It Girl

by Nic Tatano

  "In a few weeks."

  "And you didn't think to discuss this with me?"

  "Honestly, things were going so well I've been avoiding the subject … and I assumed you were doing the same. I knew we'd have to deal with it eventually, but I didn't want to put a damper on things until absolutely necessary."

  My mouth hung open. I couldn't believe it. "So, you're going back there to host the British version of Dance Off?"

  "Yes."

  "Dexter, can't you just quit?"

  "I'm under contract, Veronica."

  "Yeah, but you've got millions."

  "Those people gave me my big break. And if I should leave, the show will collapse. There are almost eighty employees of the show who are depending on me. I know a girl with a heart as big as yours wouldn't want me to leave all those chaps out of work."

  Dammit, I hate when other people hit me with stuff that makes sense. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," I muttered. "Or the one."

  "I'm not sure Mister Spock's logic applies here."

  "You know Star Trek?"

  "It's the famous line from Wrath of Khan. Though in your case, I must meet your needs as well. They are not outweighed, they are equal. The needs of the one will be taken care of."

  "So … did you have any sort of plan regarding our relationship?"

  "It involves private jets on weekends and long distance video chats during the week. While the show is in production for four months. After that, I can live here for eight."

  "Four months? And what happens if you fly over here and the network has me somewhere else?" I felt myself begin to tremble. He took my shoulders and pulled me close.

  "Veronica, we'll work this out. True love always finds a way."

  A tap on the door broke our embrace. The production assistant stuck his head in. "You're up."

  Dancing was the last thing I felt like doing.

  ***

  The mash-up Dexter had put together was nothing short of brilliant. We were to start slow, pick things up, slow down, speed up, then end with something soft. And as luck would have it, every damn song seemed to have been written for me; about lost loves, taking chances, soul mates. If I wasn't so upset I would have gotten a cavity. The first song was Donna Summer's "On the Radio" which starts slow and then morphs into a quick disco tune while talking about relationships. Then a bunch of short clips showcasing the mambo, jitterbug, and meringue. After that another song that started slow and picked up, Madonna's "Like a Prayer," the lyrics of which always made me emotional. The final tune was Bette Midler's "The Rose" which took care of the people afraid to take chances on love. As an added touch we were to end up at a specific spot on the stage, with Dexter on one knee so he could pick up a single rose that had been placed there and hand it to me as the song ended with its slow piano instrumental.

  As before, the rest of the world disappeared as the music started. I heard the music, the muscle memory kicked in flawlessly.

  But my mind was a mass of conflicting emotion as we moved around the floor. Donna Summer's words tore at my heart.

  The man who I was pretty sure was Mister Right would be gone for four months. A long flight away on weekends that we might be able to get together. Accent on the might, depending on the whims of the network. We'd be stealing moments together.

  And I knew from the experiences of many friends that long distance relationships rarely worked.

  If love was going to find a way and the needs of the one were equal to the needs of the many, I needed more Star Trek in the form of a transporter. Beam me over to London, Scotty.

  Lovers were not supposed to be separated by thousands of miles.

  And the ultimate dream job wasn't supposed to pop up at the most inopportune time.

  Dexter's eyes were locked on mine as he led me around the dance floor while Madonna's words of love and spirituality tugged at my soul.

  His soulful look told me he was racked with guilt, thinking he'd committed some unforgivable sin by not discussing the future, blaming himself for my not knowing.

  Right now I wanted the damn show to be over so we could go home and sort this out.

  And I wanted it to be over because I was seriously about to lose it on national television.

  The music segued into The Rose. The end was in sight. Thirty seconds to go.

  We floated across the stage, locked in each other's arms, eyes connecting with souls. I could feel mine welling up and bit my lower lip, trying desperately not to cry. The lyrics to the song pushed me over the edge, and trumped my efforts to stop the flood of emotion.

