“We have writers who can write. We need charisma. Beauty. Poise. Charm. Youth.”
Youth. There it is again. Young blood, desperation, youth.
“I’m too old?” I ask quietly.
He squirms ever so slightly. He can’t answer that directly because he’d be sued, but he knows what I’m asking. “Our decisions
are dictated by the viewing public,” he says after a moment. “American audiences don’t mind watching mature men on television,
but they object to mature women. And by adding Shelby, we can keep you on camera.”
“You’ve considered replacing me, haven’t you?”
His expression changes, grows sympathetic. “I haven’t, no, but I can’t tell you that the subject hasn’t been discussed. You
are up for contract renewal in March.” He hesitates for a moment before adding, “You’re also expensive compared to Shelby.”
“That’s because I’m good,” I say, smiling, and that’s to hide the fact that my eyes are burning and I’m horrifically close
to tears.
I love my job. I
need
my job. I can’t imagine what I’d do or who I’d be without the show.
“You are good. You’re very good. Which is why I don’t want to see you go.”
“When would she join the show?”
“If she joins the show, it’d be after the holidays.”
Silently I digest this. It’s hard to take in, and I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to feel, either, as I bounce
between anger and denial.
“I know it’s a lot to think about,” he adds, “and we’ll talk more about this later. I just wanted you to be aware of the discussions
we’re having here right now and some of the proposed changes for the New Year.” He stands, returns to his desk. “Now, if you’re
going to make it to CNN on time, you’d better go. With Thanksgiving just a week away, traffic could be a bitch.”
I drive in a state of shock.
They’ve discussed replacing me. They’re interested in promoting Shelby from weekend host to weekday co-host. My God. I had
no idea that for the past six months my future with HBC has been the subject of discussion. I know market studies are done
all the time. Consultants are always being hired, brought in to revamp a show, make some changes, try a new direction. But
until now, no one had had a problem with me.
Hands shaking, I call my agent. Max Orth is the reason I’m on a national syndicated TV show. My first job out of Stanford
was in Boulder, Colorado, and I would stand on mountaintops during snowstorms and report on road closures and freeway pileups.
I’d wait at the Boulder airport to interview family members reuniting after years of separation. I’d race to the outskirts
of town when a body was found. And as much as I wanted to be a serious journalist, hard news stories and I never really clicked.
Maybe I asked the wrong questions. Maybe I was too sympathetic. Inevitably my pieces came out soft, cozy, human interest.
Pieces editors and producers derisively termed fluff.
It didn’t help that I looked fluffy, too. Beauty queen, they called me at the station, beauty queen with pageant hair.
Three months into my job with KKPQ, I cut my hair into a sleek, studious chestnut brown pageboy, and that was when big hair
was fashionable. After six months, I overhauled my wardrobe and tossed out color. No bright blue blouses or greens. No red
coats or pink scarves. Brown and black with gray. But even then the camera loved me, loved my light hazel eyes that looked
gold in some light, greenish brown in others, my debutante high cheekbones, the dimples at the corner of my mouth.
Even though my pieces were fluff, the ratings went up at the station. We were just a little station, too, but KKPQ was a Fox
affiliate and some of my pieces were picked up by other Fox affiliates. And before I knew how or why, I was sitting at the
news desk as a weekend anchor, and then within a year I was hired away to co-host the morning news in Tucson.
It was in Tucson I met the two most influential men of my life: Keith, my future husband, who only ever saw the best in me.
And Max, my future agent. Keith, ten years my senior, was a weathered, world-traveled, award-winning reporter working for
CNN. We met on the scene of a devastating freeway accident—I still can’t stand to remember that one, as a mom and her two
children died that day.
And Max? Like everyone else, he saw the photo of me pressed to Keith’s casket after he was killed, and unlike everyone else,
he didn’t call or send flowers. He flew in to Tucson to meet me. He said I was going to be big. He said I had a huge future.
I expect to get Max’s voice mail, but he answers. “Hey, doll, I was wondering when I’d hear from you.”
“Did you know Glenn was going to talk to me this afternoon about adding Shelby to the show?”
“I knew there’s been talk about making changes to the show.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because there was nothing to tell you, and I didn’t want to upset you without cause.”
