by Nic Tatano
He turned and looked at me, the glare I'd endured for the past few days nowhere in sight. "You're not exactly chopped liver," he said, like nothing had ever happened. "You're absolutely beautiful in that dress."
I exhaled. "Thank you." I leaned forward and whispered in his ear. "So, am I forgiven?"
I leaned back and looked into his eyes, expecting and hoping for a soulful gaze. Instead, his eyes went quickly to the right. "Cameras," he said, in a barely audible voice.
I took a quick glance and saw that the green room was under surveillance, just like the rehearsal studio.
And I had no idea if Bradley was giving me a second chance or simply playing nice for the audience.
***
Luckily we were going last, so I got to watch all the other couples to size up the competition. A couple of the morning line favorites tripped, and one leggy Olympic ice skater surprisingly did a header, dragged her partner down on the way, and ended up sprawled on the dance floor with his face smack in the middle of her boobs. I would have paid good money to have the network Olympic announcer do the play-by-play of that move. "A double loop … a triple lutz … and a death spiral into a full cleavage."
We were in the on-deck circle, watching on the green room monitor while rehab girl looked positively bug-eyed like she was on horse tranquilizers as her partner led her around the floor. She made it through the routine without tripping even though she moved like Gumby, then quickly walked toward the judges with her partner.
"Not bad," said Corinne Walker, the first judge. "Though I did see you looking at your feet a few times. You were a bit robotic, but that should go away with practice. Just relax next time. I'm giving you a six."
Rehab girl politely applauded, though it was clear she was disappointed.
"I saw some real potential," said Wendy Armbruster, the second judge. "I think as you get to know your partner's moves you'll improve. I give them a seven."
More polite applause and a slight smile.
"Well," said Dexter, "I see you've come a long way since you were staggering away from your car after your last drunk driving incident."
Ouch. Rehab girl's face dropped.
"That was pretty harsh," I said, under my breath.
"That's what he's known for," whispered Bradley. "Viewers love the nasty comments. If only they knew."
Rehab girl's lips began to quiver as Dexter ripped her a new one, said she looked like an android on Ambien and gave her a five. Still, a quick bit of math told me she was ahead of the ice skater, who had a total score of seventeen. Shouldn't be too hard to beat. Especially since the show is fixed.
A production assistant stuck his head in the green room and said, "You're up after the commercial." A quick glance at the monitor told me we had two minutes.
"You ready?" asked Bradley.
"Sure."
"Nervous?"
"Hey, I anchor every day. This is nothing."
I forced a smile after the lie and my heart zoomed into overdrive.
***
"Now let's welcome our final couple," said the off-camera announcer, "Veronica and Bradley!"
The crowd applauded as we briskly moved hand-in-hand onto the stage. We both smiled and nodded at the audience, then turned and faced each other. He took my right hand and raised it while putting his other hand on my waist. The applause quickly stopped and everything went silent for a moment as we waited for the music to start.
We had chosen a golden oldie, Patti Page's Tennessee Waltz. Two reasons: one, it was nice and slow, thereby cutting down the risk of my falling on my ass; and two, ratings for the show were highest in the deep South, and the viewers there would no doubt appreciate the nod. Of course I had no intention of ending up with one of the two lowest scores and leaving my fate in the hands of the voting public.
Bradley locked eyes with me.
There was no emotion, nothing. Like he was looking at an android.
He hasn't forgiven me! He still thinks—
And then the song began.
I stumbled on my very first step, turning my ankle slightly.
Luckily I didn't copy the ice skater's move as Bradley's strong hand steadied me and we got back on track. But I was a rookie anchor on the dance floor, blowing the first story and becoming a snowball rolling downhill. Suddenly the dance wasn't a case of muscle memory, but of my rehearsing every step in my head.
I felt like a girl at my first high school dance.
I knew it had to look awful, stiff, without any semblance of grace.
"Relax," he said softly, barely moving his lips so the cameras wouldn't catch it.
I tried my best to exhale but I kept looking at my feet instead of my partner. Now I couldn't wait for the song to end.
Thankfully we made it through without my looking like rehab girl staggering out of a disco. But I knew the damage had been done.
"Smile," said Bradley, under his breath again.
I forced a grin as he led me over to the judges to what could only be described as polite applause.
Dexter, knowing he was off camera, rolled his eyes at me.
"Well, not a great start," said the first judge, Corinne. "But you recovered and made it through without any missteps. I think once you two work together a little more you'll be a fine couple. I'm giving you a six."
And I was expecting a negative two.
I mouthed a thank you and smiled.
"The first steps are always the hardest," said Wendy, the second judge. "But you hit your marks the rest of the way, and I agree you two have potential. A six as well."
I needed a nineteen to avoid the voting process. I had twelve.
Do the math.
Dexter needed to give me a seven. One quick look at him told me he wasn't happy about it.
"Well, I guess we'll need to attach a teleprompter to Bradley so you'll know what to do," he said. The crowd chuckled and I forced a smile. "Or perhaps we can get some of those old fashioned footprints people used to put on the floor to teach their children to dance." More laughter.
I looked at Bradley and could tell his jaw was clenched.
