by Jane Porter
Throat aching, I walk slowly to the hall table and put down my briefcase and look around a house I bought for Keith and me. Of course he was dead already, but I knew he’d love this house. I could see us in this house.
I kick off my heels, one and then the other, then shrug off my coat and drop it on the back of a living room chair. Even though it’s almost Thanksgiving it’s a warm night, and I head for the French doors and push them open. The potted Meyer lemon tree on the patio is in bloom, and the heady citrus scent perfumes the air.
It doesn’t happen very often anymore, but sometimes at night I dream Keith’s still here, still with me, and then in the morning I wake and roll over, warm and happy, and it comes back to me. He’s gone and he’s never coming back.
Which is why I date and why I want to fall in love again. But Keith will be a tough love to replace.
He was beautiful— a blond Graeco-Roman soldier— and smart, so incredibly smart. I loved looking at Keith while he worked. I loved looking at Keith when we were sitting having coffee and reading through a dozen papers every morning. I loved watching him sleep, whether it was in bed or in his chair, where he wrote and edited. He was warm and self-deprecating, funny, heroic. The only thing he feared was not getting the story right. Not getting the truth.
He taught me more than anyone else and in the shortest amount of time. After that meeting on the side of the highway, I didn’t see him again for months, until we were seated across from each other at an industry awards dinner. We were both attending the dinner with different people, and yet there we were, directly across from each other, and every time I looked up I somehow caught his eye, and every time I did, I smiled.
I couldn’t help it.
There was something in his face, something gentle and intelligent, kind and loving, and the best way I can describe it is think of the actor Greg Kinnear. He had that kind of face. Open and curious and yet most of all kind.
Kind. So very kind to me. So full of love, and God knows how much I needed it. How little I’ve had of it. How much I still want it.
And here I am, in my beautiful little historic Mediterranean bungalow, alone. I’m so sick of alone. Which is why I’ve continued dating Trevor. Even though he’s far away, and even though we’ll never be soul mates, he makes me feel that I matter. He fills the time, if not the space. But he doesn’t challenge the memory of Keith. No one does, and I suppose I’ve liked it that way. Keith’s memory is safe. No man who enters my life can compete.
But it does limit the personal life. It means that my home is quiet. It means that I live with ghosts instead of people. Makes it tough to have a family. Or kids. Which I do want.
If only Keith had made me pregnant. If only he’d left me with a piece of him before he died.
Because I want a life that begins when I open the front door. I want voices here in my house. I want conversation and lights and activity. Hugs. Talk. Laughter.
I want.
Catching myself, I turn around and head for the kitchen, where I open the stainless steel fridge door and take a look inside. Two prepackaged meals delivered by In the Zone delivery, a Tupperware of trimmed radishes, celery, broccoli, and carrots, a bottle of pomegranate juice, and an opened bottle of white wine.
I reach for the white wine and pour myself a tiny glass. Wandering out of the kitchen, I grab my phone and dial Trevor’s number. It rings five times before kicking into voice mail.
“Trevor, it’s me. Just wanted to hear your voice before I went to bed.” I want to hear someone’s voice before bed. I want someone to say good night to me, someone to say “I love you” to me.
But that’s not the relationship Trevor and I have. Ours isn’t love. It’s sex and passing time and keeping company. But that has to count for something.
More brightly, I add to my message, “I’ll be up another half hour to an hour, so call me if you can. Otherwise I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Night.”
I hang up, sip my wine, and look out the living room’s open doors to the sparkle of lights on the valley floor. I take a last sip, finishing the minuscule amount I poured myself. I never drink too much because I don’t need the calories, but tonight I want the taste. I want the warmth.
And there it is again. I want. Ah, the evils of wanting. I shouldn’t want.
I have more than most.
Except for love and family, I have everything.
The morning comes too early. I wake up and look at the clock. Six-fifty a.m. And then I remember it’s Saturday and I have nothing to do until eight, when Dana, my trainer, arrives for my (ugh) workout.
I flop back down and tug the covers up higher, wishing I were starting the day without a workout. But there’s no room for error here. Weight, face, and image must be perfect.