  Dexter took a quick look at the rose on the stage. We hit our mark as the song wound down, he kneeled at the perfect time, grabbed the flower, looked up and handed it to me as the song ended.

  And a single tear rolled down my cheek.

  The audience applauded as Dexter got up, gave me a hug, then led me over to the judges.

  "Wow!" said one of the judges. "Veronica, you really got into it at the end."

  "I'm sorry," I said, wiping away the tear. "That song reminds me of someone."

  "A lost love?" asked the judge.

  "No such thing," I said. "Someone very special to me says true love always finds a way."

  ***

  What should have been the happiest night of my life complete with hours of incredible sex had turned into a gut wrenching no-win situation. Dexter ended up holding me the entire night, and all I could think of was that he wouldn't be there to do that simple act every night.

  I needed to sort this out, and I needed to do it immediately.

  I couldn't do it myself.

  I needed help, as I was an emotional wreck incapable of making rational decisions.

  I convened an emergency conclave with Layla and Savannah in my apartment. If anyone could figure out a solution to this puzzle, they could.

  Still, I'd gone over dozens of scenarios, and all were stopped cold by this simple fact. We'd be three thousand, four hundred and sixty five miles apart. Over seven hours by plane. (I looked it up, which made it worse.) Take fourteen hours out of a weekend, add a good dose of jet lag, and you don't have a weekend. I even had this crazy idea that we could meet halfway in Iceland, but let's be serious.

  Layla reached over and took my hand. "In all the years I've known you, I don't think I've ever seen you so emotional."

  "I think this is the first time in my life I have absolutely no clue about what to do," I said, wiping my eyes.

  Savannah pulled a tissue out of a box and handed it to me. "Sweetie, we're gonna figure this out."

  "How? It's impossible. It's like the universe said, 'You can have a perfect man or a perfect job, you can't have both.' My whole life I've had this goal of getting The Chair, and then I get it and … dammit, I want it all!"

  "What does Dexter want you to do?" asked Layla.

  "He says he'll do whatever it takes to make me happy and will support my decision, but he absolutely cannot abandon his commitment, and I agree with him on that. Too many people depend on him."

  "That's awfully noble of you," said Savannah.

  "Yeah, but it doesn't make me feel any better."

  Layla put her arm around me. "Are you absolutely sure he's Mister Right?"

  "About ninety-five percent," I said. "Let's be honest, we haven't been dating that long."

  "I hate to say this," said Layla. "But you could just quit and move to London."

  "I thought of that and Dexter won't let me do it. He says I'd be bitter giving up a career I love. And dammit, I know he's right. I'd end up resenting him. So I'm gonna be stuck three thousand miles away and instead of getting off work and spending the evening with a great guy I won't even be able to call him up because he'll already be asleep! If I didn't get my dream job and if he didn't have a commitment—"

  "And if a bullfrog had wings he wouldn't kick himself in the ass every time he jumped," said Savannah.

  Layla and I looked at each other and shook our heads. "I'
m not even gonna try to figure that one out," she said.

  "I guess I'm doomed to a long distance relationship. At least it's better than in the old days. I can see him on Skype."

  Suddenly Savannah sat bolt upright. Her eyes widened.

  "What?" asked Layla. "You remember another Southernism about flying bullfrogs?"

  "No," she said. "Something Veronica just said."

  "What did I just say?"

  “It doesn’t matter.” Her face beamed. “You can have it all, Veronica. Because I have the solution. And I can give it to you in two words. However, you will have to make one huge sacrifice.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  "Good morning, everyone, I'm Scott Winter in New York."

  "And I'm Veronica Summer in London. Top of the morning from across the pond."

  Hosting a national morning show in New York is an absolute bitch when you have to get up at two in the morning.

  Doing it from London when you're on the air at the crack of noon, no problem.

