Easy on the Eyes

by Jane Porter

  “I could put you in touch with the director of public relations for Rx Smile on Monday,” Michael says. “Since it’s a volunteer organization, I imagine you’d have to pay your own expenses getting to and from Lusaka, as well as lodging and meals. But if you were willing to do that, they’d be open to having you there. In fact, they’d be grateful to have you. It’d be a wonderful opportunity for them as well.”

  My heart’s jumping. I’m excited, really excited, and mentally I go through my finances, as well as my experience with cameras. It’s been a long time since I did my own camera work, although in the beginning every reporter learns how to do a one-man stand-up. “Yes, I’d love a name and number. Definitely interested.”

  Driving back to Redlands late that afternoon, Christie asks me if I’m serious about tagging along on the Zambia Rx Smile mission, and I tell her I’m very serious.

  “This is what I’ve been dying to do. It was hard skiing this afternoon because I kept thinking about all the logistics, wondering if I can combine Sveva’s story with the Zambia mission, wondering if I can manage to interview and film. I’ll need to look into travel requirements as well. See if I need any visas and vaccines— ” I break off, gulp a breath as my pulse quickens. “Wow. It’d be incredible if I could pull this off. I really want to do it.”

  She glances at me over her shoulder. Smiles. It’s her smug Christie-knows-best smile, and I pretend I don’t see.

  It’s not until I’m in bed that I finally let myself think about Michael and the kiss in the bar.

  I really can’t believe I did that. I don’t know what in God’s name I was thinking. Michael’s a player. I don’t need a player. Obviously I wasn’t thinking. Obviously that can’t happen again, especially in Zambia.

  Shame. Because nothing has felt half as good as that kiss in a long, long time.

  Chapter Twelve

  I wake up Sunday morning feeling happy and very, very relaxed. And then yesterday starts to come back to me in embarrassing pieces.

  Skiing. Michael. Drinks. Talking. Flirting. Kissing.

  Kissing.

  Kissing Michael O’Sullivan. I press my pillow to my face, groan into the feathers. Can’t believe I did that. Can’t believe I’d fall for his charm. He’s so blatant. So obvious. You’d think I’d know better.

  First thing— there’ll be no more kissing. And if I do go to Africa when he’s there, I’ll keep my distance. There’ll be very little contact and no moonlit conversations and definitely no canoodling. Africa is business. Work. Only work.

  I’m pouring milk on my cereal when Christie phones to check on me. “How are you doing?”

  “Good.” I play with my spoon. “Excited to talk to Michael’s contact at Rx Smile tomorrow. I can’t stop thinking about the trip. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve done something like this?”

  She laughs. “I’m more interested in hearing about Michael. What’s going on between you two?”

  “Nothing,” I say, hating the twinge of anxiety. This is exactly what I don’t want or need. Michael isn’t what I want or need.

  “That’s not what I saw.”

  I’m reminded suddenly of how I felt kissing him, how there was something so right being near him; but then there was that horrible painful embarrassment after. “The kiss was a one-time-only thing. We were joking around, being ridiculous, and then it just happened. But it won’t happen again.”

  “Oh.” She sounds so wistful.

  “Now I’m going to hang up because my cereal is getting soggy. But I’ll call you later this week and let you know what’s happening with Zambia, okay?”

  “Deal.”

  After my tan, nail, and hair appointments, I rush home to meet Shannon, who is literally sewing me into my dress. The dress is beyond gorgeous, but it’s tight, very, very tight, and the snug corset of a bodice is going to mean I eat and drink very little tonight.

  Shannon also helps me apply my false eyelashes, and once she’s gone I deal with the rest of my makeup, which goes on quickly. Finished, I stand back to examine my face and hair with the dress. It all looks good. I look good.

  And then something else happens. I don’t see me. I see my mom.

  It’s the strangest jolt of recognition. This is what my mom looked like when she died. She was my age, thirty-eight. Leaning close to the mirror, I stare at my face, into my eyes, searching for my mother.

