Easy on the Eyes

I hang up on Shey to take Max’s call as I pull up in front of my house. “It’s got to be upsetting, doll,” Max says.

I sit outside my house, engine still running. There’s not much curb appeal to my house, other than the trailing hot pink bougainvillea, but the facade isn’t the appeal. It’s what lies on the other side of the exterior wall that I love: 3 bedrooms, 2.5 baths, 1932 Mediterranean-style home with high-pitched beamed ceilings, wood-burning fireplace, terraces and balconies on a secluded woodland lot with views of the city and canyon. I fell in love with the house the moment the agent opened the front door. Unfortunately it’s always so empty once I step inside.

“Upsetting is putting it mildly,” I answer tightly, feeling so angry and yet unable to articulate any of it. I’m not good at expressing my feelings. I’m a doer, not a dreamer. If I want something, I go for it. And I have gone for it, heart, mind, body, and soul. I worked night and day to make America Tonight a top-rated show. How can that suddenly mean nothing? How can I suddenly be worth so much less?

“But you know nothing’s done, no decision has been made. You said Glenn was just testing the water.”

I put the car into park, turn off the engine. My street’s narrow and dark without my headlights. My head aches and I press my fist to my temple to stifle the pain. “I don’t want to share the job with anyone. It’s my job, my show.”

I realize that sounds arrogant, but I’m on call 24/7. When I’m not taping a story, I’m researching, writing, following up on leads. And when it’s not America Tonight–related, I’m usually speaking somewhere to some group. My speaking schedule just gets busier, too. Everyone wants to hear my story, how I’m a veritable phoenix from the ashes.

People can’t get enough of my life story. American girl achieves the American dream. Only I’m not your typical American girl. My father was American, but my mother was South African, and I was raised in South Africa. It’s where my mom and dad settled after they married. It’s where home once was.

But the public knows nothing about my childhood. They just see the face on TV, hear the accent I’ve developed, and they embrace me. I could be them. One day I was just a lifestyle reporter for a paper in Tucson, and then months later I was host of a new national television show. That’s the Cinderella story the public loves, rags to riches, nobody to somebody.

“If it does come to job sharing,” I continue flatly, “I don’t want to share the job with a woman ten years younger than I am who will just make me look even older by comparison.”

“That’s a good point. But it sounds like they’re serious about improving the ratings— ”

“Oh, they are. I don’t doubt that. But there have to be other options. We haven’t even discussed those. Glenn didn’t seem interested in those. But I suppose I could look into getting some work done.” My voice cracks. “Or we could bring on a co-host who’s not a younger woman. Maybe we bring on a younger man. All I know is, it can’t be Shelby. I can’t lose my job to my protégée.”

I don’t sleep well that night. I toss and turn and strategize. If there’s anything I’ve learned from being orphaned at fourteen, it’s that only the strong survive. Punching my pillows, I vow to survive. I will survive.

I just need a plan.

The next morning, brittle with fatigue, I arrive at the studio’s conference room at eight fifty-five with my hair still damp and my new Paris mug filled with coffee. Every morning, the writers and producers meet for an hour to plan the day’s show, but Fridays are big planning sessions and I usually attend those.

Although I’m five minutes early, most of the team has already arrived. I sit at my place at the end of the board table. Glenn always takes the opposite end, and the writers and segment producers take seats in between.

I chat with the staffers sitting around the table. Mark, Jeffrey, and Libby have been with the show several years. Harper’s been here only two months. Glenn’s the only one missing. And then he arrives. With Shelby in tow.

What’s Shelby doing here?

I stiffen as they enter the room, my shoulders tensing. Glenn looks like his harried, rumpled self, while Shelby is immaculate in a pink Chanel-style suit, her sleek blond hair a shade lighter than the last time I saw her.

Shelby spots me, wiggles her fingers, and smiles.

“Good morning, everyone,” Glenn greets us as he pulls forward one of the empty chairs so it sits next to his. He rolls out the chair for Shelby. She gives him a grateful smile. I try not to throw up in my mouth.

Glenn looks at me. I hold his gaze. He doesn’t appear the least bit apologetic, which just makes me angrier.

When I flew out to Paris a week ago, I was on cloud nine. I felt strong and successful, beautiful and invincible. I had a young, hot boyfriend. An exciting life. A challenging career.

It was all a mirage.

Glenn starts the meeting right away. But it doesn’t take long for me to feel the strongest sense of déjà vu. I swear to God we just do the same stories over and over, even though the writers and producers change.

