by Jane Porter
“I do remember seeing a very nice white wine chilling in the fridge. Let’s say we open that.”
I smile, grateful that he’s allowing us to move on and away from this painful subject. “Yes, please.”
I don’t return from Laguna Beach until close to ten. At Christie’s insistence I’ve brought home a plastic container filled with turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and gravy, along with another container of pie. Upon entering my house, I go straight to the kitchen to put away the leftovers.
I change for bed, wash my face, and as I apply the necessary lotions and potions to keep Father Time at bay— lotions and potions more critical now than ever before— I think about the conversation I had with Michael on the balcony. It was a Michael I’d never seen before. A Michael I hadn’t known existed.
But maybe it was just a facade. Maybe that was smooth, charming Dr. Hollywood talking. The man who can sweet-talk any woman into doing any procedure. I don’t want to ever fall for a man who’s superficial. Keith had substance. If I ever fall in love again, it’s going to be with a man of substance, too.
Still mulling over our conversation, I think about the men I’ve dated since Keith’s death. There haven’t been many. I didn’t date for years after his death, and then when I started to go out again, it was brutal. Painful. Obviously no one was going to be Keith, but no one came even remotely close to having his wit, intellect, and passion.
But I promised Shey and Marta that I’d keep trying. I told them if I was asked out, I’d go out, at least once. Few men lasted more than a single date, although there were a few who became brief relationships.
The entertainment lawyer I saw for three weeks. The retired football player for two months. The UCLA heart surgeon for a month. The Laguna Beach artist for five months. Trevor.
Trevor.
I make a face at myself in the mirror. And Trevor isn’t exactly the answer to my dreams, either, is he? But maybe that’s the point. As long as I date men who are lightweights, I’m protected. As long as I date men who don’t touch my heart, I won’t get hurt.
Better not to hurt.
Better to just keep killing time.
Or so I try to convince myself as I get into bed and turn out the light.
I’m relieved when Monday comes because it means I can go back to work. After four days off, I need to work, and after arriving in Century City, I discover Celia is at the studio today, filming a segment that will be taped to air tonight. Once every two weeks she comes in and does a feature on celebrity lifestyle just the way I appear on Larry King as a celebrity expert. I find it ironic that so many of us in this industry make a living being celebrity experts.
Celia pops into my office when she’s done. She stopped by earlier, but I was still in a production meeting then.
Celia spots the pile of books on the corner of my desk. “Beauty Junkies: The Smart Woman’s Guide to Plastic Surgery and Secrets of a Beverly Hills Plastic Surgeon.” She looks up at me. “Thinking of getting some work done?”
“No.” Yes.
She sits in a chair, props her boots up on the edge of my desk with a decisive plunk, and studies me. “How was your weekend?”
There’s a note in her voice that tells me it’s not a casual question. I look up, into her eyes. “Good.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, why?”
For a moment there’s only silence in my office, and then Celia reaches over to her bag and draws out a magazine page and hands it to me. “Thought you deserved fair warning.”
“What is it?” I ask even as I look at the photo. It’s a blown-up picture of me behind the wheel of my car. The photo’s been taken through my windshield, but you can still see that my face is puffy and my nose is red and there are traces of tears on my cheek.
“Heartbroken and Betrayed!” screams the red caption above the photo, and yes, I do look devastated in the picture.
I frown, trying to figure out when the photo was taken. I’m wearing my brown Michael Kors blouse and a turquoise, coral, and silver necklace. Thanksgiving. I was on my way to Christie’s.
“It’s in this week’s issue. It’ll hit the stands tomorrow. I thought you’d want to know. Sorry.”
I don’t answer, as I’m reading the story’s subtitle: “A heartbroken Tiana flees her house after discovering that boy toy Trevor Campbell is sleeping with Kiki Woods!”
“This is ridiculous,” I protest. “It’s totally untrue. There’s nothing wrong between Trevor and me— ”
“It doesn’t look like it.”
“This,” I say, shaking the photo, “is private. I was sad about something that’s personal that has nothing to do with Trevor. You can’t run this.”
“It’s done.”
“It’s a fabrication!”
“You’re sure?”
“Goddammit, yes!” I almost never yell, but I do now, and I slap the article onto my desk so hard that my hand stings. Madison suddenly pops her head around the corner, and I give my head a slight shake. She wisely disappears. “Celia…” I drop my voice. “Trevor and I are fine.”
“OK! magazine is running a story this week with photos of Trevor and Kiki frolicking on a yacht.”
“So?”
“Kiki’s topless.”
I don’t say anything.
Celia gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, and maybe I shouldn’t have told you, but I wanted you to be prepared.”
My hand shakes as I read the article to appear in People. There’s not much to the story other than I am apparently devastated after learning through an unnamed source that Trevor’s been having a hot affair with his sexy co-star. “They couldn’t keep their hands off each other,” the source adds.
It doesn’t even matter if the story is true or not, it’s humiliating knowing that millions of readers will see it and believe it.
Celia waits for me to say something.