  There were times after the car accident when I envied my sisters for going with her. Envied that they all went together. I didn’t want to be left behind.

  I used to tell myself there was a reason for being left behind.

  I’ve still been searching for answers, for that elusive reason why I survived when no one else did.

  Shaking the whisper of sadness, I smile at myself and my deep dimples come and go. The dimples weren’t my mother’s. Those I got from my father. He said they were unmanly. We children loved to put our fingers in them. Smile, we’d say, climbing on him, arms circling his neck. Smile. And then we’d gouge the dimples and laugh.

  He acted as if he hated it, but his eyes laughed with us.

  Two hands to the mirror, I try to capture them, the people I lost, the people I miss. It’s futile, but it doesn’t change it or make it easier. You’d think after this many years the grief would sleep. And it does, sometimes for weeks, even months, life goes on, but then something wakes it and the sorrow returns, resting on my rib cage, riding my heart.

  I push away, take a deep breath, settle my shoulders. Time to go. Time to shine.

  The Golden Globe Awards are given out each year by the Hollywood Foreign Press Association and are the favorite awards for those of us in the industry who work the red carpet. The awards are a combination of the Oscars and the Emmys, as they recognize outstanding performances in both motion pictures and television.

  When I first started working for America Tonight, the awards were held at various theaters around town, but now they’re a steady fixture at the Beverly Hilton Hotel. Unlike the Oscars, where everyone sits in theater seats, the Globes ceremony is a seated dinner.

  With twenty-five different categories, the Globes are also shorter than the Oscars, but the fans still descend beforehand to get a glimpse of the big names attending the party. However, bleacher seats for the Globes aren’t free, as they are for the Oscars; instead, they’re sold as part of a guest room package at the Beverly Hilton Hotel, and the package price starts at around two thousand dollars.

  I know from working the red carpet that stars begin showing up at the hotel around three-thirty, although I used to arrive between noon and one. Because Peter is not running the gauntlet of international journalists and American entertainment reporters, tonight we don’t actually arrive until five, but that’s due partly to the backup of limousines inching toward the hotel entrance.

  I have butterflies as our limousine pulls toward the hotel curb. I don’t get nervous often anymore, but I’m certainly nervous tonight.

  There could also be some butterflies because I’m about to step from the relative safety of the limo and into the lion’s den.

  Peter, a senior writer for Die Welt as well as a regular columnist for German Vogue, pats my hand. “Du bist sehr schön,” he says.

  You are very beautiful.

  The driver puts the car in park and comes around to open our door. Photographers press toward the car. Peter reaches for my hand and nods once at me. I nod back. And then he’s stepping out and assisting me.

  I straighten as dozens of lights flash around us. I’ve never been in the middle of such a crush of photographers before, but I’m used to cameras, I know what to do with cameras. I tilt up my chin, drop my lashes ever so slightly, and smile.

  * * *

  We walk the length of the red carpet; lightbulbs flash and publicists escort the stars to some journalists and past others. I see Shelby and Manuel interviewing Tom Hanks. Nancy O’Dell’s talking to Trevor. George Clooney is chatting with Pat O’Brien. It’s a crowded r
ed carpet, and it takes us several minutes to make our way inside.

  Our table is way in the back, and we’re packed together like sardines. The front tables with the stars seat eight to ten. Our tables are squished with twelve, and here and there you can count fourteen. Fortunately, members of the Italian and French press are quite lean.

  I’ve always enjoyed working the carpet outside before the show, as well as the post-awards interviews, but I’m having a wonderful time at our table, which is mostly German, Swedish, and Finnish, with a Latvian journalist thrown in. There’s quite a bit of drinking and joking, but once the awards begin, everyone quiets down. These awards are taken seriously and often viewed as a precursor for the Oscars, although it’s said that the foreign press tend to favor their own.

  NBC’s huge cameras roll back and forth to capture the presenters walking to the microphone and then the award winners as they move through the ballroom to the stage.

  I’m having such fun with Peter and the gang that I forget all about Trevor until his category, “Best Performance by an Actor in a Supporting Role in a Motion Picture,” is announced and my stomach falls.