After ten minutes of not being able to fall back asleep, I roll over onto my stomach and reach for my BlackBerry, which has been on the bedside table charging all night. After unplugging it from the charger, I check my calendar for my weekend schedule, which I already know will be crazy busy.
8:00 AM Workout with Dana
9:15 AM Fittings with Shannon
10:00 AM Hair appt
11:30 AM Baby shower brunch thrown by pal indie film-maker Christie Hern at Shutters Hotel on the beach in Santa Monica
2–5 PM Pediatric AIDS fund-raiser hosted by producer Mel Savage and his wife, Meg, at their home in Brentwood
7–11 PM Political fund-raiser at the Getty with a pre-party at 6 hosted by CAA king Steve Lehman at his house for a hundred of Steve’s closest friends.
I could possibly sneak out of attending the political fund-raiser— I already paid— they don’t need me physically there. But the pre-party at Steve’s is important. Steve is one of Max’s closest friends and very dialed in, which means I have to go. I’m there not for me, but to make my agent look good, so today wardrobe and hair really matter.
But then, I think, climbing from bed, when do I have a day when hair and wardrobe don’t matter?
Dana arrives at eight on the dot, arms full of stretchy bands and huge vinyl balls. She sets them down in the living room and heads back to her car for her medicine ball, and I drag my stationary bike from the hall closet (this is L.A., we don’t own a lot of coats) and unfold the treadmill that’s in the living room corner.
Back in my house, Dana swiftly shoves my sofa back and I move the coffee table and we have our workout space.
For the next sixty minutes, I do weights and reps between two-minute bursts of intense cardio. Sprints on the treadmill are followed by a hundred lunges (seriously). Two minutes cycling as fast as I can at the hardest resistance I can bear is the precursor to forty pushups. More treadmill and then squats with the medicine ball. More bike and then shoulder presses and bicep curls and tricep kickbacks.
By the time she’s done with me, I’m sweating profusely and every muscle quivers. My legs shake as I push the bike back into the closet and head for the shower. I’m still trying to recover when Shannon, my stylist, arrives fifteen minutes later.
Years ago, I learned the value of a good stylist after choosing my own evening gown to wear on the red carpet during the pre-award interviews. I thought I looked beautiful and I felt like a princess in the salmon silk gown and with my hair curled. Instead I ended up being horribly skewered by Joan and Melissa Rivers in their post-awards fashion roundup. They mocked me for looking more like Cinderella’s pumpkin carriage than Cinderella herself. My dress was the wrong color, the skirt too full, the sleeves too puffy, my hair beyond absurd. Apparently, I was the show’s fashion travesty. Didn’t I have a mother to dress me? Joan asked.
I don’t, haven’t since I was a teen, but that’s not the point.
The point is, I don’t have good taste. There are women with an innate sense of style, but I’m not one of them. I now employ a stylist for all appearances related to my position as host of America Tonight. Happily, it’s an expense Max got covered by the studio in my last contract, and that’s helped considerably. Best of all, I have
n’t been a fashion victim again, although Marta and Shey find it hysterical that I need so much help just getting dressed. In my defense, unlike them, I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, which is why my bedroom is still white and my dream of a terraced garden with a pool remains but a dream.
And it is rather funny that I— who can do so much— can’t get dressed without help.
As the doorbell rings, I wonder what a weekend in Los Angeles without events would be like.
Two days without hair, makeup, wardrobe. Two days without cameras and paparazzi.
Opening the door, I welcome Shannon and take a couple of the garment bags slung over her arm. Shannon’s a tall, willowy redhead, a former costume designer who understands fabric and fit, two things definitely beyond my scope.
The dresses are all beautiful, but there’s a clear standout, a fitted Grecian gown in an unusual hue, the color somewhere between plum and eggplant, by designer Naeem Khan, topped by a stunning thick silver collar that’s so ornate it might have been worn by an Egyptian queen.
Shannon’s zipping my gown, and the zipper sticks for a split second. “Suck it in,” she commands.
I do and the zipper goes the rest of the way up.
“You might want to step up your cardio,” Shannon suggests. “You’re putting on a little weight.”
