by Jane Porter
I’m interrupted midsentence when Mark barges into my office, waving a sheet of paper in my face. “Your boy toy’s defected,” he says, shoving the paper even closer. “He’s doing an interview by satellite with Mary Hart over at Entertainment Tonight today.”
I yank the paper from his hand and read the e-mail from Paula, one of the ET producers, to Mark. Everybody knows everybody in this business, and depending on the story, we’ll sometimes share tips, leads, and sources. Paula is positively exultant that Trevor’s agreed to do a satellite interview from Nice. They’ve got a French broadcasting studio taking care of the logistics.
No wonder Paula’s chortling.
I’m one-third of the equation, yet I don’t even have an active part in the story. I’m an accessory.
And that’s going to change starting now.
Harper and Mark leave and, gathering my courage, I go online, type “Keith Heaton obituary” into the Google tool bar, print off the first of the obits that pull up, and then type “Keith Heaton funeral” into Google images. Dozens of photos from Keith’s funeral appear, half with my body lying on top of the casket.
I avoid looking at the photos, avoid reading the obituary. Instead I gather everything I’ve printed and head to Harper’s desk. She and the other producers and writers all work in a large open space just a wall away from the studio and control booth.
Harper is on her computer, and I set the photos and obituary in front of her to get her attention.
“I have a story for you,” I say. “I wasn’t crying over Trevor. Trevor’s out of my life— good riddance. I was crying because Thanksgiving marked the seventh anniversary of my husband’s death. I was thinking of him and missing him. Here’s his obituary. And here are pictures from his funeral.” I jab the body in one. “And that’s me on his casket.”
Harper just looks at me.
“I can’t compete with whatever story Trevor will give Mary. I only know what’s true. And what’s true is this— I never loved Trevor. Sex was good. He was fun. But he was a fling. My heart has only ever belonged to one man, and it was my husband. My hero.”
Harper rolls back from her desk, her brown gaze speculative. “You want me to make this a story?”
“Yes. And make it a good one.” I pause. “Can you?”
“Yes.” She thinks for a moment. “I’ll have Manuel cover the story. He’d be good. He could even interview you, just a few questions about your late husband. Is that all right with you?”
I nod. “Let’s get him in here.” I start to walk away but stop. “And don’t believe Mark or Libby if they say I don’t care about this show. Since Keith died, this show has been my life.”
It’s a push today to write all new copy, get photos and text edited correctly, plus tape new teases to run before the show— never mind actually filming the show itself. But we do it, and we’re done by one.
Manuel arrives a half hour before we’re to tape, and he and I sit together on one of the soundstages doing our mini-interview. The camera loves Manuel— with his dark, soulful eyes, he’s perfect on sympathy pieces. Ten minutes later, we’re changing and preparing for the show.
We’re opening with the Tiana-Trevor-Kiki-Keith story, a story that’s beyond convoluted, but somehow Harper makes it all work by tackling the issue immediately and hitting it hard:
“What’s the world coming to? Tabloid news at its worst!”
There’s going to be a big-screen shot of me in one of my publicity shots, then the People photo, followed by an even bigger shot of Keith smiling in Afghanistan— a different shot from the one I have, but maybe even more effective, as he looks rugged and sexy and oh, so handsome— and finally the funeral photo with me lying on his casket.
With the photos making a dramatic backdrop behind Manuel, he’ll tell the fairy-tale story of girl meets boy, and how boy loves girl, but then boy dies and girl must try to move on with her life in a mean world filled with underhanded, unethical people.
It’s very in-your-face and the text is a little controversial for my tastes, but the photo sequence makes it emotional and magical, which makes it work. Especially the photo of Keith kicking back with his beer, boots on the table, smiling. What a smile. Irresistible.
I’m standing offstage watching the segment— they need only one take, too, which is downright miraculous, as Manuel has a tendency to misread the teleprompter— but today it works, and even I am moved. The segment is powerful, telling a story of love and loss, and I know this is something our viewers will respond to. They want emotion. Elation. A vicarious thrill. And the story tonight gives it to them.