The lights on Santa Monica blur. Cars stream past. I feel unbearably sad. “You should have warned me. I should have been prepared.”
“What did he say?”
“That my numbers are really down and it’s hoped that Shelby will help bring them back up.” I brake as the traffic light turns
yellow and then red. “I don’t want to share the show with Shelby. It’s my show, and why Shelby of all people?”
“She’s twenty-eight, ten years younger than you, and she’s proactive. She’s already had her eyes done to look even fresher
on camera.”
The horrible sick, sinking feeling is back. “Is that what this is about? My age?”
“For the record, I told you a year ago that a little work wouldn’t hurt you.”
He did, too.
I rest my elbow on the door and press my fingers to my temple.
For the record,
I heard him, and I didn’t ignore his advice last year. I consulted a dermatologist, and she recommended laser light treatment
to stimulate the collagen in my face. She said it’d keep the skin around my eyes from growing too thin, and then I did a chemical
peel to get rid of some of the finer lines.
“You should have listened to me then, babe.”
“I’m not into cutting and stretching, Max. That’s not me.”
“Then kiss away your career.”
“No one can make me do it.”
“No one can, no, but no one will renew your contract, either.” He sighs. “Come on, get real, you and I both know this industry.
If you don’t renew your contract, you’ll be reduced to a celebrity correspondent for some cable show for a year or two until
you’re too old for even that.”
“You’re saying I’d be washed up at forty if I don’t get work done.”
“I’m saying you’d definitely be washed up at forty if you don’t get work done. Because frankly, and this is coming as a friend
and as your agent, for your line of work, you’re looking old.”
Could he hit any harder? Could he hit any lower? My throat, already thick with emotion, threatens to swell closed. “Max, I’m
walking into CNN. I have to go.”
“Call me after the show.”
I hang up, blink. I can’t cry, it’d ruin my makeup and I’m about to go on live TV.
Besides, I’m not old. I’m only thirty-eight.
An
LKL
intern shows me to the green room, where I check my makeup in the bright lights to make sure it’s dark enough for the bright
lights on Larry’s set. I’m just applying a darker lip liner when the intern returns with another guest in tow. I look up,
into the mirror, as the intern and guest appear in the green room.
Dr. Hollywood.
My breath catches in my throat and my heart falls. Not him, not tonight. I can’t cope with him on a night like this. Gorgeous,
famous Michael O’Sullivan, plastic surgeon to the stars. And the hopefuls. And the has-beens.
Michael’s gaze meets mine in the mirror. He’s tall, dark, and handsome, which is such a waste of genetics, as I find him impossibly
shallow and superficial. He’s always being photographed at the big fund-raisers and parties and nearly always with a different
woman on his arm or at his side. I don’t like plastic surgeons, so you can imagine my loathing for a plastic surgeon who’s
also a player.
“Dr. O’Sullivan,” I say coolly.
“Tiana,” he answers with a mocking smile. “How are you?”
“Good.”
“I’m so glad.”
Theoretically he hasn’t said anything wrong, but I’m already gritting my teeth.
Why do I detest this man so much? Is it because he’s become a bigger celebrity than many of his celebrity patients? Or is
it the fact that last year he starred in his own reality show, appropriately named
Dr. Hollywood
? Or is it that he’s rich, ranked by
Los Angeles
magazine as one of the five wealthiest surgeons in Southern California, and I hate that he makes millions every year off
of women’s insecurities? Or more appalling,
People
magazine had the gall to make him one of their “50 Sexiest Bachelors” last year?
“And you look rested,” I said icily. “Is that Botox and self-tanner?”
Michael just laughs as though I’m an adorable child and heads to the refrigerator to retrieve a bottle of chilled water. He’s
wearing a dark, expensive suit, exquisitely tailored across the shoulders and through the chest. The man knows how to wear
a suit, and with his open-collared white shirt he looks effortlessly elegant, which I also resent.
He’s the only man I know who makes me feel emotional and impulsive. But then he’s also the only man I know who pokes fun at
me and my ambition.
Michael twists the cap off his water bottle. “One of my patients saw you on the Air France flight from Paris. Have a nice
trip?”