  The camera zooms in on each nominee, and there are five in his category. Trevor’s table is filled with fellow actors and actresses from the nominated film, and they applaud him as his name is read.

  “And the Golden Globe goes to…” The envelope is opened and the presenter glances at the card and then smiles at the audience. “Tom Hanks.”

  There are cheers, and Tom is accepting congratulations at his table, and as he stands and heads for the stage, people continue to clap.

  I’m clapping, too, yet I’m suddenly sorry that Trevor didn’t win.

  Twenty minutes later, I duck out the back and head for the ladies’ room. My gorgeous dress is so snug that it makes using the bathroom a challenge. I’m just exiting the ladies’ room when a hand lands on my shoulder.

  I turn.

  It’s Trevor. He’s golden and bronze and devastatingly handsome in his tux with a drink in his hand. He smiles, and it’s all white teeth flashing, but there’s no warmth in his eyes. “Max said you were coming. Enjoying yourself?”

  He’s definitely had a few drinks. I smile, but I’m wary. “It’s been fun.”

  “Happy for Tom?”

  “I was hoping you’d win,” I answer.

  “Of course you were. You’re such a fan.”

  I smile tightly. “It was good to see you, Trevor. Best of luck— ”

  He grabs my arm. “You’re the lowest of the low. Celebrity leech. A bottom-feeder— ”

  “Let go.”

  But he won’t. He grips my arm tighter. “You only mattered because I made you matter— ”

  I finally wrench free. “Good-bye, Trevor.” I walk away as quickly as I can, conscious of the cameramen in the lobby.

  Trevor’s either too drunk or too angry to care. He shouts after me, his voice filling the hall: “You need help, Tiana. You’re sick! You know that, don’t you? You’re sick.”

  I’m shaking as I return to the table, yet I keep a smile fixed on my face as I take my seat, aware that I’m sitting surrounded by members of the foreign press. Peter stands as I sit, and I turn my smile on him and thank him. Yet inwardly I’m just stunned. Trevor’s behavior wasn’t just hurtful, it was frightening. Aggressive. Nothing like the man I dated for six months. How strange to think that just weeks ago we were a couple. And then boom! It all fell apart. I didn’t even see it coming. Tabloid sensation to tabloid disaster.

  Peter’s hand brushes mine. “Are you all right?” he asks me.

  I nod. “Wonderful,” I answer with a dazzling smile before leaning forward to hear the joke one of the Finnish journalists is telling.

  Bright, shiny, happy, I tell myself over and over during the next hour and a half.

  That’s all I have to be, that’s all I have to do. And it’s a good thing I’ve had fifteen years of broadcasting, nearly six of those on national TV, because if there’s one thing I can do well, it’s fake a bright, shiny, happy mood.

  My composure holds during the drive home. Peter thanks me for attending the awards, claiming that all the other tables of foreign press were insane with envy. They had to sit with one another’s ugliness, but he had the beautiful Tiana Tomlinson at his table.

  As the limousine pulls up in front of my house, he takes my hand and squeezes it. “Gemutlichkeit.” He looks into my eyes, my hand still in his. “This is what I wish for you.”

  I know the word. It’s a German noun that means cozy, happy, peaceful, well-being. It’s used to describe a warm family room or a wonderful holiday like at Christmas. But it’s also a personal state of being, like a state of grace where everything is warm and cheerful, happy and good.

  He is wishing for me all things good.

  A lump forms in my throat, and I squeeze his hand back and lean forward to kiss his cheek. “Danke. Thank you.”

  Then I’m walking the short distance from the curb to my front door and letting myself into my house.

  My shoes are off right away, and then, dress swishing, I lock up, turn off lights, and head to my bedroom to get out of my clothes. It’s not easy. In fact, it might be impossible. Shannon hooked and zipped and stitched me into this gown, and now I can’t get it off.

  I’m beginning to sweat as I struggle to reach the second zipper. I want out of the gown. The bodice is tight and my waist is squeezed, and I try and try to twist around and find a way to open the gown without tearing it— but there’s no way to get it over my head or down my hips, not without the zipper unfastened and the hooks undone.

