by Jane Porter
“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.”
“No need for false modesty, Tiana. You’re America’s Sweetheart. Queen of tabloid news.”
For a moment, I can think of absolutely nothing to say. Is he paying me a compliment? Even if in a roundabout way?
Then I see his expression. Michael’s making fun of me.
Embarrassed, I snap the cap on the tube of lipstick, toss
it into my makeup bag, and zip it closed.
What a jerk. He’s such a jerk. Michael O’Sullivan personifies everything I despise.
One of the LKL production assistants retrieves us from the green room and escorts us to the studio’s soundstage. As we walk, I smooth my skirt and tug down the fitted knit jacket. Bronze is supposed to be a good color for me— brings out the gold in my eyes— but only now do I remember it’s not a great color for the LKL set.
Oh, hell.
Suddenly I’m exhausted. The twelve-hour flight has caught up with me. I should be home showering and getting ready for bed. I should be anywhere but here, getting ready to spar with Michael O’Sullivan on Larry King Live.
On the set, the sound technician runs the microphone cords up beneath our jackets and clips the head to our lapels. Larry had been going over some notes, but seeing us, he walks over to shake Michael’s hand and give me a kiss on the cheek.
“We just got word that Jenna’s not going to be on tonight,” he says. “Her lawyer advised her not to do it, so it’s going to be just the three of us and then we’ll open the phone lines.”
“Great.” I muster a smile. “We’ll still have a good show.”
Larry wags a finger at me. “Working too hard again? You’re looking tired.”
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.”