No matter what happens over at Entertainment Tonight, no matter what Trevor says to Mary, I know we’ve done what we needed to do. Maybe not for Trevor, but for the show. And me. And maybe that’s the most important thing. In the fight for ratings and audience share, it’s easy to overlook that I matter even more than the show.
That evening, I watch Entertainment Tonight from the safety of my living room sofa. Trevor is live by satellite, and to be fair, he looks golden and bronze, just the way a movie star should. Mary opens the interview by attempting to ask Trevor hard questions about his relationship with Kiki, but Trevor has her eating out of his hand.
“Kiki’s an amazing woman, and I have the utmost respect for her talent,” he says, deflecting the question from the personal to the professional. “Can’t say enough good things about her.”
“So you two are involved?”
“She’s my co-star, and any man would be proud to be seen with her.”
“Which brings up the photographs in OK! showing the two of you on a yacht in the Mediterranean and Kiki’s topless.”
“I find this subject interesting because it’s really one about cultural differences. Women don’t sunbathe topless in the U.S. I believe Americans see it as dirty, pornographic, but it’s natural in Europe, and women in the South of France frequently swim and sunbathe without their tops on.”
Mary nods. “How is Tiana doing, Trevor?”
“Great. We just spoke yesterday and things couldn’t be better.”
“So you’re still together?”
“As much as we’ve ever been.”
I sit riveted by this interview and rather fascinated by Trevor’s smooth lies. He and I never spoke. Things could be a lot better. And we’re definitely not together.
“So the photo in People, the one of her crying… she doesn’t look okay there,” Mary presses.
“She was upset, but I’ve reassured her that everything is fine and things are fine.”
I grab the remote, turn off the TV, and throw myself backward on the couch. Trevor, you are such a shithead. Why didn’t I see it until now? What did I like about you?
But this is bigger than Trevor. This is about me, my choices, my life.
What have I been doing these past six months?
My show is in shambles. The content’s crap. The numbers suck. My writers and producers are near mutiny. Why am I seeing this only now? How long have things been like this?
Where have I been?
What am I doing? And why am I sleepwalking through life?
I don’t know what happened or why it happened, but I do know this: I’m through sleepwalking. I’m awake now. And things are going to be different. Starting with axing Trevor from my life.
I grab my phone and dial his number, and when I get voice mail I leave a cool, curt message: “Trevor, it’s been fun, but it’s time I dated men with a little more backbone and a lot more integrity.”
And then I hang up.
One problem down. Only half a dozen more to go.
I oversleep and don’t wake until the doorbell rings. It takes me a moment to figure out it is my doorbell making that god-awful sound, too.
Yawning, I stumble from bed and make my way to the front door, where I find Dana, my personal trainer, on the doorstep with her basket of torture gizmos. “You still sleeping?” she asks in disbelief.
I nod. �
�First decent night’s sleep in a long time.”
“Well, honey, go change because it’s time to wake your ass up.”
I dash to my bedroom to put on sweats and workout shoes and think I’m finally getting the message.
Time to wake my ass up.
How long has God been sending this message? And how long have I been ignoring it?
Working out on an empty stomach sucks, and Dana’s ruthless, pushing me harder than usual, determined to teach me some proverbial lesson.
As I cycle madly, I think there is a method to her madness. My heart’s pumping. My muscles scream. Sweat drips from every pore. I hurt so bad, I know I’m alive. Painfully alive.
I crack a wry smile as Dana shouts, “Faster!… Faster!” Better that than painfully dead.
At the studio, Glenn drops by my office to tell me our ratings last night went through the roof.
“What about ET’s?” I ask.
“Theirs were strong,” he admits, “but we enjoyed a big jump, and that’s on top of last week’s impressive numbers. You have to feel good about that.”
“I do. So who won last night?”
“Last night they won, but that was just a battle. We’re going to win the war,” he says, leaving my office.