  After giving Gavin an ultimatum that the network would lose me unless they allowed me to co-host the morning show from London, they did the math. The Morning Show is a cash cow, and they didn't have another snarky anchor on staff to take my place. Evening newscasts were no longer appointment television, and ratings on all networks have been dropping like a rock since the Internet became popular. So any ratings spike I would have gotten at night wouldn't have made up for the drop on The Morning Show.

  And of course I owe it all to Savannah's two words that will be forever burned into my brain.

  "Time zones."

  My mention of Skype had given her the idea. If I could talk to Dexter across the Atlantic, I could talk to a national audience as well. And at an hour that would let me sleep until a normal time. It was so damn simple, but leave it to someone like Savannah to figure it out.

  True love found a way with a little help from satellite technology.

  So I anchor out of the London bureau. The network loves it since it gives the show an international flavor, and more of an opportunity to cover the Royal Family, which fascinates American women. Morning shows are predominantly watched by women anyway, so that worked out perfectly. I have a cushy nine-to-five job and am home in time to have dinner with my sweetie. Some nights he's off to work on Dance Off, but other nights I don't share him with anyone.

  Sure, I gave up The Chair, but when you think about it, I swapped a piece of furniture for Dexter Bishop. That's a pretty damn good trade it you ask me. A sacrifice? Hardly. In the grand scheme of things, it's just television, not brain surgery. I was really liking this "ride the wave" thing. I've become an emotional surfer girl.

  Oh, almost forgot. The dream of Air Force One and rubbing elbows with the first woman President went down the tubes anyway, as it turned out Senator Sydney Dixon had a thing for male anchors around the country. She resigned from Congress in a tearful speech, admitting she suffered from a mental condition and had been diagnosed as a "sex addict." (The politically correct euphemism for "party girl.")

  As for my friends, I do miss having them close by on a daily basis, but we worked a deal with a private jet company to bring them here or take us there anytime we want.

  And I love it here. The people are so friggin' polite … excuse me, I meant to say they're lovely. That's the popular word over here. Good things are lovely. Nice people are lovely. Great things are "brilliant." (So Savannah's idea was brilliant, regardless of the country of origin.) Anyway, sometimes I have to remind myself to turn off my Noo Yawk attitude when I leave the studio.

  As for the living arrangements, Dexter has a gorgeous penthouse and I've got a swanky apartment. Excuse me, a flat. I know that sounds old fashioned, but I've never believed people should live together until they're married. They can have sex until they drop, but they need separate mailing addresses. Besides, we've only really been dating a few months and by now you should know I'm a practical girl who doesn't rush into things.

  But don't worry, everything's going along just fine. I know he's the one.

  I said the "L" word first, in case you're wondering.

  ***

  It was deja vu all over again as I slipped into my outfit from the Dance Off finals. We'd lost, by the way. Well, kinda sorta. The viewers had apparently been so touched by my tear that we narrowly won the voting, but Dexter and I agreed the other couple was much better. So did the judges. He asked me if I had a problem with giving them the trophy, and I told him they deserved it. It was the right thing to do.

  So in the end, having a show that was "fixed" was a good thing.

  Anyway, to kick off the new British season of the show, Dexter and I are reprising our routine. The Brits never got to see him dance, and there was a massive demand, so I agreed to go steppin' out one more time.

  But in this case there was no competition to worry about, no emotional tsunami in my head. This was going to be pure fun, and also a nice way to introduce myself to the UK on television. The tabloids have gone wild with our romance, as it's common knowledge I moved here to be with Dexter.

  "No stress this time," he said, as he led me to the studio.

  "No kidding."

  "Nervous?"

  "Absolutely not."

  The crowd went wild (for him, not me) as we stepped into the spotlight after being introduced. We took our places in the middle of the floor, the music started, and off we went.

  This time it was pure joy, two dancers becoming one as Dexter had said during that first day of orientation. I did my sultry thing the whole time, thoroughly enjoying the routine, this time not wanting it to end. Savoring every moment.

  Alas, the music segued into the final song. I looked over at the stage where we were to end up. It was missing.

