by Jane Porter
I flip to the next page and discover the photo of my mom, the one Celia had surprised me with during the interview. It’s the photo where Mom’s just been crowned Miss South Africa, and she has big hair, shiny happy eyes, and an endless smile. My stomach heaves. I close the magazine, press it against my chest, and take a deep breath to slow my crazy pulse.
“In Celia’s defense, the story’s well done,” Harper says. “Strong writing, sympathetic storytelling. Nothing cringe-worthy.”
“That’s a plus.”
“I think you’ll see some positive feedback. And I think you’ll like tonight’s show. You’re wonderful in an interview format. The public will just fall in love with you all over again.”
I smile. But it’s not the public I want to fall in love with me. It’s Michael. And that’s the one person I don’t know how to reach. Not that I need to reach him. But if I did…
Michael calls me.
Wednesday night I’m eating macaroni and cheese for dinner— albeit Maria’s mac and cheese, which is the homemade kind, which means rich and fattening with just a hint of red pepper— in front of the TV, waiting for America Tonight to start, when he phones. I wipe off my milky mouth and mute the TV’s sound to take his call. “Hi,” I say, thinking I sound far too breathless.
“Just saw the new People. Cover girl.”
“What do you think?”
“I think they could have waited for you to get your stitches out. Other than that, it’s great. You came across beautifully. Especially when you were talking about your sisters.”
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Thank you. I was worried about the story. Worried what people would think.”
He hesitates. “I have to admit I was surprised by the photos and interview. It’s not something I thought you’d do.”
Was that a criticism? “They don’t say it in the story, but they bought my photos and story. For a million dollars— ”
“A million dollars?”
“— to go to the charity of my choice.” I take another quick breath. “And I divided it between PSI Zambia and Rx Smile.”
He doesn’t say anything, and I wait, mouth dry, wondering if he heard me, wondering if he’s shocked or upset. And then he laughs softly. “Good for you, Tiana. Well done.”
Now is the time to invite him to the Tucson reception. Now is the time to ask him to go. But my mouth is so dry and my heart’s beating too hard and I’m so nervous because I’ve been rejected once and don’t want to be rejected again.
“My God, that’s brilliant. Good for you,” he repeats.
I glow a little, and caught up in the moment, I blurt out an invitation for Tucson. “I have an event on March fourteenth in Tucson, it’s the lifetime achievement award I was supposed to get February seventh, the day after I was hurt, and they’d like me to come out so they can present me with the award. I’d say a few words, and I know it’s a long way to go, but if you’re free I’d love it if you could go with me.” I stop talking abruptly, realizing I was almost rambling.
“March fourteenth?”
“Yes. They’re sending a jet for me. Kind of a fun way to travel.”
“Tiana, I’m already booked that day. There’s a medical conference in Boston and I’m speaking.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly, tone light. “Thought I’d ask.”
“Glad you did. If things were different, I’d love to go.”
But things aren’t different, and he can’t go. We talk about nothing for a moment and then say good-bye.
Hanging up, I look at my flat-screen TV, and there I am in high-definition, in my white dress, with my shiny dark hair, lush mascara lashes, big cast, and the stunning bristly scar. I watch me in mute, watch my face as I speak to Celia, answering her questions. I look not at the scar on my cheek, but at my eyes and my lips, and I see the fire and emotion I’ve spent my life trying to hide. But the fire and emotion aren’t ugly. The fire and emotion are beautiful.
Hot emotion runs through me now, and I grab a pillow from the couch and press it to my chest. Even without a man, even without Michael, my heart is beautiful.
Chapter Twenty-one
The response from the People story and America Tonight segments has been overwhelmingly positive. I’m fielding calls right and left, ranging from interview requests to offers to make a guest appearance on talk shows. I need an agent, and a good one, but I’m not ready to rush into signing with an agent just because I’m feeling pressure. I’ll represent myself until I find the right person— and it will be the right person, someone who respects me, my values, and my goals.
I say yes to an appearance on The View to discuss Rx Smile. Yes to an appearance with Ellen DeGeneres to discuss Zambia and the need there. And yes to Kelly and Regis, who want to chat about life now.
There are requests from magazines and newspapers, including Redbook and O, and the “Lifestyle” section editor from USA Today, and I promise to follow up with each in the next week.
In the meantime, there’s the meeting with Glenn, and I prepare for it the way one would prepare for a boxing match. It’s going to be tough, it’s going to be painful, but it won’t last forever.
I wear a silver tank with the gray Donna Karan suit skirt and drape the jacket over my shoulders to accommodate my cast. I’m wearing more foundation than I usually do, but it covers most of the scar and gives me confidence. With South Sea pearls in my ears and a thick strand at my throat, I feel polished and confident and ready for whatever will come.
Russian John drives me, giving me a half hour to compose myself. One of three things will happen in this meeting. I’ll be given walking papers, I’ll be offered a new anchor contract, or I’ll be offered part-time work. What do I want?
The front desk receptionist greets me as I step off the elevator. Libby rushing through the halls shouts a hello. Madison scurries to hug me before I disappear into Glenn’s office. She’s wearing pink, I notice, and I check my smile.