In the end, I crumple up the tear sheet and toss it away. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
Celia leaves, and I’m called to the soundstage to go through the show one last time. They keep the studio at a chilly forty-seven degrees because once the lights go on, the temperature rises, and even though I’m wearing a sweater over my slim knit dress, my teeth keep chattering.
I’m always cold on the set before the lights go on, but this morning I’m absolutely freezing. I know it’s not just the cold studio getting to me. It’s Celia’s revelation. Is Trevor seeing Kiki? If so, why wouldn’t he just tell me? Why wouldn’t he just break things off with me first?
I tried to call Max after Celia left, but he was tied up in a meeting so I left a message. I tried to call Trevor, but he wasn’t answering his phone, either.
I force my attention back to the teleprompter, making sure I’m familiar with the names and introductions, but I can’t stay focused.
Trevor isn’t sleeping with Kiki.
Trevor isn’t involved with Kiki.
Trevor’s seeing me.
The stage director gives me the signal that we’re ready to tape, so I peel off my cardigan sweater and hand it to Harper, who is standing off to the side with her clipboard and headphones.
Vanessa, my makeup artist, is called to touch up my décolleté with a hint of bronzing powder. She strokes the brush across my cheekbones, complaining that I’m too pale. “You’re not coming down sick, are you?” she asks, brushing another light dusting of bronzer down my nose and then across each of my shoulders.
“No.”
“It’s that time of year, so start taking lots of vitamin C, zinc, and echinacea.”
I promise her I will, and she steps off the stage. The floor director signals that we’re a minute away.
I check my mike. The three cameras, all robotics, are focused on me. I glance at the teleprompter, make sure it’s where we’re supposed to be, and then once we’re taping, I get through the show by the skin of my teeth.
Done taping, I try Max again. Max is still not available. His assistant sa
ys he’s tied up in meetings for the rest of the day. I take a deep breath to keep myself calm. “Let Max know it’s about Trevor and Kiki and a story breaking today in People magazine.”
I hang up, thinking I’ll hear from Max within the next fifteen minutes. He calls me in ten. “What’s up, doll?”
It takes under a minute to fill him in. The photo, the story, the caption. Max is silent for a moment, then laughs. “You’ve got paparazzi staking out your place. Which means there will be more stories.”
He’s pleased. He likes this. “Max, this is bad. It’s sordid— ”
“Hell, it’s publicity, and you of all people know that bad publicity is better than no publicity.”
Not necessarily. Not when it comes to my private life. “Do you really think he’s seeing her?” I ask, a catch in my voice. “Would he do that to me?”
“He’s a man. Men do shitty things.”
“Not all men.”
“Most men.”
“No.” I refuse to believe this, refuse to listen to this, although I’m the one who delivers the news on celebrity cheating and broken hearts every night at seven.
“You’re dating an actor,” Max says with an exasperated sigh. “It comes with the territory.”
“He could have ended things with me first.”
“But why should he if he can have his cake and eat it, too?”
I don’t know if Max is trying to help or if he even cares if his brutal honesty hurts, but I feel worse than I did earlier. “Obviously it’s over.”
“You don’t know that yet.”
“If he’s screwing Kiki Woods, it is!”
“But you don’t know that, either.”
“Have you heard about the OK! story? The one with the photos of Kiki topless?”
Max doesn’t answer, which means yes, he has.
“Have you seen the photos, Max?”
“She’s beautiful, she’s young, and she loves attention, Tiana.”
“What does that mean?”
“It was only a matter of time before Trevor fell into bed with her. To be honest, I’m surprised it took him this long.”
I hang up on Max. I have to, it’s that or drive my car into the nearest tree, and that’s not a viable option. I’m Tiana Tomlinson and I’m a good girl and I don’t do reckless, self-destructive things, although drinking the bottle of wine in my refrigerator sounds like an excellent idea right now.
But at home I don’t drink. I kick off my shoes, retrieve my phone, and turn it on to dial Trevor’s number. It rings before going straight into voice mail. Heart thudding, I leave a message: “Call me. Tonight. Please.”
There’s more I’d like to say, but I pause, consider whether it’s wise. Then I can’t stop myself and the rest tumbles out: “They’re running a story in this week’s People that has an unnamed source claiming you and Kiki are lovers. Call me.”
As I hang up, my eye falls on the cluster of antique silver-framed photos on the bookshelf in the living room. My wedding photo, one of Marta, Shey, and me at Marta’s wedding in Banff last year, and then the picture of Keith.
It’s my favorite picture of him, taken in Afghanistan just a week before he died.
He’s on horseback and wearing traditional Afghan garb, a long white-and-black scarf tied loosely around his neck, and a multitude of cameras around his neck. He’s grown a beard, and his fair hair is hidden beneath a knit cap. His white horse’s gray mane is tangled and Keith’s brow is beaded with sweat, but he’s grinning and he looks so damn happy to be alive that just looking at it makes my heart hurt.
This is what it means to be alive.
This is what it’s all about.
I keep this photo out because it reminds me of the promise Keith and I made to each other. We were both so ambitious, and we complemented each other in our fierce drive and determination to succeed. We were going to go for it. Go big or go home, Keith said one night, kissing me in bed.
Go big or go home, I repeat. Live every day until we die.