I pump my fist in the air in solidarity, but after he’s gone I bury my face in my hands. The ratings boost is related to Trevor, and Trevor and I are through. So how are we going to win this one? What rabbit do I pull out of a hat next?
I’m busy over the next few days, fielding phone calls from everyone but Trevor. I want him to call, needing an apology, but knowing that if I can’t get an apology even a good-bye would help. All the losses in my life make me crave closure, but as the days pass and I hear nothing, I realize I’m not going to. Trevor’s not going to call. He’s gone.
I’m done, too, I remind myself as I do a half dozen interviews with rival magazines and shows— Yes, Trevor was fun, but it’s better he’s with a woman his own age. And no, I wasn’t devastated when it ended; this was mutual and a long time coming. But the rejection gnaws at me and I’m grateful to be busy. In fact, I’m so busy smiling and feigning personal and professional joy that I totally forget Shey’s arriving from New York to spend the weekend with me until Thursday afternoon’s call from her.
I’m at my desk just about to turn off my computer and I have to listen to her voice mail twice before I realize tomorrow’s Friday. She’s here tomorrow.
I can’t believe I forgot Shey was coming. We originally were supposed to convene in Seattle for Zach’s baptism, but the date was changed. Instead Shey rebooked her flight to head to L.A. to spend a girls’ weekend with me.
And now she’ll be here tomorrow and I’m craving a girls’ weekend as well. A good one. Decadent, relaxing, fun.
I instant message Madison, who ducks into my office to see what’s up. “Can you see if you can get me a reservation for a two-bedroom suite at the Parker in Palm Springs for two nights?” I ask her. “The hotel also pulls up as Le Parker Méredien. I’d love the Gene Autry guesthouse but don’t know if that’s available.”
“New romance?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows.
“With my best friend.”
“Oh, fun. I’ll get right on it.”
Madison dances her way back to my office ten minutes later with a reservation confirmation. “You got the Gene Autry residence and they love you.” She places the printed confirmation in front of me. “No, seriously, they looooove you and have promised to spoil you rotten. Daily morning coffee service. Spa treatments. Dinner at Mister Parker’s. I wish I was going.”
“If that’s what you want for Christmas…?” I answer, slipping the confirmation into my briefcase.
“Really?”
“Unless you have a better idea.”
“I’ll do Palm Springs!”
“Smart girl.”
* * *
I’m practically singing my way through Friday morning’s taping. I’m so excited about the weekend with Shey and thrilled to be leaving the city for a girls’ getaway in Palm Springs. I was so jealous when I heard that Marta and Shey had their own getaway in the San Juan Islands a few years ago. I haven’t done anything like that with either of them since I started at America Tonight—my fault, not theirs, as it’s my schedule making things difficult.
We’re done taping by noon, and I’m in my car and rushing to the airport. I’m just five minutes away when I get the text from Shey saying her plane has landed and she’ll be heading toward the curb as soon as they reach the gate.
I’m circling Arrivals in my Jag when I spot Shey emerging from the terminal. Nearly six feet tall and a gorgeous, willowy blonde, she’d be hard to miss, too.
I pull up to the curb, shift into park, and jump out to greet her with a hug and a laugh. I feel like a midget hugging her, but then I am barely five three.
“Are you shrinking, Tiana?” Shey teases me as she gives me a squeeze.
Oh, my God, it’s good to see her. Her voice, her warmth, her Texas twang. “I was just asking myself the same thing,” I answer, opening the trunk to put her luggage in the back. “How was the flight?”
“Uneventful.”
“The best kind of flight.”
“How’s life?” Shey asks as we climb into the car and close the doors.
“Could be better, but you know I love a good challenge.”
“You’ve certainly been in the news a lot.”
“Not by choice,” I mutter as I pull away from the curb.
“This new guy of yours, Trevor Campbell, he’s gone? Out of the picture?”
“Yep.”
“What happened?”
“Not entirely sure, but I think he started sleeping with his co-star.”
“Is that what he said?”
