by Jane Porter
I hang up on Shey to take Max’s call as I pull up in front of my house. “It’s got to be upsetting, doll,” Max says.
I sit outside my house, engine still running. There’s not much curb appeal to my house, other than the trailing hot pink bougainvillea, but the facade isn’t the appeal. It’s what lies on the other side of the exterior wall that I love: 3 bedrooms, 2.5 baths, 1932 Mediterranean-style home with high-pitched beamed ceilings, wood-burning fireplace, terraces and balconies on a secluded woodland lot with views of the city and canyon. I fell in love with the house the moment the agent opened the front door. Unfortunately it’s always so empty once I step inside.
“Upsetting is putting it mildly,” I answer tightly, feeling so angry and yet unable to articulate any of it. I’m not good at expressing my feelings. I’m a doer, not a dreamer. If I want something, I go for it. And I have gone for it, heart, mind, body, and soul. I worked night and day to make America Tonight a top-rated show. How can that suddenly mean nothing? How can I suddenly be worth so much less?
“But you know nothing’s done, no decision has been made. You said Glenn was just testing the water.”
I put the car into park, turn off the engine. My street’s narrow and dark without my headlights. My head aches and I press my fist to my temple to stifle the pain. “I don’t want to share the job with anyone. It’s my job, my show.”
I realize that sounds arrogant, but I’m on call 24/7. When I’m not taping a story, I’m researching, writing, following up on leads. And when it’s not America Tonight–related, I’m usually speaking somewhere to some group. My speaking schedule just gets busier, too. Everyone wants to hear my story, how I’m a veritable phoenix from the ashes.
People can’t get enough of my life story. American girl achieves the American dream. Only I’m not your typical American girl. My father was American, but my mother was South African, and I was raised in South Africa. It’s where my mom and dad settled after they married. It’s where home once was.
But the public knows nothing about my childhood. They just see the face on TV, hear the accent I’ve developed, and they embrace me. I could be them. One day I was just a lifestyle reporter for a paper in Tucson, and then months later I was host of a new national television show. That’s the Cinderella story the public loves, rags to riches, nobody to somebody.
“If it does come to job sharing,” I continue flatly, “I don’t want to share the job with a woman ten years younger than I am who will just make me look even older by comparison.”
“That’s a good point. But it sounds like they’re serious about improving the ratings— ”
“Oh, they are. I don’t doubt that. But there have to be other options. We haven’t even discussed those. Glenn didn’t seem interested in those. But I suppose I could look into getting some work done.” My voice cracks. “Or we could bring on a co-host who’s not a younger woman. Maybe we bring on a younger man. All I know is, it can’t be Shelby. I can’t lose my job to my protégée.”
I don’t sleep well that night. I toss and turn and strategize. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being orphaned at fourteen, it’s that only the strong survive. Punching my pillows, I vow to survive. I will survive.
I just need a plan.
The next morning, brittle with fatigue, I arrive at the studio’s conference room at eight fifty-five with my hair still damp and my new Paris mug filled with coffee. Every morning, the writers and producers meet for an hour to plan the day’s show, but Fridays are big planning sessions and I usually attend those.
Although I’m five minutes early, most of the team has already arrived. I sit at my place at the end of the board table. Glenn always takes the opposite end, and the writers and segment producers take seats in between.
I chat with the staffers sitting around the table. Mark, Jeffrey, and Libby have been with the show several years. Harper’s been here only two months. Glenn’s the only one missing. And then he arrives. With Shelby in tow.
What’s Shelby doing here?
I stiffen as they enter the room, my shoulders tensing. Glenn looks like his harried, rumpled self, while Shelby is immaculate in a pink Chanel-style suit, her sleek blond hair a shade lighter than the last time I saw her.
Shelby spots me, wiggles her fingers, and smiles.
“Good morning, everyone,” Glenn greets us as he pulls forward one of the empty chairs so it sits next to his. He rolls out the chair for Shelby. She gives him a grateful smile. I try not to throw up in my mouth.