Glenn rises, puts a hand to my shoulder, and kisses my cheek. “You look wonderful.”
“Thank you.”
I can see him scrutinizing my face, searching for the horrific scar flaunted on the front of this week’s People. “It’s not so bad,” he says, clearly surprised. “I expected much worse.”
“People didn’t want to wait for the stitches to come out.”
“Shock value, of course.” He gestures for me to take a chair and then sits once I’m seated. He looks at me for another long moment and then shakes his head. “This is difficult. This is really difficult. I wish the network heads were here now to see you, but they aren’t, and they made their decision based on the photos they saw in People, as well as your appearance on the show this week, and it was felt that your accident was too traumatic for our viewers— ” He breaks off, looks at me with sadness. “I’m sorry, Tiana, your contract won’t be renewed.”
I’m not surprised, but I’m disappointed. I expected a little more from the network. I expected at least an offer for part-time work, as a special correspondent or weekend anchor.
I meet his gaze directly. “So that’s how it is.”
“I fought hard for you.”
And Glenn probably did fight. But I don’t think his definition of hard matches mine. I can’t imagine him wanting me to make many waves, not when his own contract is up for renewal in June.
“You’ll continue to have temporary disability and then workers’ compensation. Helen in human resources will be able to cover all that with you.”
“Thank you.” I get to my feet, square my shoulders, and smile. I won’t leave here in tears. This is what I was looking for. New opportunity. Now I have it.
“Thank you,” he answers.
I turn to go, but he stops me at the door.
“Tonight’s the last of your Africa features, and I thought you should know that our ratings this week were our highest ever. Viewers loved your segments. I loved the segments. I’m proud to have
had the chance to work with you. You’re a gifted journalist, and you have a big future ahead of you.”
He’s right. I am going to have a big future. “Thank you, Glenn. All my best.”
Russian John is waiting to take me home, but I’m not ready to go home. I’m dressed, I feel beautiful, and I want to celebrate. One chapter in my life is closing so that I can begin a new one.
“John, the Beverly Hills Hotel, please. I think I’ll stop for a late lunch.”
At two forty-five, there’s no wait to be seated in the Polo Lounge. I order a salad and an iced tea and then take a deep breath to relax while I wait.
I feel a little brave and a little foolish sitting here on my own. This is a place where people come to make deals. To schmooze and to see and be seen. But I’m here for a reason. I’m making a statement. I’m making myself visible. I’m letting the industry know I’m not going away. This is my town. And I belong here.
Later that afternoon, I get an e-mail from Betsy in Tucson with details regarding the reception. As I suspected, it is black-tie and it’ll be held at one of the swanky resorts in the desert. Apparently, every ticket has already been sold and the press have promised to attend in force. I call Shannon, my stylist. I haven’t talked to her in five weeks, not since she dressed me for the Golden Globes back in early January.
“Tiana!” Shannon sounds genuinely delighted to hear from me. “How are you? God, it was good to see your name and number on my phone.”
“I’m great. Thank you. How are you?”
We chitchat, and then I tell her about the Tucson award, how the accident happened the day I was to fly out and they’re going to present me with the award now with a new event. “I need to look good. It’s my first black-tie appearance since my accident and I want to be confident.”
“I couldn’t agree more. You need a great dress, a darling handbag, and your beautiful smile. What were you thinking of wearing?”
Having purchased virtually everything in my closet for me, she knows my wardrobe intimately and keeps an online album with photographs of my best pieces. “My black ruffled Oscar de la Renta gown. It’s long, and except for the bare shoulders, rather demure.”
“You love that dress and I love that dress, but on someone other than you. I think it’s time to donate that dress, especially as I know a gown that would be amazing on you. I just saw it today at Neiman Marcus, and you’d look sensational in it. It’s Monique Lhuillier. Long, silver satin, and paired with a modern silver collar or a chunky necklace you’d absolutely dazzle.”
“Silver, in March?”
“Get a blowout and spray tan, just a touch of a golden glow. Almost naked makeup. A barely there lip with nude gloss. No earrings, no bracelets, and it’d be stunning but effortless. I’ll run the dress over for you tomorrow.”
The three weeks until the Tucson gala are filled with appointments, interviews, and appearances. I’m far busier than I expected, and it’s gratifying to discover so much interest and support for the people and stories I covered in Zambia.
I get my cast off during the second week of March. My arm looks pale and a little shriveled, but I’m delighted to have it back. There’s a scar on my forearm and the muscles are appallingly weak, but I’ll get the strength back with use.
Three days after the cast comes off, and just two days before I’m to head to Tucson, I have a second meeting with agent Meredith Wochstein of Creative Talent. I like her very much and appreciate her energy and drive. She doesn’t see my scar as a stumbling block; rather, she focuses on my experience and my charisma. There are a lot of opportunities for me, she tells me; it’s just a matter of goal setting and priorities. I’m delighted to sign with her.
Finally, it’s Saturday morning and time to fly to Tucson. I’m twitchy, aware that the last time I was headed to Tucson I came nose to nose with a car. It’s a relief once I’m on board the Learjet, safely buckled in my seat with a glass of champagne in my hand. The flight is smooth and fast, and I’m on the ground before I’ve even finished going through my magazines.
