Jack rose, took me in his arms, and kissed me—a long magical kiss full of love and promise. The world went away, leaving only the two of us touching, holding, hugging, so exquisitely connected, so safe, so loved. For a while we just stood there holding one another. I think I was sobbing happy tears into Jack’s chest. When I finally opened my eyes, I couldn’t help but see that the screen upstage of us was displaying a montage of our embrace from every angle. The audience was cheering and crying, the entire carnival atmosphere of the evening now even more in full swing. I ran over to hug Nell and Jem who were carrying on so loudly, you’d think they just won the Publisher’s Clearinghouse sweepstakes.
Rick Byron waved his arms to try to quiet the house. “The magic of live television!” Rob Dick kept yelling triumphantly. Finally, the audience settled down, when Rick brandished a sealed envelope, which, we all assumed contained the results of the voting. “I guess it might be a bit of an anticlimax, given the events of the past five minutes or so,” he began, “but here we are . . . the moment half the civilized world has been waiting more than a quarter of a year for. May I have a drum roll, please?”
The band obliged.
Rick slit open the envelope. “Ladies and gentlemen . . . the winner of the million dollar jackpot on Bad Date’s very first season is . . .” Rick read the result on the card. “No one,” he said very slowly. Suddenly, it looked like his salon tan had faded completely. He walked over to Rob Dick with the card and showed it to him. “It really says the words no one,” he told him, a bit panicked. “What do I do? I’m only the host!”
“Can we have our CPA out here, please?” Rob Dick asked. A tall, strawberry blonde was escorted onstage. “Folks, this is Audrey Tilzer, a partner with the accounting firm of Tilzer and Durant. Audrey, what happened here?”
“Well, Rob,” said Audrey, shaking her head, “first of all, there were a vast number of cards on which people elected to write some version of ‘neither should win because they told the same story, so we couldn’t arrive at a fair vote.’ And we couldn’t count those cards, of course, as they’re ostensibly an abstention. There are two hundred and fifty-three people in the studio audience and a hundred and fifteen of them ‘abstained.’ The remaining hundred and thirty-eight votes were split exactly. Fifty-fifty. Which translates to sixty-nine for each of them.”
“How ironic,” Jack whispered in my ear. His warm breath sent a tingle through me.
The audience had no idea why I started to laugh so hard. “How mutual,” I whispered back.
“So what does that mean in terms of a winner?” the producer asked Audrey.
“What do your show’s rules say, Rob?”
“Audrey, Bad Date’s rules are that the audience has the final vote. It can’t be manipulated or changed.” Rob looked nervously at Jack and me. I nodded my head toward the polygraph equipment and smiled as seraphically as I could manage. Of course, we weren’t supposed to know that the producers could probably do what they wanted to with the money, when push came to shove, but no doubt if they didn’t pay out the jackpot, Bad Date would never see another season, assuming anyone would want to assemble another cast of the haplessly lovelorn.
Rob approached us. “Well, Liz, Jack. Of course each of you will be sent a check for thirteen thousand dollars, representing the thousand dollars per week for the past thirteen weeks you’ve been on the air. But about the million . . . what can I say?”
Jack placed one hand over his own lavalier mike and put his other hand on Rob’s lapel. “You can say you’re one lucky son of a bitch. But you’re confusing me with someone who cares.” Jack released the producer. Rob immediately made a beeline for the airline’s publicity VP, who had been frantically semaphoring to him for half a minute.
After a brief confab with the VP, Rob grabbed Rick Byron’s microphone. “This is great, folks. That’s what I love about live TV—you never know what’s going to happen next. Ralph Drucker here from Trans•Global Airlines, one of Bad Date’s major sponsors, and the corporation that is providing our winner with the all-expense-paid luxury trip for two to Paris, is quite adamant that his company’s prize be awarded. Ralph?” Rob handed the mike to the airline executive.
Mr. Drucker took the gilt-edged envelope from his pocket. “Jack, Liz. We at Trans•Global are proud and pleased and honored to present both of you with this luxury vacation in the hope that you will use it for your honeymoon.” He shook our hands, kissed me on the cheek, and pressed the envelope into my palm. “From all of us at Trans•Global, bon voyage.”
