Easy on the Eyes

by Jane Porter

“Good. Your story really upset me.”

  “It was tough, but things are so much better now. I’m a human resources manager for a Fortune 500 company based here in Los Angeles— ”

  “Hoping it’s a better salary.”

  She smiles. “Twice the salary I had before, plus two weeks’ vacation, great health benefits, and perks like travel and free gym membership.”

  “Did you go back to school, take new course work?”

  “No.”

  “So how did this happen? What changed?”

  Helene looks me in the eye. “My face. I had a chin implant and this part”— she puts her finger to the bridge of her nose— “shaved down. The doctor suggested braces to help with my overbite, but I didn’t do that. I didn’t think it necessary.”

  “You’re happy with your decisions?”

  “Thrilled,” she says quietly. “People now see me the way I’ve always seen myself. This person”— and she gestures from the top of her head all the way down— “was here the whole time, but most people couldn’t see past my profile, or lack of.”

  “Any regrets?”

  Her expression grows wistful. “I just wish I’d done it sooner.”

  Harper’s standing by the cameras with her clipboard as I detach the mike after the interview. “That’s brilliant,” she says, walking with me toward the decorated show stage where we’re scheduled to tape tonight’s show, including the new lead Harper’s been working on.

  “Thank you.” I slip off the chestnut blazer I wore for the interview, revealing a slim sheath dress.

  “Do you ever think you don’t belong here, that maybe this isn’t the best format for you?”

  The glow I’d felt at her compliment quickly fades. I shoot her a sharp glance. “I like what I do.”

  “Yes, but you’re really good one-on-one in interviews, as good as Meredith or Katie— ”

  “Harper, this is my job. And if memory serves, we have a show to do.” My voice is clear and steady. My tone is professionally crisp.

  But Harper isn’t fazed. “Glenn’s mentioned a special you want to do. Field stories. Investigative pieces.”

  “They’d actually be human interest,” I correct, wondering why Glenn mentioned my idea to her. “When did this conversation takes place?”

  Harper stands to the side as the teleprompter is rolled forward and different lights come on. I take my place in one of the tall director chairs as everyone does a sound and light check.

  “I brought the subject up.” She steps over black cables as the robotic cameras move. “I told him I thought HBC was underutilizing you. That’s when he mentioned your show idea.”

  “Did he seem open to my idea?”

  “Noncommittal. But I’d like to hear more about it sometime. I think it’s a great idea. I hope you’re able to make it happen.” She glances at her clipboard and then exclaims, “Speaking of making it happen, tonight’s new lead is pretty big. Not sure if you’re going to be comfortable covering it.”

  “Why not?”

  “Mark’s been on the phone for the past hour checking sources, but apparently Kiki’s pregnant— ”

  “Kiki? Trevor’s Kiki?” My voice cracks and I can’t hide my shock.

  He had been lying…

  He was sleeping with her…

  That explains why he didn’t call. But it also feels so much worse.

  Harper’s scrutinizing my face, reading my reaction. “We have a new opening for tonight’s show. It’s the big story. Can you handle it, or do we need to call in another anchor? Shelby’s around, I believe….”

  Her voice drifts away, and I know what she’s asking. Am I tough enough, strong enough, to report dirt, particularly dirt on my former boyfriend? Am I the kind of anchor who would cover a story like this?

  My conscience screams. Keith would scream. He’d be disgusted by the very idea, and I’m against this messy, sleazy form of journalism. But this is also my show, and I won’t have everyone running to Shelby every time my scruples are smashed. “I’ll do it,” I say, smashing my doubts and misgivings.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Here’s the new copy, then. We tape in five.”

  That’s all the time we have as someone from wardrobe comes running out with a chunky gold necklace to add visual interest to my hunter green sheath dress.

  David smoothes my hair, flattening the flyaways before spritzing with spray while I skim the text that will be on the teleprompter. Vanessa powders my nose and applies a peachy pink gold lip gloss, and then I’m back on the stage, standing on my spot.