Glenn looks at me. I hold his gaze. He doesn’t appear the least bit apologetic, which just makes me angrier.
When I flew out to Paris a week ago, I was on cloud nine. I felt strong and successful, beautiful and invincible. I had a young, hot boyfriend. An exciting life. A challenging career.
It was all a mirage.
Glenn starts the meeting right away. But it doesn’t take long for me to feel the strongest sense of déjà vu. I swear to God we just do the same stories over and over, even though the writers and producers change.
Does Katie Holmes feel too much pressure as Mrs. Tom Cruise?
Is Nicole Richie starving herself again?
Is Angelina adopting again?
Instead of listening, I find myself watching Shelby. On the surface she’s sweet and glamorous, always immaculate, hair and makeup constantly camera ready. She’s obviously a lot smarter than I gave her credit for, because she’s here, in my show planning session, and she’s the one who execs want to co-anchor with me.
Just thinking about the proposed change in format makes my chest squeeze tight. I’m feeling so much anxiety and fear, it’s hard to breathe. Why didn’t Glenn tell me just how bad the ratings were before? Why didn’t Max insist on getting those numbers? I used to study the reports all the time. It was the first thing I did when I arrived in the morning. But I’ve gotten comfortable. I’ve lost that edge that made me hungry like Shelby.
“Tia?” Glenn prompts. “I like the idea. What about you?”
I try to remember what Mark was talking about before Glenn’s question, before I zoned out. What was it?
The lesbian prison wedding scandal. Right.
“Do we really need to do this story?” I ask, keeping my tone friendly because I don’t want to step on Mark’s toes, and Mark is very tight with Shelby. But really, lesbian prison wedding scandal? “I can’t help but think it’s too National Enquirer for us. We are news— ”
“Human interest news,” Mark jumps in, protective of his story. “And this is colorful. Six guards have been disciplined, and two of those might lose their jobs. And then there are the brides— they’ve been separated, punished, because prisoners are forbidden to have sexual relations with each other.”
It’s all I can do to not shudder. “I think it’s beneath us,” I try again. “It turns my stomach.”
“It’s a good story,” Mark says defensively, “and with the right tease we’d get a huge audience.”
“I love it,” Shelby interrupts. “Can I do it?”
I don’t even try to hide my shock. “Are you serious, Shelby?”
“Why not?” She shrugs. “It’s heartwarming.”
“It’s not heartwarming. It’s bizarre, and we’d only be running it for shock value. If we want real human interest stories, I have plenty I’d like to do— ”
“Like one of your feel-good stories that touch the heart?” Mark asks sarcastically, getting a laugh from everyone.
“Which our viewers need a lot more than sensationalistic pieces like lesbian weddings and prison scandals.” I check my tone, soften my voice. “How will this benefit anyone? Will our viewers feel more empowered? Happier? More at peace?”
“We’re not a yoga center,” Mark says, tapping his pen impatiently. “And if viewers want to be uplifted, enlightened, or empowered, they can head to The Seven Hundred Club.”
“It’s all about ratings,” Shelby adds as though I’m an intern and she’s here to show me the ro
pes.
I smile, although on the inside I’m anything but sunny. There is no way in hell I will share the anchor position with this woman. I turn to Glenn. “I don’t want to do this story on my show.”
“I already said I’ll do it.” Shelby’s giving me the same smile I just gave her. The gloves are off. She’s not my protégée anymore. She’s my competition and she’s gunning for my job.
“Thanks, Shelby, but as you know, the weekend show isn’t in trouble,” Mark replies. “We’re all here trying to figure out how to save Tiana’s ass.”
The conference room falls silent. Everyone looks at Mark and then Shelby and then Glenn. But not one person looks at me.
The silence stretches, endless. Jeff coughs. Shelby studies her nails. Harper shuffles paperwork. And I stare at Mark until he finally turns to meet my gaze.
“What was that?” I ask quietly.
He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, Tiana. Your numbers have been crap all year and you know it— ”
“Glenn, may I have a word with you?” I say, interrupting Mark and looking at him hard. “Everyone, can you give us five minutes?”
