all the Shelby fanfare now?”
“I’m skewing older and the bosses are worried that I’ve forever lost the younger audience.”
Christie grimaces. “Which is key.”
I nod again.
“So it really is about age,” she concludes.
“The one thing we can’t fight,” I answer, reaching for a baking sheet.
“I can’t imagine they really want to replace you. You’re so good, Tiana. You’re skilled, talented, professional. Experience
does count.” She gives me a hard look. “Would you consider plastic surgery?”
No.
But I shrug philosophically, far more philosophically than I feel. “I think I have to.”
But Christie doesn’t buy it for a moment. “You wouldn’t. You don’t even like Botox. You freaked the time they asked you to
try collagen in your lips— ”
“It hurt.”
“Face-lifts hurt.”
“I’ve heard, and to be honest, the idea of being cut
freaks
me. Having my skin cut, stretched, lifted, and restitched? That’s a Freddy Krueger movie.”
“Thank God not everyone’s so squeamish, huh?”
I laugh weakly. But she’s right. I wouldn’t go under the knife, not unless I had no other choice, and I’m not out of options,
not by a long shot.
“I’m not against cosmetic surgery, though,” I add, and tell her about the feature I’m researching and all the books with the
before-and-after photos. “The after photos look great, but there is still something sad about the body being treated like
a lump of clay. I’m not judging those who do it, I’m just saying I don’t understand it.”
“You don’t understand because you can’t.” Christie leans against the counter, pot mitt on one hand. “You’re extraordinarily
beautiful. You were born beautiful, and thanks to fate and great genetics, you live a life the rest of us mortals only dream
about.”
“Knock it off.”
“Tiana, your looks do more than secure a fat paycheck. They get you reservations, great tables, great service. You’re photographed,
admired, envied. You wouldn’t have a clue what it’s like to be average, or ugly.”
“Neither do you!”
Christie scoffs, “No? Then why don’t I work the red carpet? Why don’t I get asked to host televised events?”
“Because you’re a writer and a director.”
“I used to be a writer like you. But no network would put me in front of a camera. I realized I wasn’t ever going to work
if I didn’t find work for me to do. So I got damn good at being behind a camera.”
“This has nothing to do with looks,” I answer, setting aside the baking sheet and beginning to prepare the baked cheddar mushroom
caps appetizer.
“Cut the bullshit, Tia. It has everything to do with looks. I’m not ugly— I work hard to make sure I don’t fall into that
category— but I’ll never be beautiful. Not even pretty. I score okay on a good day— ”
“No.”
“And attractive on my very best day.” She stares at me pointedly. “Beauty is power, Tiana, and most women don’t have enough
of either.”
“So if you were me, you’d have a face-lift?”
Christie turns to look at me hard. She studies me for a long moment and her expression changes; her mouth softens and emotion
darkens her eyes. “No.”
“No?”
“You’re still beautiful. And you have more goodness and love in you than anyone knows. You’re more than your face, and if
the show execs can’t see it, then screw them. They don’t deserve you.”
I try to smile but can’t. Instead I go to her and hug her. Hard. “Thank you,” I whisper. “God knows I needed that.”
She hugs me back. “I mean every word of it. You’re wonderful. And don’t you forget it— no matter what they tell you, or try
to sell you.”
“Don’t make me cry,” I warn, giving her a last quick hug and a smile before stepping away. “I’m already an emotional wreck.
If I start crying again today, I don’t think I could stop.”
She shoots me a side glance. “Keith?”
I nod. “And then
“I’m skewing older and the bosses are worried that I’ve forever lost the younger audience.”
Christie grimaces. “Which is key.”
I nod again.
“So it really is about age,” she concludes.
“The one thing we can’t fight,” I answer, reaching for a baking sheet.
“I can’t imagine they really want to replace you. You’re so good, Tiana. You’re skilled, talented, professional. Experience
does count.” She gives me a hard look. “Would you consider plastic surgery?”
No.
But I shrug philosophically, far more philosophically than I feel. “I think I have to.”
But Christie doesn’t buy it for a moment. “You wouldn’t. You don’t even like Botox. You freaked the time they asked you to
try collagen in your lips— ”
“It hurt.”
“Face-lifts hurt.”
“I’ve heard, and to be honest, the idea of being cut
freaks
me. Having my skin cut, stretched, lifted, and restitched? That’s a Freddy Krueger movie.”
“Thank God not everyone’s so squeamish, huh?”
I laugh weakly. But she’s right. I wouldn’t go under the knife, not unless I had no other choice, and I’m not out of options,
not by a long shot.
“I’m not against cosmetic surgery, though,” I add, and tell her about the feature I’m researching and all the books with the
before-and-after photos. “The after photos look great, but there is still something sad about the body being treated like
a lump of clay. I’m not judging those who do it, I’m just saying I don’t understand it.”
“You don’t understand because you can’t.” Christie leans against the counter, pot mitt on one hand. “You’re extraordinarily
beautiful. You were born beautiful, and thanks to fate and great genetics, you live a life the rest of us mortals only dream
about.”
“Knock it off.”
“Tiana, your looks do more than secure a fat paycheck. They get you reservations, great tables, great service. You’re photographed,
admired, envied. You wouldn’t have a clue what it’s like to be average, or ugly.”
“Neither do you!”
Christie scoffs, “No? Then why don’t I work the red carpet? Why don’t I get asked to host televised events?”
“Because you’re a writer and a director.”
“I used to be a writer like you. But no network would put me in front of a camera. I realized I wasn’t ever going to work
if I didn’t find work for me to do. So I got damn good at being behind a camera.”
“This has nothing to do with looks,” I answer, setting aside the baking sheet and beginning to prepare the baked cheddar mushroom
caps appetizer.
“Cut the bullshit, Tia. It has everything to do with looks. I’m not ugly— I work hard to make sure I don’t fall into that
category— but I’ll never be beautiful. Not even pretty. I score okay on a good day— ”
“No.”
“And attractive on my very best day.” She stares at me pointedly. “Beauty is power, Tiana, and most women don’t have enough
of either.”
“So if you were me, you’d have a face-lift?”
Christie turns to look at me hard. She studies me for a long moment and her expression changes; her mouth softens and emotion
darkens her eyes. “No.”
“No?”
“You’re still beautiful. And you have more goodness and love in you than anyone knows. You’re more than your face, and if
the show execs can’t see it, then screw them. They don’t deserve you.”
I try to smile but can’t. Instead I go to her and hug her. Hard. “Thank you,” I whisper. “God knows I needed that.”
She hugs me back. “I mean every word of it. You’re wonderful. And don’t you forget it— no matter what they tell you, or try
to sell you.”
“Don’t make me cry,” I warn, giving her a last quick hug and a smile before stepping away. “I’m already an emotional wreck.
If I start crying again today, I don’t think I could stop.”
She shoots me a side glance. “Keith?”
I nod. “And then
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