Does Katie Holmes feel too much pressure as Mrs. Tom Cruise?

Is Nicole Richie starving herself again?

Is Angelina adopting again?

Instead of listening, I find myself watching Shelby. On the surface she’s sweet and glamorous, always immaculate, hair and makeup constantly camera ready. She’s obviously a lot smarter than I gave her credit for, because she’s here, in my show planning session, and she’s the one who execs want to co-anchor with me.

Just thinking about the proposed change in format makes my chest squeeze tight. I’m feeling so much anxiety and fear, it’s hard to breathe. Why didn’t Glenn tell me just how bad the ratings were before? Why didn’t Max insist on getting those numbers? I used to study the reports all the time. It was the first thing I did when I arrived in the morning. But I’ve gotten comfortable. I’ve lost that edge that made me hungry like Shelby.

“Tia?” Glenn prompts. “I like the idea. What about you?”

I try to remember what Mark was talking about before Glenn’s question, before I zoned out. What was it?

The lesbian prison wedding scandal. Right.

“Do we really need to do this story?” I ask, keeping my tone friendly because I don’t want to step on Mark’s toes, and Mark is very tight with Shelby. But really, lesbian prison wedding scandal? “I can’t help but think it’s too National Enquirer for us. We are news— ”

“Human interest news,” Mark jumps in, protective of his story. “And this is colorful. Six guards have been disciplined, and two of those might lose their jobs. And then there are the brides— they’ve been separated, punished, because prisoners are forbidden to have sexual relations with each other.”

It’s all I can do to not shudder. “I think it’s beneath us,” I try again. “It turns my stomach.”

“It’s a good story,” Mark says defensively, “and with the right tease we’d get a huge audience.”

“I love it,” Shelby interrupts. “Can I do it?”

I don’t even try to hide my shock. “Are you serious, Shelby?”

“Why not?” She shrugs. “It’s heartwarming.”

“It’s not heartwarming. It’s bizarre, and we’d only be running it for shock value. If we want real human interest stories, I have plenty I’d like to do— ”

“Like one of your feel-good stories that touch the heart?” Mark asks sarcastically, getting a laugh from everyone.

“Which our viewers need a lot more than sensationalistic pieces like lesbian weddings and prison scandals.” I check my tone, soften my voice. “How will this benefit anyone? Will our viewers feel more empowered? Happier? More at peace?”

“We’re not a yoga center,” Mark says, tapping his pen impatiently. “And if viewers want to be uplifted, enlightened, or empowered, they can head to The Seven Hundred Club.”

“It’s all about ratings,” Shelby adds as though I’m an intern and she’s here to show me the ro

pes.

I smile, although on the inside I’m anything but sunny. There is no way in hell I will share the anchor position with this woman. I turn to Glenn. “I don’t want to do this story on my show.”

“I already said I’ll do it.” Shelby’s giving me the same smile I just gave her. The gloves are off. She’s not my protégée anymore. She’s my competition and she’s gunning for my job.

“Thanks, Shelby, but as you know, the weekend show isn’t in trouble,” Mark replies. “We’re all here trying to figure out how to save Tiana’s ass.”

The conference room falls silent. Everyone looks at Mark and then Shelby and then Glenn. But not one person looks at me.

The silence stretches, endless. Jeff coughs. Shelby studies her nails. Harper shuffles paperwork. And I stare at Mark until he finally turns to meet my gaze.

“What was that?” I ask quietly.

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come on, Tiana. Your numbers have been crap all year and you know it— ”

“Glenn, may I have a word with you?” I say, interrupting Mark and looking at him hard. “Everyone, can you give us five minutes?”

Glenn doesn’t speak, but everyone’s on their feet and heading for the door. I may have lackluster ratings, but I still have clout. I wait for everyone to file out.

“Glenn, what’s going on?” I demand as the door closes. “What is Shelby doing here?”

“The execs thought it’d be a good idea to have her sit in, get familiar with the weekday format.”

“Why?”

“We had this conversation last night.”

“Yes, and last night you said nothing had been decided, which made me believe an offer hadn’t yet been made.”

“Not officially, no.”

My stomach’s in knots again. This is bad, and it’s getting worse. “So what’s the unofficial word?”

Glenn holds my gaze. We have this odd love-hate relationship, and it’s been this way for the past six years. He’s good at what he does. “You can’t carry the show anymore.”

“So that’s it? I’m toast?”

“You’re not toast.”