Glenn doesn’t speak, but everyone’s on their feet and heading for the door. I may have lackluster ratings, but I still have clout. I wait for everyone to file out.
“Glenn, what’s going on?” I demand as the door closes. “What is Shelby doing here?”
“The execs thought it’d be a good idea to have her sit in, get familiar with the weekday format.”
“Why?”
“We had this conversation last night.”
“Yes, and last night you said nothing had been decided, which made me believe an offer hadn’t yet been made.”
“Not officially, no.”
My stomach’s in knots again. This is bad, and it’s getting worse. “So what’s the unofficial word?”
Glenn holds my gaze. We have this odd love-hate relationship, and it’s been this way for the past six years. He’s good at what he does. “You can’t carry the show anymore.”
“So that’s it? I’m toast?”
“You’re not toast.”
“I am if you haven’t even given me a chance to address the problems and you’ve turned control over to someone else— ”
“We need input.”
“Great, then come to me. Talk to me. Ask me. Instead you’ve spent months telling me everything’s fine, when nothing’s fine. You insisted it was temporary, a blip, and even though I asked if we could sit down and brainstorm some ideas, you said no, not to worry.” I swallow hard. “But I should have worried.” I realize now how irresponsible it was not to worry.
Why did I stop being proactive with my career?
Why did I think I was secure?
Glenn leans back in his chair. “You don’t like the party piece, or the prison wedding scandal. You don’t like the stories that the viewers do.”
“What happened to real news, Glenn? We don’t even attempt news stories anymore.”
“America loves its celebrities.”
“And children love sweets. But that doesn’t mean we let babies eat only candy.”
He smiles.
“Glenn, do you know how long it’s been since we did a really interesting story? One that made people feel? One that made people care?”
“Is this about your Alicia Keys profile again, because I did run it by the heads, but they don’t think a story about antiretroviral medicine will help the ratings.”
“You didn’t even let me present the idea.”
“AIDS stories overwhelm your average American.”
“It might overwhelm us, but it’s killing Africa!”
He just looks at me.
“Glenn, we’ll run stories on how young Hollywood parties, but we won’t show Alicia Keys’s involvement with Keep A Child Alive, a nonprofit that’s saving lives?”
“It sounds bad, I know.”
“It is bad. Come on, fight with me on this one. What about a show for Christmas or the New Year featuring celebs with heart? Stars who are involved with life-changing charities, and we’ll run one story every day leading up to Christmas.”
“Would it be bouncy? Fun?”
“There was a time we had an award-winning show and produced award-winning stories.” I’m referring to the Emmy Awards that Glenn and I both earned four years ago after doing a story on the heartbreaking decline of a former A-list star. No one knew where he’d gone, but after a tip, I tracked him down in Camarillo. The former star, a man who’d made thirty films over twenty years and won an Oscar and been nominated for three, had been abandoned, penniless and senile. His children, named custodians of his estate, dropped him off at the home and that was the end of that.
Until I showed up with my cameraman and microphone.
“Let’s do good stories again, Glenn.” I clasp my hands together. “Let’s not be like the other shows. Let’s be what we’re meant to be.”
Glenn’s smile fades and he looks at me for a long moment. “Are you not happy here anymore, Tiana?”
I shift impatiently. Life isn’t black or white, it’s full of shades of gray. “Of course I’m happy— ”
“Then let’s stick with the format that earns us the best ratings, which means Hollywood banter and celeb chatter.”
Meeting over, I head downstairs to the Starbucks in the lobby for a proper cup of coffee. Usually Madison offers to run down for me, but I need to get out for a few minutes, get some air. Hollywood banter and celebrity chatter. Oh, my God. Is this what I aspired to be?
I can’t even imagine Keith’s reaction to the stories we do. Lesbian prison wedding scandals. The best bikini bods. Reality TV stars.
