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Ouch. Two hits tonight. I’m aging and I look tired. My God, these men are brutal.
“Too much fun in Paris,” I say, fighting for a cheeky smile, projecting as much youthful zest as I can. “Probably should have slept on the way home instead of working all through the flight.”
“Good trip, though?” Larry asks as we take our seats on the stools around the set table.
“It was great.” I catch Michael’s arched eyebrow and turn my head away. His picture should be next to the definition of “annoying” in the dictionary.
The technician steps over to adjust my mike. Someone else powders Larry’s nose and smoothes down a stray hair. Michael just sits there in his dark suit, cool as a cucumber. I bet the man doesn’t even sweat. He’s probably Botoxed his armpits to keep from perspiring.
A minute until we go live.
Larry chats with Michael about his wife and their plans for the holidays. He wants a white Christmas and cozy fire. She wants beaches and sun and time by the pool.
I can’t believe the holidays are already approaching again. Is Thanksgiving really just a week away?
Thirty seconds until we go live.
As a kid, I loved Thanksgiving. I don’t anymore. I hate being alone on Thanksgiving, but even worse is crashing Shey’s family celebration like an orphan. An orphan…
Fifteen seconds.
I take a deep breath, sit straighter, shoulders squared.
Ten seconds. Larry smiles at me. I smile back. Piece of cake.
Five seconds.
Michael leans toward me. “If you need any recommendations for a good plastic surgeon, just call me. I’ll get you squared away.”
And we’re live.
Asshole.
Chapter Two
I leave the building, shoulders slouched, absolutely exhausted.
That was a disaster, I think, unbuttoning the top button of my jacket and exhaling hard.
Michael made mincemeat of me. I don’t know how he did it, either. He’s never bested me before. Maybe I didn’t feel enough sympathy for Jenna Meadows. Maybe I was preoccupied with Glenn’s devastating news. But still, I’m a professional. I can’t lose focus, not on national TV.
I drive home without seeing anything, drive lost in my world of disbelief. First Glenn drops his bomb and then Michael pummels me. Ridiculous.
Hard to believe that only two days ago I returned from Paris and felt as if I were on top of the world. Now here it is Thursday night and I’m facing what? Unemployment?
Fighting panic, at the next red light I text Shey in New York to see if she’s still awake: “R u up?”
Shey is one of my closest friends, and we go way back, all the way to our high school days when we met in boarding school in Monterey County. Back then we were the Three Amigos. It was Shey, Marta, and me. And we were tight, really tight, and we still are, although due to the fact that we live in separate corners of the country, we don’t see as much of each other as we’d like.
My phone rings almost immediately. It’s Shey. Shey’s a former model and co-owns Expecting Models, an agency in Manhattan devoted to pregnant models and new-mom models. She still models from time to time, and she deals with image all the time. I think she’d relate to my conflicted feelings.
“Tell me I didn’t wake you,” I beg her, knowing that as I am the only unmarried left, we have very different schedules and demands.
“It’s not even ten here, sugar, and I’m a night owl,” Shey drawls into the phone, her Texas accent still present, although not nearly as strong as it was when she arrived at St. Pious as a willowy sixteen-year-old. “How are things?”
“Crazy busy.” I hesitate, dig my nails into my Jaguar’s leather steering wheel. “And just a word of warning, I’m pissed off, so you’re going to hear me rant.”
“Has Marta already been subjected to the rant?”
“No, I called you first. Marta won’t be sympathetic, not to this.”
“Ah, it’s about your love life then.”
“No, although that needs help, too.” I pause, searching for the right words. “It’s my face.”
She smothers a laugh. “What’s wrong with your face?”
“Exactly.” Hard to believe I’m even having this conversation and I clench the steering wheel tighter. “There’s nothing wrong with my face and I think it’s bullshit, absolute bullshit, that they’re even pulling this on me.”
“Who? What?”
“The studio heads. They want to promote Shelby to co-anchor.” Just saying the words aloud makes me sick.
She hesitates. “Isn’t Shelby the host for the weekend show?”
“Yes, and she apparently has phenomenal ratings.”
Another hesitation, and this coming from Little Miss Ray of Sunshine. “How are yours?”
“Not so good.” I take a deep breath. “And Glenn didn’t come out and give me any specifics other than Shelby’s young and fresh and high energy.”
Shey is quiet a moment. “Maybe they just want to shake the format up, try something new after six years.”
“Maybe.”
“Or maybe they don’t want to replace you but they want a younger, fresher you.” She seems to be choosing her words with care. “Have you considered that this might be their way of telling you it’s time to get some work done?”
I never thought of it quite like that. But it’s possible. I’m not wrinkly, but my face is softer than it used to be. I’ve noticed at certain angles there’s definitely a bit of a droop near my mouth. If I’m smiling it’s not a problem, it’s just when I’m caught without expression. “I don’t suppose they could come out and say get a face-lift, or else.”
“It’d be illegal, and discriminatory, but it might be what’s behind the drop in ratings.”
“No way. People aren’t that shallow. My viewers tune in for me. They’re women like me. They can’t expect me to never age— ”
“Oh, sugar,” she interrupts softly, “you of all people can’t play ostrich.”
“What does that mean?”
“You know what it means. It means you’re in an image business and image is king. It always has been, always will be.”
“So you think I need work done?” I demand belligerently.
“As a woman? No. As a friend? Never. As one of America’s most watched faces? Maybe.”
“No!”
“TV, media, magazines, it’s all a numbers game. Ratings equal advertisers. Advertisers equal profitability. Profitability equals livelihood. I’ll tell you the same thing I tell my models— you do what you’ve got to do to stay alive.”
I exhale, hard. So it’s not my imagination. Those droops do show. People are noticing. How infuriating bec
ause I don’t feel old. I don’t feel droopy or flabby. I feel amazing. At least I felt amazing. “A face-lift?”
“Not a full lift, sugar. Maybe just the eyes, and some filler to soften the lines around your mouth and plump the hollows beneath your eyes.”
Idling at yet another red light, I snap down my visor and open the mirror to inspect my reflection. I frown. Hard. A few lines appear around my eyes, but nothing significant. “But it’s not absolutely necessary, is it? I don’t look bad— ”
“Of course you don’t look bad. You’re Tiana Tomlinson, and you’ve been in People magazine’s ‘Most Beautiful People’ issue how many times? Three?”
“Four,” I correct in a small voice. “And the last time was just two years ago— ”
“But you and I both know that two years is a long time in this business. And face it, Tits,” Shey says, using my high school nickname, Tits, short for Tiana Irene Tomlinson, “highdefinition TV has changed the game. Until recently, great makeup and lighting camouflaged a multitude of sins, but not anymore. Every wrinkle, every pimple, shows. I’m going through this with my models. It’s not just you.”
I’d love to argue, but I can’t. I am where I am because of my face. My curiosity, tenacity, and smarts made me a good journalist. But it was my photogenic properties that propelled me to bigger and more successful networks, eventually resulting in my current position. Sad as it sounds, Max wouldn’t have found me appealing on Keith’s casket if I weren’t attractive.
“Tiana, if that’s what the studio is saying, I’d listen.” She hesitates. “Unless you want out?…”
Out? Out to where? Out to what? I’m thirty-eight and single. All I have is my career. Since Keith died I’ve poured myself into my work, and I love my work. I live for my job. It’s who I am.
My phone beeps. I’ve got an incoming call. I check the name and number. Max. “Shey, it’s my agent to give me more doom and gloom.”
“Talk to him and call me later if you want to chat some more.”