With a half day looming before the reception, I indulge in body treatments and a massage at the resort’s spa and then head to the salon at four for hair and nails. Back in my hotel room, I check my cell for messages and there’s one from Meredith Wochstein, my new agent. She’s just heard from Harvey Pearlman over at NBC, and he wants to set up a meeting for Tuesday to discuss the idea of developing an afternoon talk show with me as host. It’s all very early, very preliminary talks, but Meredith says that Harvey’s a huge fan of mine and would love to make something happen.
I listen to the message three times, my smile growing with every replay.
Even if nothing comes of the Tuesday meeting, the fact that Harvey Pearlman, one of the most influential men in the industry today, is a fan and wants to talk to me makes me feel amazing.
I am not just a face.
I am not just an image.
I am me, and I matter.
I call Meredith back, leave a message that I’d be delighted to meet with Harvey and my calendar’s open, so any time, any place, is good. And then I hang up and it’s time to dress for the party.
My hands shake as I carefully slide the new Monique Lhuillier gown over my head. Harvey Pearlman’s a fan. NBC wants to talk to me. I have options. I have a very big, bright future, and there will be new risks to take, new crises as well, but I welcome them all. I love a good challenge and am up for a new challenge.
The silver dress is formfitting, and after zipping it up, I turn to see myself in the mirror. It’s beautiful. I’m beautiful.
I smile, and leaning close to the mirror, I kiss my face where the scar is. The mirror is cold against my lips, but I leave my lips there until the glass warms and I feel the love, the same love I felt when my mother comforted me as a child. I love you, Tiana. I’m proud of you. You’re going to be wonderful tonight.
The ballroom chandeliers are dimmed, and candles flicker on the twenty-some round tables and chairs. Even though this is supposed to be a cocktail reception, there is enough food at the buffet stations to make it a dinner. I mingle and visit and nibble a little and drink even less, as I’m aware that soon I’ll be on the platform, accepting my award and giving a thank-you speech.
And then it’s time, and the lights are further dimmed, and everyone takes a seat. I’m being introduced, my biography is read, along with a list of achievements I’ve heard before. Emmy Award–winning…
Top-rated show…
HBC’s most popular TV host…
All those distinctions, all that recognition, usually it rolls right off me, but tonight I hear it all, take it in, savoring every honor, every achievement, realizing that I should have been doing this years ago. I’ve worked hard. I’ve accomplished a lot. I should enjoy it. But like other women, I never take time to savor my successes. I’ve always been too focused on what I haven’t done right or what I still need to do.
No more.
Standing in front of the microphone, I have my speech there in front of me, but as I look out at the audience beneath the glowing chandeliers, I ignore the speech I’ve prepared and just speak from the heart.
I talk about my experience in television and how in the months leading up to my accident, I’d been increasingly cautious and fearful, worried that my career would end if I aged, worried I’d lose respect if I wasn’t a flawless image. I tell them I didn’t realize how strong I was and that my power was not in my image, but in my convictions and my drive.
“I craved change,” I tell them, “but was terrified of change, clinging ever more tightly to what was familiar, to what I knew. But clinging to fear only increases fear. There’s only one way to fight fear and that’s by fighting back. Embrace change. Grab for the unknown. And believe in hope and joy and love.
“There isn’t just one kind of love, either,” I conclude. “And there’s more than enough love to go around. So love yourself, and love your life, and even love fear, because it won’t hold
you back.”
The audience is on their feet, applauding. I appreciate the show of support, but today’s speech wasn’t for them. It was for me. I have spent years not loving myself, not loving my life, not loving much of anything because I’ve been so afraid that no matter what I do, I’ll never be successful. Never be valuable. Never really matter.
But I can’t matter if I won’t let myself matter, and not matter to others, but matter to me.
I have to be my first lover, my first friend, my first fan. I have to start with me because this is where it all begins.
As I step off the stage, the applause continues, and I smile and nod my gratitude. Tonight couldn’t have gone better, and I go home with a gorgeous crystal award and a grateful heart. I’m ready for the next phase of my life, whatever it is.
I’m walking through the emptying ballroom toward the lobby when I see him. He’s dressed in one of his gorgeous black Italian suits, hands in his trouser pockets, and he’s handsome as all sin. Michael.
My heart flips. I walk slowly toward him.
He makes a show of looking around. “No date?”
I want to answer something clever, but I can’t think of anything. He’s so damn attractive, and he’s made life very hard for me lately. “No.”
“Why not?”
My temper stirs. “That’s like asking how you always manage to get one. Really, Dr. Frankenstein, mind your manners.”
He laughs softly, appreciatively, and closes the distance between us to kiss me on the cheek. “You look amazing, and you smell even better.”
“Thank you.” My calm voice belies the wild beating of my heart.
He puts one arm around me. “It was an incredible speech. You had everyone on their feet.”
“Michael, what are you doing here? I thought you had to be in Boston.”
“I was. But the moment I delivered my lecture I jumped on a plane and was able to catch your speech.”