  Harper’s on the side with Libby and Mark. The floor director is counting down time. The three robotics zoom in. I’m given the signal, and smiling, I look straight into the camera. “You heard it here first! An exclusive— breaking news! Kiki and Trevor’s love child.”

  By the time we’ve taped tonight’s show, and tomorrow’s tease as well as the tease for the hiatus show, I’m drained, and just plain nauseated. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, although I did have a grilled chicken salad in the break room fridge waiting for me. It was too hectic with the interviews and back-to-back shows, never mind the news that Trevor and Kiki are having a baby together.

  A baby.

  I shudder and shove the image of a pregnant Kiki out of mind as I really don’t want to think about him, them, or the baby anymore.

  At home I wash my face, eat a bowl of cereal, and climb into bed telling myself that tomorrow can’t be as hectic, or mind-numbingly awful, as today.

  But tomorrow begins worse.

  Somehow in the rush of interviews and taping and anchoring I’d forgotten that today was the announcement of this year’s Golden Globe nominations, and when my phone rings at five-twenty a.m. and it’s still dark outside, I’m certain something terrible has happened.

  But it’s only Max waking me up with the news that Trevor has just been nominated for his first Golden Globe.

  I prop myself up in bed, shove a heavy fistful of hair from my eyes. “You woke me up to tell me Trevor’s up for an award?”

  “A Golden Globe. And you’ve ruined it.”

  I’m really not in the mood for this now. “What are you talking about?”

  “His nomination. Everyone should be focused on his performance and the Globe nomination, but instead the only thing people are talking about is Kiki’s pregnancy.”

  “It’s true, then?”

  “Jesus Christ, Tiana!”

  I don’t know why, but I smile. Max sounds so outraged, so upset that his golden boy’s golden moment has been tarnished. But I don’t feel bad for Trevor. Trevor’s a shit, and he shit on me. “Well, if that’s all, I’m going back to bed.”

  “That’s not all. You owe him— ”

  “Owe him?” I interrupt, outraged. I sit all the way up in bed, knees bent, heart thumping. “Did you really just say that, Max?”

  As if realizing he’s pushed me too far, he backpedals just a little. “Maybe an interview will suffice.”

  I laugh out loud. I am so sick of being kicked around. “I’m not interviewing him. I’m not interested in him or concerned with furthering his career.”

  “Not even if it furthers your career?”

  Max has me there, and he pushes his point. “Every time your name is linked with Trevor’s, your show ratings go up. You know it, and doll, whether you’ll admit it or not, you need him— ”

  I hang up. My phone rings immediately. I’m about to turn it off when I see it’s Harper calling. Harper rarely calls me when I’m at home, which makes me think she’s just heard about Trevor’s nomination.

  “Morning, Harper.”

  “Trevor Campbell’s up for his first Golden Globe, for best supporting actor.”

  “I’ve already heard.” I throw back the covers and slide into my robe. “Why are you up so early?”

  “I always wake up early to hear the list of nominees,” she says primly. “How did you hear?”

 
“My agent. Max reps both of us.”

  “Did he expect you to celebrate with him?”

  I smile, relax a little, liking Harper more and more. “He thought I’d want to interview him. Apparently it’d be good for show ratings.”

  “You need a different agent.”

  “I’ve been thinking the same thing.” I head to the kitchen to make much needed coffee.

  “You’re not going to do the interview, are you?” she asks.

  I fill the pot with water. “Max said I need him, but Max is wrong. I don’t need Trevor, and I don’t need Max, and I don’t need a man to make my life— or this show— great.”

  “Preach it, sister! It’s about time.”

  * * *

  The two weeks leading up to Christmas are frenetically busy. We’re taping shows back to back, and everyone is in overdrive. I’m just counting down the days until December 22, when I begin my nine-day break. It’s my longest vacation of the year, five workdays sandwiched between weekends and holidays.

