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This week I start the plastic surgery feature interviews, and I’m only halfway done with the celebrity tradition segments, too. Several years ago, I interviewed stars about their favorite holiday memories and family traditions, and viewers loved them so much that the holiday stories became a show fixture. The only drawback to the celeb segments is that we shoot them close to the holidays in the celebs’ houses and hotels to capture the season, and it means rushing all over the city with our cameraman in hellish traffic when everyone’s temper is painfully short.
We have a sixty-minute production meeting at nine, followed by an in-studio interview with Harry Connick Jr., where he shares with me his Christmas traditions in his beloved New Orleans. I change into a different outfit, fix my makeup, and have my hair touched up before Mike, my favorite cameraman, and I race across town to meet Dennis Quaid and his wife, Kimberly. I have Mike film Dennis and Kimberly playing with the twins in front of the Christmas tree before Dennis sits down with me to share his holiday memories.
We’re back at the studio by noon. I tape another segment with Dwayne Johnson, aka the Rock, at twelve-thirty, and this isn’t a celeb holiday tradition story, but an in-depth interview promoting his new film.
We wrap Dwayne’s interview in time for me to tape tonight’s show, and then it’s another wardrobe change, back to hair and makeup, and then I’m on our festive stage, shivering in the cold in my flirty dress and strappy four-inch-heel sandals, and we’re filming segments for the hiatus show.
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.
Chapter Nine
Home, 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.”