So it’s not just my imagination. She’s noticed it, too. “I’m working out just as hard as I used to. Maybe harder.”
“You’re getting older. Metabolism slows. You’ve just got to cut back on the food.”
“I hardly eat as it is!”
“No one said being thin is fun.” She steps back, studies me. “I like it. What do you think?”
I pivot to face the full-length mirror and admire the way the dress hugs my curves and kicks out at the hem. “I love it.”
“The fit’s great and the color’s gorgeous on you. What about your hair? You’re leaving it down tonight?”
“I’ve got a blowout scheduled.”
“Good. Keep it simple. Just the bangle on your wrist, and the evening bag. Nothing else.”
“Got it.” I start to unzip the gown and then notice Shannon is still studying me closely, a frown creasing her brow. “What?” I ask.
She hesitates. “Glenn’s assistant, Andrea, called me early last week. The show wants me to start working with Shelby Patterson. Apparently she could use some help, too.”
I go cold and clasp the unzipped dress to my chest. “Did you say yes?”
“It’s good pay.” She gives me a quick smile. “But I’m still your stylist. There’s no reason I can’t dress both of you.”
She leaves with the extra garment bags, and I stand in my bedroom feeling naked although I’m fully clothed.
It’s a familiar feeling. I’ve felt it at numerous times before.
Keith’s funeral.
Arriving at St. Pious in Northern California at sixteen.
My first day at Epworth, the boarding school my grandmother sent me to one week after my family died.
But of all days, that day at Epworth was the worst. Epworth is in Pietermaritzburg, Natal, the most English of South Africa’s four provinces. I’d never been to a boarding school before. I’d never even gone to public school or worn a uniform in my life. But there I was, still cut and bruised from the accident, in a shapeless blue cotton dress two sizes too big, wearing white ankle socks and black Mary Jane shoes. I was a week shy of fifteen and dressed like an orphan. But then I was an orphan, and my only living relative had just dropped me off at this strange boarding school, even though I’d just lost my parents and sisters days before.
I cried for months in my narrow Epworth bed, my pillow over my head to muffle my sobs.
I missed my mom and dad, missed Willow and Acacia, missed our farmhouse in Stellenbosch, missed being home-schooled by our mother, missed my father at the kitchen table, grading papers.
Missed everything. Missed everyone. Missed me.
That me, that innocent me, died with everyone else that day, and it’s never come back. That me, that little girl, died in that car crash, too.
I blink and tell myself I can’t feel sad, can’t feel bad, can’t change the past. Life happens. Even when we don’t want it to.
So I do what I’ve done for years— smash back the memories, smothering the feelings and needs, and focus on what needs to be done. And as always, there’s so much to be done. Appointments, fittings, meetings, tapings, appearances. Being Tiana Tomlinson is a full-time job.
Baby gift in the backseat of the car, I race to my blowout at Neil George, then head straight to Shutters Hotel in Santa Monica in the festive beach casual attire requested for the baby shower brunch. I had no idea what festive beach casual meant, but Shannon assured me that the outfit she selected (slim white pants, orange silk tunic with red, orange, and gold embroidery accents, and pretty gold sandals) would be chic and fun.
Fun is big right now, because I dread, dread, baby showers. I like them about as much as funerals and wouldn’t be attending this one if Christie hadn’t asked me.
For years I had two best friends— Marta and Shey— but Christie’s snuck into my heart and managed to take up some serious real estate there along with Marta, Shey, and their children.
Christie, an independent filmmaker, and I met four years ago at the Sundance Film Festival, and what was merely a business connection has turned into a very close friendship. Christie isn’t just funny and authentic, she’s also unbelievably talented, and I’m a huge fan of her documentaries. She also juggles motherhood and art like no one else I know.
Traffic is light heading toward Santa Monica, but it’s a traffic jam in front of the hotel as Shutters’ entrance is small, snug, more like a house than a luxury hotel, and everyone seems to be arriving at once. Jaguars, Bentleys, and Rolls-Royces jockey for position as valets take keys and move cars as quickly as possible.
