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“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?
Chapter Five
Max’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.
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 li
ked 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?”