We thanked him warmly. The studio audience continued to behave as though they were at a college pep rally.
While Mr. Drucker had been making his on-camera presentation, off-camera Mr. Ebsen, Mr. Benson, and Mr. Sakamoto had materialized and were onstage in a huddle with Rob Dick. When they broke, Rob tried to quiet the crowd and finally had to beg the band’s brass section to get everyone’s attention. The trumpeter played “Reveille.”
“Well, folks, it’s been a real rollercoaster ride tonight,” Rob said. “And it ain’t over yet. The executive producers of Bad Date have just had a conference on the mound, so to speak, and we all feel that owing to the audience vote, which resulted in a tie, and given that the contestants themselves played fast and loose with the rules regarding their anecdotes, and since there appear to be no clear rules governing an even split of the jackpot in the event of a tie on the final episode, it’s been determined that Bad Date must uphold its reputation as the most honest reality show on television and respect the sentiments of our studio audience by not awarding the million dollar prize.”
Rob Dick covered the microphone with his hand. “Shit,” I heard him mutter to Geneva. “Now we’ll never get renewed for a second season. My career is over. In the toilet. I might as well prematurely retire to Phoenix and play golf all day.”
The rest of the broadcast became a blur. I remember my engagement ring flashing like a beacon under the stage lights. And I remember hugging Jem and Nell several times. I recall embracing Candy and Allegra. At some point, I know Rick Byron and I patched up any misunderstandings between us; I must have thanked Rob Dick—for what, I’m not entirely sure— and said a few nice words to the accountant and to Mr. Drucker.
I practically skipped down the corridor to my dressing room. I was packing up the sundries I had left there since the first episode of Bad Date, feeling like I was cleaning out my locker on graduation day and preparing to venture forth into a thrilling new life, when there was a knock on the door. “Come in. It’s open.”
Jack poked his head inside my dressing room. “Ready?”
“Just about.” I shoved a blue terrycloth hand towel into my bag. “That’s it.” I took a last look around. The cinderblock walls looked especially uninspiring now that there were no flowers on the dressing table, no notecards shoved into the mirror frame, no vibrant personality such as Candy’s to warm up the room. For a moment, I felt just a little tinge of sadness.
Jack held out his hand. “Let’s go, love.”
“Yup.” I took a last look under the dressing table to see if I’d left anything behind, then I flicked off the light switch and closed the door. We started down the corridor, our arms about each other’s waists. “You know,” I murmured, “I’m glad you didn’t dredge up our lobster-dinner debacle tonight.”
Jack winked at me. “It wasn’t a ‘date,’ remember?” He pulled me close, and as we walked, I inclined my head toward his shoulder.
We slowed down just a bit as we passed the door leading to the now-notorious stairwell. “Are you sure you want to take the traditional route?” I teased, glancing back at the door.
“I think the guard is a bit more vigilant these days,” Jack said. With his right hand, he gave my midsection a little tickle. “After all, we became his favorite show!”
Just before we got to the security desk, Jack stopped and took me in his arms. I lifted my chin and gently bit his lower lip, turning the gesture into a deliciously long
kiss. “I can only speak for myself here,” I ran my hands through his hair, “but I did win the jackpot tonight. You’re all I need to make me happy for the rest of my life, Jack. You and your smile.” I looked at him, full of love, and kissed him again.
“Winning you is the best thing that’s ever happened to me, too,” Jack murmured. He grinned down at me. “But we did come away from the show with something else, the memories of which, like our marriage, will no doubt last forever.”
We left the studio and walked out into the warm night air. I regarded him quizzically.
Jack tapped the gilt-edged envelope from Trans• Global that was sticking out of my purse. “Liz, my love, we’ll always have Paris.”
Also by Leslie Carroll
Published by Ballantine Books
MISS MATCH
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An Ivy Book
Published by The Ballantine Publishing Group
Copyright © 2003 by Leslie Sara Carroll
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