"Honestly, I don't think we've ever had a contestant stumble on the very first step, and to one of the slowest songs we've ever played on this show. And that first step could spell your last. I'm giving you two a four."
So much for my "semblance of a human being" concept.
Several boos cascaded down from the crowd.
“So, it’s time to vote!” said the announcer. “Who needs to dance off into the sunset?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Dexter wimped out last night, bolting out the studio back door right after the show. I'd ripped off my dress, changed into street clothes and stormed off in search of him, but he was long gone.
Coward. And just when I thought the guy had a soul.
Meanwhile I could take heart in that a great charity was making a dollar every time someone texted a vote to keep me on the island.
And I wasn't sure if I was more pissed off about getting a four or the possibility of having to go back to the vampire shift sooner than expected. I knew the show was rigged, but between Dexter and Gavin I'd sooner trust Roper the Groper.
I blew through the studio door Friday morning, dreading the smirks from the staff after my performance last night. As soon as I entered the newsroom, people scattered. Only Gavin remained.
What the hell was this? "What's going on?" I asked. "Did I come down with leprosy or something?"
"They, uh, probably figured you wouldn't want be in the mood to talk after last night."
"Well, they're right. Anyway, I guess I've gotta talk to whatever guests you've lined up."
Suddenly he grew pale. "Yeah. Uh … your, uh, first guest is already in the studio." He pulled out his cell phone, looked at it, and said, "I gotta take this." He quickly turned and headed to his office.
Funny, I didn't hear his phone's ring tone. He obviously doesn't want to talk to me. Another coward. Whatever. I shrug
ged and headed to hair and makeup, then twenty minutes later I walked through the studio door.
"Well, look what the cat dragged in."
Oh, you gotta be kidding. I stopped dead in my tracks as Dexter was being miked up by a production assistant. "You're a guest this morning?"
"I'm always on after the first episode. Don't you watch your own show?"
"I wasn't on it last year." I slowly walked toward the set, not taking my eyes off him. "So, what exactly do you always do during these visits?"
"I recap last night's show, critique the contestants. Talk about who might be voted off."
Ouch. That stung.
I sat down next to him, grabbed my microphone and clipped it on the lapel of my royal blue blazer. "I'm sure you've got the appropriate text number on speed dial."
He smiled and said nothing.
The director's voice came over the loudspeaker. "Veronica, you ready?"
"Let's rock," I said, wanting to get this over as soon as possible.
The floor director adjusted his headset. "Tape is rolling. Stand by."
"So where do you want to start?" I asked.
"You're the one doing the interview. Start wherever you like."
I nodded. Fine.
"Ten out!" yelled the floor director, who then counted me down.
I sat up straight and looked into the camera. The red light came on. "And welcome back. Before we get to our guest Dexter Bishop this morning, I wanted to mention I'm very excited to be throwing out the first pitch at the Mets game tomorrow afternoon. So, the team's front office needs to have a jersey for me with a number four on it." I turned to Dexter as I saw the light on the two-shot camera come on and feigned a laugh. "So, I was that bad last night, huh?"
Dexter grew a worried look. "Miss Summer, I'm sorry if I offended you—"
I playfully waved my hand. "Pffft. C'mon, it's a game show! We're all there to have fun." I turned to my camera to talk to the audience. "Next week, ladies and gentlemen, in an effort to score higher than a four, my partner and I are going to do a mash up of the Bunny Hop and the Alley Cat. It'll be deja vu of every bad wedding you've ever attended!"
His face tightened a bit. "Perhaps I was a bit harsh with the score."
"Listen, I wanted to thank you for giving me such a lousy grade because I ended up in the final two … and that means more money for my charity every time people vote." I turned to the camera. "Hey, more money for the veterans!"
"You're certainly taking this well."
"No big deal, Dex. So, let's recap some of the stuff from last night. I mean, besides my stepping in a hole right out of the gate. And honestly, I deserved the four. I mean, I was moving around like a robot from a fifties sci-fi movie I was so stiff. Anyway, what's your take on some of the other contestants? I'm particularly interested in our Olympic skater."
"Yes … her fall was rather … unfortunate."
"Not for her partner! I'll bet there are a bunch of guys out there who would love to learn that dance step!"
Dexter's eyes grew wide. He obviously had no idea how to deal with me, as he was expecting me to be pissed off and I was treating his show for what it was … a bullshit reality program.
For the next four minutes he went through the roster of dancers until I finally ended the interview.
"And … we're clear!" said the floor director.
Dexter exhaled as he unclipped his microphone. "May I speak with you a moment?"
"Sure, what's up?"
"Away from the cameras and microphones. I don't want our conversation to become the flip side of that one you had with the Senator."
"Sure. Green room." I unclipped my mike and led him out of the studio, across the hall, and into the empty green room. "So, what's on your mind, Dex?"
"Are you deliberately trying to sabotage your tenure on my show?"
"Of course not. Whatever gave you that idea?"
"You're treating it as if you don't care and aren't taking it seriously."
"Why should anyone take it seriously? It's a reality program."
"And you're an employee of this network."
