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“I do remember seeing a very nice white wine chilling in the fridge. Let’s say we open that.”
I smile, grateful that he’s allowing us to move on and away from this painful subject. “Yes, please.”
I don’t return from Laguna Beach until close to ten. At Christie’s insistence I’ve brought home a plastic container filled with turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and gravy, along with another container of pie. Upon entering my house, I go straight to the kitchen to put away the leftovers.
I change for bed, wash my face, and as I apply the necessary lotions and potions to keep Father Time at bay— lotions and potions more critical now than ever before— I think about the conversation I had with Michael on the balcony. It was a Michael I’d never seen before. A Michael I hadn’t known existed.
But maybe it was just a facade. Maybe that was smooth, charming Dr. Hollywood talking. The man who can sweet-talk any woman into doing any procedure. I don’t want to ever fall for a man who’s superficial. Keith had substance. If I ever fall in love again, it’s going to be with a man of substance, too.
Still mulling over our conversation, I think about the men I’ve dated since Keith’s death. There haven’t been many. I didn’t date for years after his death, and then when I started to go out again, it was brutal. Painful. Obviously no one was going to be Keith, but no one came even remotely close to having his wit, intellect, and passion.
But I promised Shey and Marta that I’d keep trying. I told them if I was asked out, I’d go out, at least once. Few men lasted more than a single date, although there were a few who became brief relationships.
The entertainment lawyer I saw for three weeks. The retired football player for two months. The UCLA heart surgeon for a month. The Laguna Beach artist for five months. Trevor.
Trevor.
I make a face at myself in the mirror. And Trevor isn’t exactly the answer to my dreams, either, is he? But maybe that’s the point. As long as I date men who are lightweights, I’m protected. As long as I date men who don’t touch my heart, I won’t get hurt.
Better not to hurt.
Better to just keep killing time.
Or so I try to convince myself as I get into bed and turn out the light.
I’m relieved when Monday comes because it means I can go back to work. After four days off, I need to work, and after arriving in Century City, I discover Celia is at the studio today, filming a segment that will be taped to air tonight. Once every two weeks she comes in and does a feature on celebrity lifestyle just the way I appear on Larry King as a celebrity expert. I find it ironic that so many of us in this industry make a living being celebrity experts.
Celia pops into my office when she’s done. She stopped by earlier, but I was still in a production meeting then.
Celia spots the pile of books on the corner of my desk. “Beauty Junkies: The Smart Woman’s Guide to Plastic Surgery and Secrets of a Beverly Hills Plastic Surgeon.” She looks up at me. “Thinking of getting some work done?”
“No.” Yes.
She sits in a chair, props her boots up on the edge of my desk with a decisive plunk, and studies me. “How was your weekend?”
There’s a note in her voice that tells me it’s not a casual question. I look up, into her eyes. “Good.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, why?”
For a moment there’s only silence in my office, and then Celia reaches over to her bag and draws out a magazine page and hands it to me. “Thought you deserved fair warning.”
“What is it?” I ask even as I look at the photo. It’s a blown-up picture of me behind the wheel of my car. The photo’s been taken through my windshield, but you can still see that my face is puffy and my nose is red and there are traces of tears on my cheek.
“Heartbroken and Betrayed!” screams the red caption above the photo, and yes, I do look devastated in the picture.
I frown, trying to figure out when the photo was taken. I’m wearing my brown Michael Kors blouse and a turquoise, coral, and silver necklace. Thanksgiving. I was on my way to Christie’s.
“It’s in this week’s issue. It’ll hit the stands tomorrow. I thought you’d want to know. Sorry.”
I don’t answer, as I’m reading the story’s subtitle: “A heartbroken Tiana flees her house after discovering that boy toy Trevor Campbell is sleeping with Kiki Woods!”
“This is ridiculous,” I protest. “It’s totally untrue. There’s nothing wrong between Trevor and me— ”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“This,” I say, shaking the photo, “is private. I was sad about something that’s personal that has nothing to do with Trevor. You can’t run this.”
“It’s done.”
“It’s a fabrication!”
“You’re sure?”
“Goddammit, yes!” I almost never yell, but I do now, and I slap the article onto my desk so hard that my hand stings. Madison suddenly pops her head around the corner, and I give my head a slight shake. She wisely disappears. “Celia…” I drop my voice. “Trevor and I are fine.”
“OK! magazine is running a story this week with photos of Trevor and Kiki frolicking on a yacht.”
“So?”
“Kiki’s topless.”
I don’t say anything.
Celia gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, and maybe I shouldn’t have told you, but I wanted you to be prepared.”
My hand shakes as I read the article to appear in People. There’s not much to the story other than I am apparently devastated after learning through an unnamed source that Trevor’s been having a hot affair with his sexy co-star. “They couldn’t keep their hands off each other,” the source adds.
It doesn’t even matter if the story is true or not, it’s humiliating knowing that millions of readers will see it and believe it.
Celia waits for me to say something.
In the end, I crumple up the tear sheet and toss it away. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Celia leaves, and I’m called to the soundstage to go through the show one last time. They keep the studio at a chilly forty-seven degrees because once the lights go on, the temperature rises, and even though I’m wearing a sweater over my slim knit dress, my teeth keep chattering.
I’m always cold on the set before the lights go on, but this morning I’m absolutely freezing. I know it’s not just the cold studio getting to me. It’s Celia’s revelation. Is Trevor seeing Kiki? If so, why wouldn’t he just tell me? Why wouldn’t he just break things off with me first?
I tried to call Max after Celia left, but he was tied up in a meeting so I left a message. I tried to call Trevor, but he wasn’t answering his phone, either.
I force my attention back to the teleprompter, making sure I’m familiar with the names and introductions, but I can’t stay focused.
Trevor isn’t sleeping with Kiki.
Trevor isn’t involved with Kiki.
Trevor’s seeing me.
The stage director gives me the signal that we’re ready to tape, so I peel off my cardigan sweater and hand it to Harper, who is standing off to the side with her clipboard and headphones.
Vanessa, my makeup artist, is called to touch up my décolleté with a hint of bronzing powder. She strokes the brush across my cheekbones, complaining that I’m too pale. “You’re not coming down sick, are you?” she asks, brushing another light dusting of bronzer down my nose and then across each of my shoulders.
“No.”
“It’s that time of year, so start taking lots of vitamin C, zinc, and echinacea.”
I promise her I will, and she steps off the stage. The floor director signals that we’re a minute away.