I glance at her. “He hasn’t returned my calls in a week.”
“But he appeared on ET—”
“Spouting lies.” I shrug indifferently, but then my brave face crumples and I feel the sting of rejection all over again. He never did call. Never did care. “To be honest, I feel like a fool. I guess it wasn’t much of a relationship, and I should be relieved it’s over. I guess I’m relieved— ” I break off, gulp a breath. “Sort of. No, not really, because now I have to start dating all over again.”
Shey arches an elegant brow. “Why do you hate dating so much?”
“Because the whole Tiana Tomlinson identity trips men up.”
“How?”
I wave a hand as I change lanes and prepare to enter the freeway. “I think they fall for the package and don’t realize there’s a real me beneath all the hair and makeup and celebrity appearances, a me who’s considerably different than the TV persona.”
“Are you different?”
I shoot her an accusing glance. “Of course I’m different. You know I’m different— ”
“Not if you’re dating actors like Trevor Campbell for six months! Did you really think he’d fall in love, settle down, and be ready to start making babies before your biological clock runs down?”
I’m staring straight ahead, concentrating on the 405’s bumper-to-bumper traffic, but I also hear every word she’s saying.
“T, you need someone your age or older, someone settled, someone mature, someone not in the business.” Her tone softens. “But if you don’t want the marriage and kids, then admit it, and just be done with it. But that’s not what I hear from you. I hear you still want a family…?”
I know she’s looking at me, and I just tighten my grip on the steering wheel. Of course I want a family. It’s normal for a woman to want a family. But most women aren’t widowed at thirty, either.
Shey leans toward me, taps the back of my hand where it clenches the wheel. “You know, if Keith hadn’t died, you’d be a reporter in a small city, juggling assignments between making cookies and driving kids to music, dance, and sporting events.”
I see the I-10 intersection ahead, knowing I want to go east.
&nbs
p; “You’d already started collecting baby clothes, remember?” she adds.
“One outfit and one blanket, not exactly an entire layette.”
“But you know what I’m saying. Having a baby was a top priority once Keith returned— ”
“But he didn’t, and I haven’t met anyone close to Keith, so the baby blanket and onesie are long gone and my focus has been on work.”
“Okay. We’ll drop the subject… for now.” She grins and slides her seat back to give her more legroom. “I do have some big news, though. Well, it’s actually not my news. It’s about Marta.”
I glance at her again. “Yeah?”
Shey’s grinning. “Do you know why Zach’s baptism was postponed from this weekend until the end of the month? Marta’s pregnant.”
“What?”
Shey’s grin grows. “Marta’s just hit her second trimester, but she’s still really sick.”
“Zach’s not even a year old yet.”
Shey just laughs her throaty laugh and tucks a wave of thick blonde hair behind her ear. “But that’s not all. She’s carrying twins.”
I let out a screech, and Shey laughs again. “Eva let the news slide when I called the house last night. Marta doesn’t know we know yet.”
“We’ve got to go see her. I know the baptism has been postponed until the twenty-eighth, but we should just surprise her— ” I break off, bite my lip as I realize this is Marta we’re talking about. “She doesn’t want anyone to see her sick, does she.”
Shey shakes her head. “Apparently she can’t keep any food down and she’s lost a lot of weight— ”
“Not that she needed to lose any,” I interrupt.
“Eva says Luke’s been worried about her, but according to the doctor the pregnancy’s fine.”
“Wow.” Marta pregnant with twins. Incredible. Just two years ago she and Eva were an island, and now Marta’s married and a mom to little Zach and expecting two more.
Shey casts a sympathetic glance my way. “I promise, if you want it, your turn will come, Tits.”
I force a smile. “I know.” But I don’t know, not anymore. Shey’s right about Trevor, though. Trevor would have never married me or had children with me, nor would any of the last few men I dated. But those are the men I date. I’m not attracted to the kind, salt-of-the-earth men— and those men do still exist. I just avoid them. Just like I avoid being hurt.
