by Jane Porter
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Jane Porter
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
5 Spot
Hachette Book Group
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New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at www.HachetteBookGroup.com
www.twitter.com/grandcentralpub
First eBook Edition: July 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-55062-8
Contents
Copyright
Praise for the Novels of Jane Porter
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
About the Author
5 Steps to Ageless Beauty
Praise for the Novels of
Jane Porter
EASY ON THE EYES
“Jane Porter writes endlessly entertaining and yet deeply thoughtful novels. EASY ON THE EYES is a perceptive, tender page-turner—a joy to read.”
—Laura Caldwell, author of Red Hot Lies
“A page-turning novel about love, loss, friendship, aging, and beauty (not necessarily in that order). I couldn’t put it down.”
—Karen Quinn, author of Holly Would Dream and The Ivy Chronicles
“Jane Porter knows a woman’s heart as well as her mind. EASY ON THE EYES is a smart, sophisticated, fun read with characters you’ll fall in love with. Another winning novel by Jane Porter.”
—Mia King, national bestselling author of Good Things and Sweet Life
“Witty and observant—Tiana’s search for love and meaning amidst shallow celebrity will stay with you long after you’ve finished reading.”
—Berta Platas, author of Lucky Chica
“A fun, poignant story about searching for life and love on the other side of forty.”
—Beth Kendrick, author of The Pre-Nup
MRS. PERFECT
“Great warmth and wisdom… Jane Porter creates a richly emotional story.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Porter’s authentic character studies and meditations on what really matters make Mrs. Perfect a perfect… novel.”
—USA Today
“Thrills and laughs.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Porter scores another home run.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine
“Fans will appreciate Ms. Porter’s strong look at what happens to relationships when the walls come tumbling down.”
—Midwest Book Review
“More poignant than the standard mommy-lit fare.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Jane Porter understands women. This is the kind of book you’ll want to share with your best friend.”
—Melanie Lynne Hauser, author of Confessions of a Super Mom and Super Mom Saves the World
“Jane Porter strikes a fine balance in the follow-up to her hit Odd Mom Out, Mrs. Perfect, a novel about losing ‘The Good Life’ only to discover what the good life really is—funny, thought-provoking, affecting… and highly recommended.”
—Lauren Baratz-Logsted, author of Secrets of My Suburban Life and Vertigo
“Porter does a spectacular job of creating… characters that resonate in the hearts of moms everywhere.”
—South Jersey Mom
“Compulsively readable… a delicious treat.”
— BookReporter.com
“Real life hits trophy wife right in the Botox, in Porter’s empowering page-turner!”
—Leslie Carroll, author of Choosing Sophie and Play Dates
ODD MOM OUT
“Jane Porter nails it poignantly and perfectly. This mommy-lit is far from fluff. Sensitive characters and a protagonist who doesn’t cave in to the in-crowd give this novel its heft.”
—USA Today
“A poignant critique of mommy cliques and the plight of single parents.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Funny and poignant… delightful.”
—Stella Cameron
“Best of all is Porter’s take on mother-daughter dynamics.”
—Newport News Daily Press
“Odd Mom Out is an engaging tale that examines important issues of today’s world. Behind the entertaining, witty prose are insightful observations about real life.”
—Woodbury Magazine
“Marta is an intriguing heroine.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Keenly emotional and truly uplifting.”
—Booklist
FLIRTING WITH FORTY
“A terrific read! A wonderful, life-and love-affirming story for women of all ages.”
—Jayne Ann Krentz, New York Times bestselling author
“Calorie-free accompaniment for a poolside daiquiri.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Strongly recommended. Porter’s thoughtful prose and strong characters make for an entertaining and thought-provoking summer read.”
—Library Journal
Also by Jane Porter
Mrs. Perfect
Odd Mom Out
Flirting with Forty
The Frog Prince
For Mary Katherine Porter
My sister, inspiration, and best friend
Acknowledgments
Thank you as always to my superb agent, Karen Solem, who makes me believe I can do anything.
Thank you to my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, who works tirelessly on my behalf, nurturing every book from inception to publication.
To all at Grand Central Publishing, from the fantastic editorial department, to the creative minds in the art department, to savvy marketing, to my publicist Melissa Bullock, to the fantastic sales team— thank you for working so hard on my books’ behalf.