He’d say it was crap. And I agree. We weren’t always so soft on real news. It’s only lately, as we try to keep up with the other shows. But I think we can do both— Hollywood gossip and human interest stories. People enjoy both. The human interest stories just have to be good.
Grande soy latte in hand, I’m crossing the gleaming glass-and-marble lobby, passing the kiosk that serves as a newspaper stand, when a magazine cover jumps out at me.
COUGAR HUNTING!
The magazine’s caption screams in huge lurid yellow font. But it’s not the caption on the glossy cover that grabs my attention. It’s the photo. It’s Trevor and me.
I stop in front of the newspaper stand and stare at the cover and wonder how in God’s name did they have our Paris pictures on the cover already? It should be impossible to have our photo on a magazine before I’ve even unpacked.
But there we are, in Paris, both of us dressed in black. It’s raining and I’m holding a red umbrella and he’s smiling down into my face and I’m smiling up at him. The photo’s cropped, but I know exactly where we’re standing. We’ve just left Stresa after dinner, and my hair is pinned up and loose bits are falling around my face. I’m wearing big gold gypsy earrings, and I look so happy that it makes my chest hurt.
I nearly pick up the magazine, intrigued by this smiling, beautiful couple who have actually very little to do with me.
Is that what I look like? Am I really that happy?
It’s strange to see me look like that. It’s not how I feel on the inside. It’s not who I am anymore. Haven’t been happy like that since Keith died.
For a moment I’m lost, trying to remember what truly happy feels like, trying to figure out if I even miss happy, when an arm reaches past me, bracelets jingling, and takes a copy of Us Weekly and then scoops up an issue of Life & Style, which also has a photo of Trevor and me on it, but this one screams, SHE’S GOT IT ALL!
I keep my head averted as the girl pays for her magazines.
So this is what I’ve become. Tabloid fodder. In some ways, it’s funny. Not that Keith would find it funny, or my family. My father was an American intellectual living abroad. My mother was a brainy South African beauty queen. They raised us kids apart from society, teaching us to be different, to think for ourselves, to question people and systems.
Maybe that’s why I fell for Keith. He reminded me of my dad. Both wanted to change the world. Both died too young.
I glance at my watch, wondering if I should call Trevor and alert him that our Paris rendezvous made tabloid news. It’s eight hours’ difference between L.A. and Nice right now, so he should be done with work and back in his hotel room.
Back at my desk, I punch in his number and wait to see if he’ll answer.
As the phone rings, I tell myself everything’s fine between us. Just because we’ve talked only once since I’ve returned from Paris doesn’t mean there’s a problem. We’re both just busy. And he’s a twenty-six-year-old man co-starring in a movie with Kiki Woods, Hollywood’s sexiest, wildest starlet.
And then he answers. “Good morning, beautiful,” he says, yawning. “What’s new?”
I don’t know if it’s his yawn or his voice, but I smile. He is hunky if nothing else. Hazel green eyes. Dark blond hair. A lock falling forward, giving him a distinctly James Dean appearance. These last six months we’ve had a good time— he’s fun— but we’ll never be serious. There’s too much distance between us, never mind the twelve-year age difference. “You’re dating a cougar, you know,” I say.
“That’s right. We’re on some magazine covers.”
“You heard?”
“Max called me.”
Of course Max would. Max represents both of us, and he was the one who brought us together during the Cannes Film Festival last May. We were all attending the same party, and Max walked Trevor over to meet me. It’s the thing managers and agents and PR people do, but I don’t think even he expected us to begin a six-month romance. Trevor is, after all, a young hunk in Hollywood. He’s the type I interview, not the type I sleep with, but here we are approaching the holidays and we’re together still.
Not that we actually spend all that much time together, as Trevor’s usually away filming.
“So how do we look, Tia?”
It’s been a year since I made the cover of a national magazine, and I barely remember the details. But the first time. I’ll never forget that. A photographer snapped a picture of me lying on Keith’s coffin at his funeral. I was inconsolable. The next week, the photo ran on the front page of Newsweek. I was still a newlywed, and suddenly my very private grief became part of popular American culture.
