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There are cheers, and Tom is accepting congratulations at his table, and as he stands and heads for the stage, people continue to clap.
I’m clapping, too, yet I’m suddenly sorry that Trevor didn’t win.
Twenty minutes later, I duck out the back and head for the ladies’ room. My gorgeous dress is so snug that it makes using the bathroom a challenge. I’m just exiting the ladies’ room when a hand lands on my shoulder.
I turn.
It’s Trevor. He’s golden and bronze and devastatingly handsome in his tux with a drink in his hand. He smiles, and it’s all white teeth flashing, but there’s no warmth in his eyes. “Max said you were coming. Enjoying yourself?”
He’s definitely had a few drinks. I smile, but I’m wary. “It’s been fun.”
“Happy for Tom?”
“I was hoping you’d win,” I answer.
“Of course you were. You’re such a fan.”
I smile tightly. “It was good to see you, Trevor. Best of luck— ”
He grabs my arm. “You’re the lowest of the low. Celebrity leech. A bottom-feeder— ”
“Let go.”
But he won’t. He grips my arm tighter. “You only mattered because I made you matter— ”
I finally wrench free. “Good-bye, Trevor.” I walk away as quickly as I can, conscious of the cameramen in the lobby.
Trevor’s either too drunk or too angry to care. He shouts after me, his voice filling the hall: “You need help, Tiana. You’re sick! You know that, don’t you? You’re sick.”
I’m shaking as I return to the table, yet I keep a smile fixed on my face as I take my seat, aware that I’m sitting surrounded by members of the foreign press. Peter stands as I sit, and I turn my smile on him and thank him. Yet inwardly I’m just stunned. Trevor’s behavior wasn’t just hurtful, it was frightening. Aggressive. Nothing like the man I dated for six months. How strange to think that just weeks ago we were a couple. And then boom! It all fell apart. I didn’t even see it coming. Tabloid sensation to tabloid disaster.
Peter’s hand brushes mine. “Are you all right?” he asks me.
I nod. “Wonderful,” I answer with a dazzling smile before leaning forward to hear the joke one of the Finnish journalists is telling.
Bright, shiny, happy, I tell myself over and over during the next hour and a half.
That’s all I have to be, that’s all I have to do. And it’s a good thing I’ve had fifteen years of broadcasting, nearly six of those on national TV, because if there’s one thing I can do well, it’s fake a bright, shiny, happy mood.
My composure holds during the drive home. Peter thanks me for attending the awards, claiming that all the other tables of foreign press were insane with envy. They had to sit with one another’s ugliness, but he had the beautiful Tiana Tomlinson at his table.
As the limousine pulls up in front of my house, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “Gemutlichkeit.” He looks into my eyes, my hand still in his. “This is what I wish for you.”
I know the word. It’s a German noun that means cozy, happy, peaceful, well-being. It’s used to describe a warm family room or a wonderful holiday like at Christmas. But it’s also a personal state of being, like a state of grace where everything is warm and cheerful, happy and good.
He is wishing for me all things good.
A lump forms in my throat, and I squeeze his hand back and lean forward to kiss his cheek. “Danke. Thank you.”
Then I’m walking the short distance from the curb to my front door and letting myself into my house.
My shoes are off right away, and then, dress swishing, I lock up, turn off lights, and head to my bedroom to get out of my clothes. It’s not easy. In fact, it might be impossible. Shannon hooked and zipped and stitched me into this gown, and now I can’t get it off.
I’m beginning to sweat as I struggle to reach the second zipper. I want out of the gown. The bodice is tight and my waist is squeezed, and I try and try to twist around and find a way to open the gown without tearing it— but there’s no way to get it over my head or down my hips, not without the zipper unfastened and the hooks undone.
Where is the second zipper? Why won’t the hooks open?
Hot and frustrated, I tug at the fabric. I tug and tug and hear threads snapping, seams threatening to give way, and I let out a frustrated cry.
I’ve had enough. Really, I’ve had enough.
I got drunk and threw myself at Michael last night. Trevor humiliated me tonight. And now I can’t get out of my dress.
Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. I wrestle with the gown, absolutely ruthless. With a violent yank, I manage to pull it over my hips. I ignore the tearing sound. I keep twisting, wriggling, right, left, arms up, pinned to my head.
I hate this, all of it. The dress. The shame. My life. When did I become the stuff of jokes? When did I become ridiculous?
Hot, flushed, I finally yank it over my head and toss it onto the bed.
I see myself in the full-length mirror, red-faced, eyes watering. I’ve lost weight these past few weeks, and my hips are gone again and I’m back to very thin, which looks sexy and svelte in a size two awards show gown, but naked I feel freakish.
Big head. Skinny body. Flesh-colored plunging bra and thong against a dark bronze spray-on tan.
All this primping and pimping. Hundreds of hours, and thousands of dollars, spent to look glossy and flawless on camera, as if real women are glossy and flawless.
As if Hollywood is about real women.
I go to the bathroom to wash off my flawless face. The mascara runs down my cheeks in inky rivulets. It’s a hideous moment, a moment of complete and utter self-loathing, and then I stop it. I stop the hurt and the self-hate.
I am not this. I am so much more.
For the first time in weeks I sleep soundly, sleeping all the way until eight-forty. I wake up and roll over and feel a moment of utter well-being. And then I remember who I am and where I am and the status of my life.
But before I spend any time thinking, I’m definitely going to need coffee.
Maria, my housekeeper, doesn’t arrive until ten, so I have time to sit on my couch and be lazy. Coffee and papers in hand, I sit on the living room couch and open the papers, flipping to the entertainment section for a round-up of last night’s awards. But along with the awards is a photo of Trevor, his face contorted. SUPERSTAR MELTDOWN! reads the headline.
Heart thudding, I skim the short text. Apparently, an intrepid photographer caught the interchange betwe
en Trevor and me.
If this made the paper, it probably made the morning news. I turn on the TV and flip through channels, checking to see if any of the morning shows are discussing last night’s awards ceremony.
Live with Regis and Kelly at nine a.m. does not disappoint me. The opening dialogue is all about the Golden Globes. They mention some of the stars in attendance along with those notably absent. Regis mentions a beautiful gown Jennifer Aniston wore. Kelly cracks a joke about the number of babies Angelina wore.
“But the big news last night was Trevor Campbell’s meltdown,” Regis segues, turning to face Kelly. “You saw it?”
“I did. Ouch!” Kelly pulls a face. “I bet Trevor Campbell never expected that to end up on the national news.”
Regis shakes his head. “I admit, I feel for Tiana Tomlinson. But she handled herself like a lady.”
Kelly’s expression grows earnest. “This is a tough business, Reg. Not a lot of love or loyalty at times.”
“We both know her, don’t we?”
“She’s been a guest host here on the show with you, hasn’t she, Reg?”
“Several times.”
“You liked her.”
“Great host. Lovely lady.”
Kelly leans forward and speaks to the camera. “Tiana, we just want you to know we’re on your side.”
Regis crosses his arms over his chest. “And you’re welcome back anytime. Come see us. We love you.”
They cut to a commercial and I sit on the couch, thinking but not thinking, feeling but not feeling.
They were good to me. They didn’t beat me up. If anything, they protected me.
Emotion washes through me. They didn’t have to be nice.
But I’m glad they were.
Glenn calls just before noon and asks if I can meet him for lunch. “I’d like to talk to you. Could you meet me at the Terrace at one?”