The sick feeling in me shifts, changes, softening to something deeper, stronger, tougher. It’s part protection, part self-preservation, and part pure grit.
I will not go down without a fight. I’ve been through so much, this is nothing I can’t handle.
My chin notches up, and I focus on all that I am instead of what I’m not. Things haven’t been good lately, and I have a feeling they’re about to get ugly, but I can do ugly. I’m a woman. And damn tough.
Chapter Seven
Despite my conviction that I can handle whatever life throws my way, I toss and turn much of the night, waking up every hour or so and glancing at the clock. Eleven forty-five. One-twelve. Two-twenty. Four-ten. Five. And then finally my alarm at seven.
The moment I wake up, the sick feeling returns harder than ever.
I dread the day, knowing how it’ll unfold. The other entertainment shows will jump on People’s story. The coming week will be filled with gossip and endless commentary. Poor Tiana. How shocking. How embarrassing. Did she know? Did she suspect?
There will be tabloid segments where I’m pitied and segments where I’m mocked. Perez Hilton will say I had it coming. TMZ will dig for dirt. Talk Soup will no doubt have some horrendous photo and sarcastic put-down.
I go to the French doors in my room and open them wide. It’s cold for Los Angeles, bracing, which is exactly what I need. The sharp smell of oak and eucalyptus trees makes the air pungent. Today is going to be rough. I might as well be prepared.
Driving to work, I do nothing but field phone calls from the office, from rival shows, from journalists at tabloid magazines. The issue of People hasn’t hit the public mailbox yet, but the newswire has the article and every station and every producer has seen it, and everybody wants a comment. Would I care to respond to the People article? Did I know Trevor was involved with Kiki? Am I still seeing Trevor? What is the future of my relationship with Trevor today?
Madison is downstairs in the HBC tower lobby to meet me as I take the elevator from the garage, a leather folder clutched to her chest.
“That bad, huh?” I say, seeing her expression.
“They’re going nuts upstairs, especially Mark. He’s frothing at the mouth.” She exhales, blowing blonde wisps of hair from her face. “By the way, cute coat.”
I can’t help grinning. “That’s what I like about you. You know how to keep things in perspective.”
We step into the elevator together, and she flips open the leather folder and retrieves the copy of People. “Celia had this couriered over. I take it you knew about it?”
I nod.
“Is it true?” she asks.
“I don’t know. You’re the Trevor fan. Is it?”
Her eyebrows lift. “Wow.”
“What?” I answer as the elevator doors open and we step out into our reception area. “Was that the wrong thing to say?”
Her eyebrows just arch higher, and together we walk to our desks, backs straight, shoulders squared. And I have to say, it’s kind of nice to have someone walking next to me. I need an ally right now, and Madison, even though young, is exactly who I want on my side.
Harper is pacing outside my office as I arrive. She follows me in and over to my desk and chair.
“I want the story,” she demands, “the real story. This People article is pathetic, and it makes you look pathetic. I’ve never once seen you like this. And this face”— she flicks the blown-up photo with her finger— “what does this even mean?”
I slide off my red swingy car coat, which shows off my slim black sheath dress, and hang up the jacket on the back of my door. “Good morning, Harper.”
“Are you serious?” She pivots on her three-inch black heels to face me. “Is that all you’ve got for me?”
I roll out my chair, sit, and reach for my laptop. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” I open my laptop and look up at her. “I don’t know what the story is. I don’t know what the truth is. I don’t know if
Trevor was unfaithful. I don’t know if he’s madly in love with Kiki. I don’t know anything.”
She drops into the chair facing my desk. “Do you know how stupid this makes you look?”
I grimace. “Thanks.”
“You know what I’m saying. I’m looking out for you, Tiana. You’re our star. You’re my number one girl. You’ve got to give me something we can run with for today’s show. Some rebuttal, or comeback, something to fight this idea of you being the broken, pathetic victim— ”
“A little heavy-handed, don’t you think, Harp?” I interrupt with a fierce white smile.
She looks at me a long moment. “Your numbers are up.”
I sit back in my chair, surprised. “That’s good news.”
“They’re up quite a bit, too, not just with the younger audience, but all across the board.”
She’s pleased, pleased but clearly surprised, and I know she hasn’t figured out why there’s been a jump in my numbers. But I know why.
“They’re up because of Trevor.” I reach for the issue of People that Madison handed to me as we exited the elevator. I open the magazine to the big photo of my face and feel a pang that my grief is there in living color.
“It’s all the Paris magazine covers and subsequent stories,” I add idly, an idea starting to form, although I’m not yet ready to share it. “Our younger viewers love him, and they’re watching me right now because of him.”
“You’re right. I didn’t think of that.” She pauses, frowns. “And without Trevor, you’ll lose the numbers?”
“Maybe. And maybe not.” I think about how fickle audiences can be and how easy it is for boredom to set in. I think about our teases and headlines and the lengths we go to in order to pique viewer interest. “I guess it depends on the next couple of weeks and how we follow this story up.”
Harper looks at me with interest. “So you’re seeing it as a story?”
“I’d be a fool to think of it in any other way— ”