  Friday morning, my last morning before my break, Glenn calls me into his office. When he tells me to close the door, I have an unpleasant déjà vu sensation and flash back to the day last month when Glenn told me the show wanted to make Shelby my co-host.

  As I sit down, I cross my legs and wait. He doesn’t waste time.

  “They want to introduce Shelby as co-host when we return to live shows the first of the year.”

  My lips part, but I make no sound. Instead I squeeze the water bottle I carried in with me, gripping it so hard that my knuckles shine white.

  “Because your numbers are up so much, the execs thought it best to add her soon, while you’re pulling in the viewers.” He talks quietly, unemotionally, and the words just keep coming. “We’re going to have you tape a series of teases this afternoon letting viewers know something big is happening on January second.”

  I squeeze the bottle until it pops. I jerk at the sound.

  My good numbers have worked against me. My increase in viewership did nothing to protect me.

  And then it hits me: They made their decision weeks ago. Nothing I could have done could have prevented this.

  Glenn shuffles a few papers in front of him. “And there’s one more thing. The network is dividing the awards coverage among the show hosts this year. You will still cover the Academy Awards. Shelby will work the red carpet with you— ”

  “We’re sharing the Academy Awards?”

  His gaze meets mine and holds. “And she’s hosting our Golden Globe pre-show with Manuel. It hasn’t been decided who will cover the SAG Awards. It might be Manuel, or it might be him with one of you girls.”

  One of us girls. Love it.

  I stand. “Is that all?”

  “Tiana, you’ve done a good job here. We’re all big fans of your work. We think adding Shelby will make your job easier. It’ll give you someone to chitchat with. Enjoy a little banter.”

  Chitchat and banter. I smile so hard that my cheeks ache. “Fabulous.”

  “This isn’t a demotion— ”

  “Of course not. It’s a wonderful opportunity. Right?” I look him in the eye. “ You know, on second thought, I need a break, Glenn. I’m sure Shelby can cover for me in my absence.”

  “How long will you be gone?” he asks, clearly stunned.

  I’ve never threatened to quit before, nor have I ever asked for time, and as impulsive as the decision is, my gut says it’s also the right one. It’s what I need. I need time to figure out what I want and what I need. For too long I’ve made the show my top priority, but it’s time I become my top priority.

  It crosses my mind that this could be the end, too. If I leave, I want to go out on top, and my numbers are strong. My viewers are back. “Four or five weeks.”

  “Four or five?” He’s shocked.

  My gaze falls to my hands, which are relaxed for the first time in a long time. I nod, exhale.

  “So you’ll be back in time for the SAG Awards?” he asks.

  I stand. “I’ll let you know.”

  Chapter Ten

  It rains as I drive home. It rarely rains in L.A., unlike in Seattle, where Marta lives. But it’s coming down now, cool, hard, decisively, and the weather mirrors my emotions.

  My moment of calm dissolves in outright panic. What have I done? What in God’s name was I thinking? Leave of absence, now? Just before contracts? Just before awards season?

  But I’m not thinking. I’m reacting. No, acting. I’m making a change. Change is good. Change is necessary.

  At home, I strap on my iPod and put on a baseball cap and zip a thin L.A. Lakers windbreaker over my jogging bra and shorts and go for a run.

  I refuse to cry as I run.

  The words— I need a break—came out easily enough, but confronting the reality of what I’ve said and what I need is something else.

  I’m terrified. Terrified of failing. Terrified of suffering. Terrified that I’ll fall in love again and I’ll lose him just the way I’ve lost everyone else.

  Every time I think I want to give in to tears, I push on faster. I run and run despite the rain. I run, splashing through puddles, sprayed by passing cars. My shorts and ponytail are soaked through. My shoes drip water with every step. I’m so far from the house and I don’t have a dollar to my name or I’d call for a cab and have it take me home.

  I finally stop moving. For a long minute I just stand where I am, sweating and shivering at the same time.

  I have to go back now. I’ve been running for over an hour. It’ll take just as long to get back, if not longer since it’s going to be all uphill.