To Megan Crane, Liza Palmer, Lilian Darcy, and Christine Fugate, thank you for the hours and hours you spent reading this manuscript and generously sharing your time, talent, and opinions. I wouldn’t have found the end, or the middle, without you. I loved the brainstorm, the edits, and even the rants.
To my guy, Ty Gurney, and my boys, Jake and Ty Gaskins, thank you for giving me such a wonderful life away from the writing life. You make me feel very loved and happy.
And lastly, to my readers. Thank you for embracing my stories. You are the reason I write.
Chapter One
Tiana, how do you feel about a co-host?”
Only a couple minutes into the closed-door meeting with my boss, Glenn, the executive producer of America Tonight, and he drops that bombshell.
How can he be so casual about something so huge?
And something so bad?
“Co-host?” My voice doesn’t wobble, but I’m stunned. Horrified. For nearly six years I’ve been the sole host of the show. It’s a show that debuted with me as the host, a sh
ow that’s earned me the nickname America’s Sweetheart. “Why would I do that, when it’s my show?”
He hesitates, looks at me, thick sandy eyebrows shot with gray, before answering bluntly, “Your show’s in trouble.”
I silently count to five and speak only when I’m certain I’m perfectly in control. “You said it was a temporary blip. You told me twice in the past few months not to worry.”
“Unfortunately, I was wrong. The downward cycle hasn’t reversed, and the network wants changes. They’ve brought in outside consultants who’ve done extensive market studies. The consultants believe that the best approach is to bring in some young blood.”
The words young blood chill me.
I think of myself as a warrior. I’ve been to hell and back with the death of my family and then my husband. I’ve battled to build my career and sacrificed a personal life to be where I am today. But the one thing I can’t fight is time. I’m going to age. And apparently I already am.
But none of this matters. Nothing matters but ratings, stats, and demographics.
“Do you have any young blood in mind?” I ask, crossing one leg over the other under the hem of my bronze St. John skirt. I’d already changed for the Larry King Live interview and was just about to leave Horizon Broadcasting for the CNN studio in Hollywood when Glenn called me into his office.
“Shelby Patterson,” he says.
“Shelby?” My voice comes out strangled. I not only trained Shelby, I helped develop the weekend show for her because I thought she had so much promise. I was right. And they wonder why successful women are afraid to mentor younger women.
“Her weekend show has strong numbers,” he continues, “particularly with the younger viewers, demographics you desperately need.”
Desperately.
Young blood.
He and I are both wordsmiths, and these are not good words. This is not a good conversation. I’m in trouble.
My heart races and I press a hand to my lower rib cage as if I could slow the mad beating. Max, my agent, should be here. Max, my agent, should be defending me, protecting me. This is my career. My life. God knows I don’t have a life outside America Tonight. No husband, no kids, no hobbies or free time. Everything I have, everything I am, is invested in this show. “How good are Shelby’s numbers compared to mine?”
“She’s outperforming you by nearly twenty percent.”
Oh. Stunned, I suck in a quick, sharp breath. Those are unforgivable numbers in any business, but here, in the delicate world of television market share, that’s pretty much a catastrophe.
“We think the solution is to bring Shelby onto the weekday show and make Manuel the sole host for the weekend show. You and Shelby would be co-anchors, like Mary Hart and Mark Steines on Entertainment Tonight.” Glenn gets up from behind his desk and walks around to sit in the gray chair next to me. “Nothing’s been done yet. I just wanted to get a feel for your reaction before it became formal.”
I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. I feel as if I’m on a plane that’s going down and I can’t stop it. Can’t exit.
But I can escape this. I can survive. I just have to focus. Be calm, because I know how this goes. I’ve watched it happen a hundred times. You add a co-anchor to boost ratings and eventually the new young talent replaces the mature talent. I’m being phased out. He doesn’t need to say it, but if I’m not damn careful, this is the beginning of the end. “Have you considered other correspondents for the position? Like Manuel, for example?”
“He’s thirty-four. Shelby’s twenty-eight. She’s youthful. High energy. She’d bring a new dynamic to the weekly show and pull in some of those numbers we’ve lost.”
“You’re right, she’s great on camera, and she’s definitely high energy, but she doesn’t know how to write a story. She just delivers— ”
“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.”
