly.
He squirms ever so slightly. He can’t answer that directly because he’d be sued, but he knows what I’m asking. “Our decisions are dictated by the viewing public,” he says after a moment. “American audiences don’t mind watching mature men on television, but they object to mature women. And by adding Shelby, we can keep you on camera.”
“You’ve considered replacing me, haven’t you?”
His expression changes, grows sympathetic. “I haven’t, no, but I can’t tell you that the subject hasn’t been discussed. You are up for contract renewal in March.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, “You’re also expensive compared to Shelby.”
“That’s because I’m good,” I say, smiling, and that’s to hide the fact that my eyes are burning and I’m horrifically close to tears.
I love my job. I need my job. I can’t imagine what I’d do or who I’d be without the show.
“You are good. You’re very good. Which is why I don’t want to see you go.”
“When would she join the show?”
“If she joins the show, it’d be after the holidays.”
Silently I digest this. It’s hard to take in, and I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to feel, either, as I bounce between anger and denial.
“I know it’s a lot to think about,” he adds, “and we’ll talk more about this later. I just wanted you to be aware of the discussions we’re having here right now and some of the proposed changes for the New Year.” He stands, returns to his desk. “Now, if you’re going to make it to CNN on time, you’d better go. With Thanksgiving just a week away, traffic could be a bitch.”
I drive in a state of shock.
They’ve discussed replacing me. They’re interested in promoting Shelby from weekend host to weekday co-host. My God. I had no idea that for the past six months my future with HBC has been the subject of discussion. I know market studies are done all the time. Consultants are always being hired, brought in to revamp a show, make some changes, try a new direction. But until now, no one had had a problem with me.
Hands shaking, I call my agent. Max Orth is the reason I’m on a national syndicated TV show. My first job out of Stanford was in Boulder, Colorado, and I would stand on mountaintops during snowstorms and report on road closures and freeway pileups. I’d wait at the Boulder airport to interview family members reuniting after years of separation. I’d race to the outskirts of town when a body was found. And as much as I wanted to be a serious journalist, hard news stories and I never really clicked. Maybe I asked the wrong questions. Maybe I was too sympathetic. Inevitably my pieces came out soft, cozy, human interest. Pieces editors and producers derisively termed fluff.
It didn’t help that I looked fluffy, too. Beauty queen, they called me at the station, beauty queen with pageant hair.
Three months into my job with KKPQ, I cut my hair into a sleek, studious chestnut brown pageboy, and that was when big hair was fashionable. After six months, I overhauled my wardrobe and tossed out color. No bright blue blouses or greens. No red coats or pink scarves. Brown and black with gray. But even then the camera loved me, loved my light hazel eyes that looked gold in some light, greenish brown in others, my debutante high cheekbones, the dimples at the corner of my mouth.
Even though my pieces were fluff, the ratings went up at the station. We were just a little station, too, but KKPQ was a Fox affiliate and some of my pieces were picked up by other Fox affiliates. And before I knew how or why, I was sitting at the news desk as a weekend anchor, and then within a year I was hired away to co-host the morning news in Tucson.
It was in Tucson I met the two most influential men of my life: Keith, my future husband, who only ever saw the best in me. And Max, my future agent. Keith, ten years my senior, was a weathered, world-traveled, award-winning reporter working for CNN. We met on the scene of a devastating freeway accident—I still can’t stand to remember that one, as a mom and her two children died
that day.
And Max? Like everyone else, he saw the photo of me pressed to Keith’s casket after he was killed, and unlike everyone else, he didn’t call or send flowers. He flew in to Tucson to meet me. He said I was going to be big. He said I had a huge future.
I expect to get Max’s voice mail, but he answers. “Hey, doll, I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”
“Did you know Glenn was going to talk to me this afternoon about adding Shelby to the show?”
“I knew there’s been talk about making changes to the show.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because there was nothing to tell you, and I didn’t want to upset you without cause.”
The lights on Santa Monica blur. Cars stream past. I feel unbearably sad. “You should have warned me. I should have been prepared.”
“What did he say?”
“That my numbers are really down and it’s hoped that Shelby will help bring them back up.” I brake as the traffic light turns yellow and then red. “I don’t want to share the show with Shelby. It’s my show, and why Shelby of all people?”
“She’s twenty-eight, ten years younger than you, and she’s proactive. She’s already had her eyes done to look even fresher on camera.”
The horrible sick, sinking feeling is back. “Is that what this is about? My age?”
“For the record, I told you a year ago that a little work wouldn’t hurt you.”
He did, too.
I rest my elbow on the door and press my fingers to my temple. For the record, I heard him, and I didn’t ignore his advice last year. I consulted a dermatologist, and she recommended laser light treatment to stimulate the collagen in my face. She said it’d keep the skin around my eyes from growing too thin, and then I did a chemical peel to get rid of some of the finer lines.
“You should have listened to me then, babe.”
“I’m not into cutting and stretching, Max. That’s not me.”
“Then kiss away your career.”
“No one can make me do it.”
“No one can, no, but no one will renew your contract, either.” He sighs. “Come on, get real, you and I both know this industry. If you don’t renew your contract, you’ll be reduced to a celebrity correspondent for some cable show for a year or two until you’re too old for even that.”