  If only I had my cell phone and could just call for help. Russian John or Polish John or even Harper. I’m sure she’d come. But I don’t have my phone and I don’t know any numbers by heart. Besides, I’m soaking wet and I can’t climb into someone’s car like this.

  I’m alone. I start back for my house and I do what I do when I’m overwhelmed. I stop thinking, stop feeling, and focus on the moment. I focus on just moving, on putting one foot in front of the other. It’s the way to get through a crisis. It’s the way to get through loss. And it might just be the way to get through a breakdown.

  One step at a time.

  Marta had invited me to join them for Christmas but there’s no way I can get on a plane on Tuesday, December 23. Better to stay home and get my head together so that by the time I arrive for Zach’s baptism, I’ll be good company.

  But the 28th is five days from now, and I’m not sure how to fill them until I turn on my computer and see the file with Sveva’s name on it, Sveva being the crusader in Kenya who caught my interest.

  I open the file, see my rough notes begun last September. I was once so excited about the possibilities in this story. I can be excited again. I need to find whatever it is that’s missing, because it’s something that’s missing in me.

  Wednesday I head to Santa Monica to get breakfast but end up walking on the beach instead.

  Hands burrowed in the pocket of my sweatshirt, I walk and walk and let my imagination run, but the tragic thing is, my imagination’s stunted. I can’t seem to see the possibilities I used to, much less a future beyond the Horizon Broadcasting tower and the artificially decorated America Tonight set. I’ve been part of tabloid television so long, I don’t know where I could go or who would have me.

  Eventually I leave the beach, cross the street, and head for the little indie coffee shop on the corner. It’s warm inside and the decor is artsy-funky with a bit of faux Christmas greenery thrown in. I order a mocha with whip to go.

  When I get back home, my phone is filled with voice messages. I scroll through the text messages and then the voice messages. They’re mostly all from my girlfriends calling to check in on me, wanting to know if I’ll join them for Christmas, wanting to make sure I won’t be alone.

  But I will be alone. I’m okay alone, and I flop down onto the bed and toss the phone on the mattress next to me.

  At t
he last minute on Christmas Eve, I decide to attend a service at the Downtown Mission.

  I love the California missions. The thick, whitewashed adobe walls. The red roof tiles. The towers with the bells. It can be blistering hot outside, but inside the mission it’s always cool and dark and quiet. Some of the church interiors are plain, while others are a glorious riot of red, yellow, and blue color or a palette of elegant, sophisticated golds and blues.

  I haven’t been to a service at a mission in a long time, probably not since Keith and I were married at Carmel Mission nearly eight years ago. It was a beautiful service. Mystical.

  I’m underdressed when I arrive for the midnight service. I’m also early, yet the church is already nearly full. I find a middle spot in a middle pew and squeeze past people to kneel to say my prayers.

  Sitting back on the dark wood bench, I’m almost immediately overcome by emotion. My throat threatens to close and I fight for control. I can’t cry. The familiar Christmas hymns have started. Must not break down until we’re asked to sing something properly heartrending, like “O Holy Night.”

  The lights above are dim, and white pillar candles glow on the altar and in the alcoves and before the stained-glass windows. Fragrant pine boughs arch above the windows and through the Advent wreaths.

  Emotion rushes through me again, and I squeeze my hands together, nails pressing into skin. Can’t cry. Can’t. But something’s growing wild in me, something I’m not sure I can control.

  I miss them all. My family. Keith.

  The organist plays, and I concentrate very hard on the altar.

  I used to play games after the car accident, pretending I was God and I could save just one of them from the wreckage. Whom would I save? Which one would live?

  My sisters, Willow or Acacia? I’d tell myself that it should be one of them. They were young like me. They had as much right to live as I did. But then I’d remember my mom and how she gave the best hugs and kisses and every night told fantastical bedtime stories.

  I’d pick Mom.

  I want Mom. I want Mom even now. I feel as though I never had enough of her hugs before she died. Never had enough love. It’s a painful thing when you go through life feeling needy for love.