“I did, thank you.”
“What were you doing in Paris? Work or pleasure?”
“Pleasure. I went to see— ” I break off, stopping short of mentioning Trevor. I’ve been dating Scottish actor Trevor Campbell
for six months, and it’s not a secret, but I don’t want to talk about Trevor now, not with Dr. Hollywood, who is notorious
for dating skinny blondes with big boobs and cotton candy for brains.
“A friend?” Michael supplies, trying to keep a straight face. Why I amuse him is beyond me, but Michael thinks I’m hilarious,
and he has ever since our very first meeting nearly four years ago at a Christmas party somewhere. I don’t remember the party,
but I remember Michael. I thought he was gorgeous and funny, and then later someone told me he wasn’t Michael O’Sullivan but
Dr. O’Sullivan, and my heart sank. I loathe plastic surgeons, particularly plastic surgeons in Beverly Hills. They’re slick
doctors who like to position themselves as experts on aesthetics and the female form, using surgery to cut and sculpt an idealized
look that’s more Barbie doll than authentic beauty.
“Yes,” I answer, “he is a friend.” I don’t even realize I’ve lifted my chin until I catch my reflection in the mirror. Warm
brown hair, flushed cheeks, overly bright eyes. I look as excited as a gawky preteen talking to a cool boy.
I curse my transparency and head to the sink to wash my hands. “We must be on the same expert guest list,” I add crisply,
soaping my hands and rinsing them beneath hot water.
“How fortunate.” His lips twist. “We always have such great chemistry.”
I’ve faced Dr. O’Sullivan twice before on
Larry King Live,
and what we have is tension and dissension, not chemistry, great or otherwise. But for some reason, the
LKL
producers love to square us off, pitch one against the other, and even if an army of guests and experts has been booked,
the show’s fireworks always come down to Michael and me.
I reach for a paper towel. “At least we know each other’s positions.” My eyes meet his in the mirror. “You’ll talk about the
pressure doctors feel to make miracles and I’ll talk about the pressure celebrities feel to be young and beautiful.”
“And then you’ll get personal,” Michael adds, his voice dropping. “You always do.”
The suddenly husky note in his voice makes my stomach do a little flip. I’m rattled despite myself, and my cheeks burn hotter.
I hate how he throws me off balance. “Because you always defend the greedy doctors— ”
“That’s exactly what I mean. Why must doctors be greedy? Why can’t they be compassionate?”
My gut clenches even as my shoulders tighten. “Was Jenna Meadows’s surgeon compassionate? He performed the surgery out of
greed, and he subsequently destroyed her body.”
Michael folds his arms across his broad chest. “He advised her not to increase the size again.”
My eyebrow lifts. “So it’s her fault that the implant displaced?”
He doesn’t take the bait. “Jenna knew the risks. She had complications with her first augmentation, experiencing early capsular
contracture. There was additional surgery to remove scar tissue. She never was a good candidate for increasing to 650 mL.”
“Then the surgeon should have said no. He can say no, right? Or must the doctor dance every time a patient speaks?”
“We say no more often than you realize.”
“So why didn’t her doctor refuse?”
“Why did Jenna insist?” He looks down at me, dark lashes concealing his expression.
Impatiently, I crumple the paper towel and toss it away. I so wish I weren’t here. I so wish I were home in my sweats eating
a bowl of cereal. “But still, you have to admit your industry thrives on insecure people.”
“And your industry glorifies celebrities to a point that ordinary men and women feel ugly in comparison.”
“Well, thanks to Jenna’s botched surgeries she’ll never work again. Her breasts are completely disfigured.”
“No surgery is one hundred percent safe.”
“Ahem, kids, be nice,” Allie, the segment producer, admonishes as she sticks her head into the green room. “Are you two at
it already? You’re supposed to save it for the show, and it’s going to be a great show, too. Jenna’s on live feed from New
York, and one of the guys will grab you in five to get you miked. See you soon.”
She disappears, and Michael and I look at each other for a long moment before I reapply my lipstick. My hand shakes as I run
the color across my lips.
“Want some water?” he asks me. “It’ll help cool you down.”
I shoot him a sharp glance. “I’m not hot.”