Easy on the Eyes

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?