I use the time to check messages. Madison has sent me a few e-mails updating me on my schedule for next week, and Marta wants me to call her, as they’ve decided to reschedule Zach’s baptism for after the holidays and they need to know when I’m free. I move from e-mail to my voice mail, and as I listen to messages I flip down the visor and open the lighted mirror to examine my face.
I have an oval face framed by thick chestnut brown hair, delicate arched eyebrows, good cheekbones, no lines at my mouth, the faintest of creases near the eyes. But there is a hint of a shadow between my eyebrows that could use a Botox touch-up.
What else? I frown at my reflection and then squint and smile, and yes, there are faint lines on my forehead. Those probably could use an injectible, too, but hell, it’s a face. It’s skin and muscle, and I’m not rushing out to Dr. Raj every other day. I have a standing appointment every four months, and that’s enough.
Thank goodness it’s my turn to hand over my car keys. I scoop up the baby present wrapped in yellow polka-dot paper and tied with an enormous yellow-and-white ribbon, take the ticket from the attendant, and head inside, wearing my favorite pair of sunglasses, a huge black Jackie Onassis style that covers half my face.
A blonde, tan dynamo, Christie spots me right away and links her arm through mine. “Three cancellations all at the last minute,” she whispers to me, “and twelve people who never even bothered to RSVP. What is that all about? Don’t people know what RSVP means?”
“If you were Steven Spielberg, everyone would have RSVPed,” I say cheerfully, giving her a quick hug.
“Thanks. That makes me feel a whole lot better.”
“Thought so.” I grin. “Who’s everyone? Do I know anyone?”
“Brooke’s here, and Kate Beckinsale. Nancy O’Dell and Lindy Becker as well.”
“Good. I’ll go mingle. Let’s catch up later if we can.”
I join Lindy on the patio overlooking the ocean. Lindy hosts Hello, Hollywood, and over the years we’ve worked the red carpet together. We have our favorite shows. In terms of fun, we love the Golden Globes, but the
Oscars, not so much.
Lindy’s talking with a woman I don’t know. Not wanting to barge in, I take a moment to admire the view. Today the sky is one of those rare perfect shades of blue that happen only when the Santa Anas blow or after a hard rain. It was breezy last night, which explains this morning’s gorgeous blue sky. The water itself is darker, a murkier green blue that lightens in waves to foamy white crests.
Having grown up in South Africa, I had a hard time getting used to the cold water off the California coast. The water off the cape is incredible. While growing up, we went body boarding almost every weekend in the summer months, but I don’t swim here.
Lindy spots me and interrupts her conversation to include me. “Tiana, do you know Eve Frishman? She’s a vice president over at Sony TV? Eve, this is my good friend Tiana Tomlinson, host at rival America Tonight.” Lindy hits the word rival playfully hard.
I shake Eve’s hand. “It’s good to meet you. I’ve been hearing exciting things ever since your move to Sony.”
“It’s been busy,” Eve agrees, “but it’s a great fit for me.”
“You’ve been here four months now?” Lindy asks Eve.
“Almost six,” she answers. “Hard to believe. Time is moving so fast.”
“I know. I can’t believe how big my little girl is getting. She’s not a baby anymore.”
Eve looks at me. “Do you have kids?”
“No.” Somehow it seems so inadequate. I always wanted kids. I never thought I’d be thirty-eight and widowed and childless. I came from a family of three. Keith and I had wanted children, too.
“That’s okay,” Eve says kindly. “Motherhood can be overrated. Not every woman has to have children.”
Eve’s trying to smooth things over, but she doesn’t know how much I want a full house, a big family, noise and love and chaos when I come home. “I do want kids. It just hasn’t happened yet.” My face feels warm, I feel warm. My tunic now sticks to my back and grows tight across my shoulders. “It’s just turned out harder than I expected.”
“Don’t give up,” Eve says.
“I won’t,” I answer jovially, when on the inside I’m screaming because I never planned to lose everyone I loved. I never wanted to lose my family and then my husband. I never wanted to be afraid to love again, or need again, or feel safe with someone. It was hard enough trusting life to fall in love with Keith, but then to lose him, too… it’s absurd. Beyond absurd.