I shook my head. "I'm an employee of the news division. I have nothing to do with entertainment. If that's what you call it these days. Besides, since the show's rigged I know I can say just about anything and not get voted off."
He folded his arms. "That part is not necessarily written in stone."
"Bull. You need me. I checked the overnights and the ratings were through the roof, particularly in the last fifteen minutes, which is when I appeared. I'm your meal ticket this season. There's a new sheriff in town, Dexter Bishop. And you're lookin' at her. You wanted an It Girl, you got one."
He exhaled, looked to the side, and then back at me. "I think you'd understand things better if we could go somewhere private. Perhaps you would enjoy a full English since you're always head down."
Is he implying what I think he's implying? "Excuse me?"
"Maybe you'd fancy a couple of hot bangers."
Now I know what he's implying. "Oh, is that your solution for my attitude? You and me in a hotel room, giving me whatever the hell sexual connotations are meant by a full English? Is that your nickname for your Johnson?"
His face tightened. "What on earth are you talking about?"
"Look, you may be incredibly good looking with that perfect face and body and think you're God's gift to women, but not every woman's attitude problem, or in this case, perceived attitude problem can be solved with sex."
"Sex? Who said anything about sex?"
"You talked about banging me. And that my head is always down, so obviously you think it should be in your lap."
His face relaxed and he began to chuckle.
"What the hell's so funny?"
"Veronica, a full English is a breakfast with all the trimmings, including breakfast sausages, which is what we call bangers. And head down means you're working hard. You're at your desk with your head down, focused on your work."
Yikes.
My face flushed. "Oh," I said quietly, feeling exactly as I had when Bradley explained his "other date."
He flashed a sinister grin. "So, you think I have a perfect face and body?"
So much for my having the upper hand.
At this point I wished I had one of those cartoon holes like the Road Runner so I could escape. My face was probably approaching the color of my hair.
Dexter's smile grew. "How on earth did you interpret that as my invitation to shag?"
"To what?"
"Shag. Have sex."
"Shag is a fifties dance. To bang someone is to—"
"I get it, and perhaps I need to find you a primer on British slang. Look, I just thought it might be nice if we sat down to a hot breakfast and aired things out a bit. I think perhaps it would help if I explained what I do on the show and why I do it. How about tomorrow?"
I had no position to continue this argument, so the white flag went up. "Sure, Dexter."
"Fine. By the way, who the bloody hell is Johnson?"
***
Since we'd been saddled with a four from Dexter I asked Bradley if we could schedule a Friday practice session instead of taking the day off. (I also needed to know if he'd forgiven me, since I was so mad I forgot last night.) Anyway, he agreed to the session, as we might as well get the jump on the next dance in case I'm not voted off the show.
Besides, the next dance was the Lambada, a/k/a "the forbidden dance" which is so sexually charged I figured it might get Bradley thinking about me in a different way … just in time for the weekend. I was going to invite him over and cook dinner for him and get a "handle" on things. And hopefully make breakfast as well. Which would get me out of Dexter's "full English" with the world's best rain check excuse. "Sorry, I've already eaten. And I used Bradley's washboard abs as a plate."
Anyway, after two hours of rubbing against my sweaty bod Bradley seemed to be looking at me differently. The robotic glance from the previous night was gone, re
placed by a smoldering lock on my eyes as we went through the steps. Surprisingly, I was better at this than the waltz. (I know what you're thinking. Don't say it. I'm not that kind of girl. I just desperately want to be that kind of girl right now.)
So without asking I assumed all had been either forgiven, forgotten or both, as Bradley was at this point thinking with the wrong head.
"I'm exhausted," I said, plopping down on our special out-of-camera-shot spot.
"Good work today," he said, sitting down next to me with his clipboard.
I quickly grabbed it from him. "Oh, my schedule's a little different next week. Let me write it down for you." I wrote, Please let me cook you a great dinner tonight.
He looked at the clipboard as I handed it back to him. "Sure. That will be fine," he said, shooting me a slight smile. "See you Monday."
***
An hour later after a shower, change of clothes and a quick cab ride, we were doing the lambada in my elevator as it headed much too slowly up to my floor. Fortunately I knew my ancient building did not have cameras in the elevators, so this would not end up on the Internet. Bradley had me pinned against one side of the car, dress slowly creeping up my thighs, and it was clear that dinner might be delayed slightly. I took one look at the little numbers on top of the elevator and saw that my floor was next. "Uh, we're here," I said.
He broke the embrace and straightened his shirt, then took my hand as I pushed down my dress. "Okay."
"Don't you wanna know what's for dinner?" I asked, as the bell rang, announcing our arrival at my floor.
"Right now I'm just interested in the appetizer."
The door opened and I quickly led him out of the elevator and down the hall to my apartment. I found the key in my purse, jammed it into the lock, opened the door and yanked him inside. I then took control, backing him against the door and shutting it in the process. I reached over his shoulder and threw the deadbolt while he bent down, wrapped his arms around my hips, and easily hoisted me into the air. I wrapped my legs around his waist and embraced my inner appetizer as he tried to devour me.
He finally came up for air. "Where's the bedroom?"
"Through the living room, down the hall, first door on the right."