  "They forgot the rose," I said.

  Dexter looked to the spot, then turned back to me. "Unfortunate."

  It was. That was the very cool ending to a great routine.

  Whatever, the audience was loving it anyway.

  The song came down to its final notes, Dexter swept past me and landed on one knee. Since I wouldn't be receiving a rose I figured I'd better turn to the audience and smile when the song ended.

  So I did.

  The crowd applauded, then started chanting. "Yes! Yes! Yes!"

  I mouthed a "thank you" figuring this was another British tradition I didn't understand. Most people simply applaud. Why the hell they were yelling "yes" was beyond me.

  "Veronica?" said Dexter.

  "What?" I was busy smiling and waving to the crowd.

  The applause died down and they started to laugh for some reason.

  "Veronica?"

  "So why are they laugh … ing." My words trailed off as I turned and saw Dexter, still on one knee.

  Holding up an engagement ring. Nothing gaudy, despite his wealth. It was silver and very ornate, obviously an antique, probably checking in at one carat.

  In this case, size didn't matter.

  My jaw dropped and the crowd went dead silent.

  Dexter looked into my heart. "Veronica Summer, will you do me the great honor of being my wife?"

  ***

  The six month engagement was filled with excitement and something fun every day. Between the British tabloids going wild over Great Britain's most eligible bachelor being taken off the market and my own network promoting the hell out of our wedding, our nuptials had taken center stage on two continents.

  Of course when I finally marched down the aisle, it was a private ceremony in an old stone church with one stationery camera hidden behind a plant, the video from which would be shared by everyone. I didn't want a media circus. The only guests were family and friends. We'd chartered a jet to fly in people from New York; I even brought Hal the newsstand guy and his wife. Of course, I knew damn well he'd say, "I told you so," when I first saw him, and he didn't disappoint. His gift was a hoot: a digital subscription to all the New York tabloids.

  Dexter had kept the honeymoon a secr
et, and it was a great one. A two week trip around the UK countryside, staying in a different castle every night. He said he wanted to treat me like a fairytale princess, and I certainly felt like one. When we returned home I discovered he'd purchased an abandoned castle in the country and had the interior remodeled to modern standards while keeping the charm and history intact. There's nothing quite like cooking dinner in a stainless steel convection oven while looking out a window across the moat. We even got into a little routine if he had to leave for the studio after dinner. I'd climb one of the turrets, hold a long scarf and wave goodbye with it, and he'd say, "Alas, fair damsel, I shall return!"

  Layla and Savannah fly over once a month, and we do the same to New York. But I'm quickly becoming a British lass, picking up all the lovely expressions and adapting quite well to the brilliant local customs.

  In fact, I've gotten in the habit of starting each day with a full English.

  After that, I get out of bed and make some eggs.

  The End

  BONUS MATERIAL

  Wing Girl

  CHAPTER ONE

  “Dating you would be like dating Mike Wallace,” said the dark haired hunk who could easily be considered for a certain magazine's Most Beautiful People issue.

  Before you get the wrong idea about that comment, let me say that I do not in any way, shape, or form physically resemble the legendary reporter. I'm actually a slender redhead with emerald green eyes, classic high cheekbones with a constellation of freckles, little dimples when I smile, and a whiskey voice that sounds like it lives in a smoky bar and channels Demi Moore. Tonight it's all packaged in a brown paper wrapper consisting of a bulky sweater and pants, while my hair is up (as it always is) in a tight bun and my eyes peer through Coke-bottle glasses. Gotta maintain the journalistic credibility. If you wanna be taken seriously as a woman in my business, you can't play the glamour card.

  But as for the Mike Wallace comment, I am the city's most recognizable and feared investigative reporter who channels the 60 Minutes icon every chance I get.

  So I sorta get what the guy's saying, but then again I don't. Does he mean that he admires my work as much as that of the broadcasting legend? Or that when he kisses me he'll be thinking of an eighty year old guy who's dead?