  Where is the second zipper? Why won’t the hooks open?

  Hot and frustrated, I tug at the fabric. I tug and tug and hear threads snapping, seams threatening to give way, and I let out a frustrated cry.

  I’ve had enough. Really, I’ve had enough.

  I got drunk and threw myself at Michael last night. Trevor humiliated me tonight. And now I can’t get out of my dress.

  Trapped. Trapped. Trapped. I wrestle with the gown, absolutely ruthless. With a violent yank, I manage to pull it over my hips. I ignore the tearing sound. I keep twisting, wriggling, right, left, arms up, pinned to my head.

  I hate this, all of it. The dress. The shame. My life. When did I become the stuff of jokes? When did I become ridiculous?

  Hot, flushed, I finally yank it over my head and toss it onto the bed.

  I see myself in the full-length mirror, red-faced, eyes watering. I’ve lost weight these past few weeks, and my hips are gone again and I’m back to very thin, which looks sexy and svelte in a size two awards show gown, but naked I feel freakish.

  Big head. Skinny body. Flesh-colored plunging bra and thong against a dark bronze spray-on tan.

  All this primping and pimping. Hundreds of hours, and thousands of dollars, spent to look glossy and flawless on camera, as if real women are glossy and flawless.

  As if Hollywood is about real women.

  I go to the bathroom to wash off my flawless face. The mascara runs down my cheeks in inky rivulets. It’s a hideous moment, a moment of complete and utter self-loathing, and then I stop it. I stop the hurt and the self-hate.

  I am not this. I am so much more.

  For the first time in weeks I sleep soundly, sleeping all the way until eight-forty. I wake up and roll over and feel a moment of utter well-being. And then I remember who I am and where I am and the status of my life.

  But before I spend any time thinking, I’m definitely going to need coffee.

  Maria, my housekeeper, doesn’t arrive until ten, so I have time to sit on my couch and be lazy. Coffee and papers in hand, I sit on the living room couch and open the papers, flipping to the entertainment section for a round-up of last night’s awards. But along with the awards is a photo of Trevor, his face contorted. SUPERSTAR MELTDOWN! reads the headline.

  Heart thudding, I skim the short text. Apparently, an intrepid photographer caught the interchange betwe
en Trevor and me.

  If this made the paper, it probably made the morning news. I turn on the TV and flip through channels, checking to see if any of the morning shows are discussing last night’s awards ceremony.

  Live with Regis and Kelly at nine a.m. does not disappoint me. The opening dialogue is all about the Golden Globes. They mention some of the stars in attendance along with those notably absent. Regis mentions a beautiful gown Jennifer Aniston wore. Kelly cracks a joke about the number of babies Angelina wore.

  “But the big news last night was Trevor Campbell’s meltdown,” Regis segues, turning to face Kelly. “You saw it?”

  “I did. Ouch!” Kelly pulls a face. “I bet Trevor Campbell never expected that to end up on the national news.”

  Regis shakes his head. “I admit, I feel for Tiana Tomlinson. But she handled herself like a lady.”

  Kelly’s expression grows earnest. “This is a tough business, Reg. Not a lot of love or loyalty at times.”

  “We both know her, don’t we?”

  “She’s been a guest host here on the show with you, hasn’t she, Reg?”

  “Several times.”

  “You liked her.”

  “Great host. Lovely lady.”

  Kelly leans forward and speaks to the camera. “Tiana, we just want you to know we’re on your side.”

  Regis crosses his arms over his chest. “And you’re welcome back anytime. Come see us. We love you.”

  They cut to a commercial and I sit on the couch, thinking but not thinking, feeling but not feeling.

  They were good to me. They didn’t beat me up. If anything, they protected me.

  Emotion washes through me. They didn’t have to be nice.

  But I’m glad they were.

  Glenn calls just before noon and asks if I can meet him for lunch. “I’d like to talk to you. Could you meet me at the Terrace at one?”