by Nic Tatano
Dexter Bishop's story was right out of Hollywood, only it took place in the United Kingdom. A struggling theatrical dancer who doubled as a dance instructor, he’d tried out to be one of the staff dancers on the original British version of the show. Apparently the producers liked both his personality and the fact that he was a teacher, so they installed him as one of the judges. He became the star of the show, his classic looks blended with biting commentary making him a favorite with viewers. When the show came to the United States (Hollywood loves stealing British stuff, not being able to come up with their own ideas) Dexter Bishop came with it, and enjoyed the same success across the pond. Dance Off is my network's highest rated prime-time show.
And, oh yeah, he'd been named the world's most eligible bachelor this year. Though he was apparently either not dating anyone (yeah, right) or extremely private about his personal life.
What followed after that article were a laundry list of glowing pieces about the guy, websites for women who had a crush (www.IwannahavesexwithDex.com) and speculative articles about his future (would he star in a movie, stick with Dance Off, open a chain of dance studios?)
Finally, I'd had enough of that superficial garbage and slammed my laptop shut.
Besides, it was six o'clock and time to go to bed.
But dammit, when I closed my eyes all I could see was his face.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
"Coming up this hour," said Scott, "we'll visit with an expert on snakes who will tell you how to identify which ones are poisonous and which ones are not." Then he turned to me. "Speaking of venom, I assume you're recharged with a fresh supply after the weekend."
I reached over and playfully slapped his arm. "Stop it. You act like I'm a big meanie."
"Anyway, who's in your crosshairs this morning?"
"Well, coming up after the break, I'll be talking to Dexter Bishop, a judge on our network's number one show Dance Off."
"I love that show."
"Never seen it. But anyway, the guy has been named the world's most eligible bachelor so we'll find out if the brain matches the face and body."
"You mean, see if he passes the Veronica Test?" He turned to the camera. "That's a thing she came up with in college. If a guy couldn't spell IQ, he was outta here."
"You know me too well, my friend."
***
I adjusted my microphone as he strutted, and I do mean strutted, into the studio. Everything came to a screeching halt. The jaw of our female cameraperson hung open while the clipboard belonging to the gal who was our floor director made an audible bang when it hit the ground. I caught some movement in my peripheral vision and saw words flying by at warp speed in the teleprompter, as our young prompter operator had squeezed the control knob too hard. "Earth to prompter girl!" I yelled, jolting her back to reality.
"Sorry, Veronica," she said, turning the wheel the other way to cue up my introduction. "I was, uh, distracted."
I rolled my eyes at her and turned just as our guest approached me with his hand extended.
"Pleasure to meet you, Miss Summer," he said, in a smooth British accent. "Pleasure" came out "plezh-ahh."
I took his hand and shook it as I locked eyes with this Greek god and he sent me into some sort of a trance. I tried to say something but the words got stuck in my throat as I took in the total package. My jaw opened slightly but nothing came out.
I'd never seen a man so perfect. Incredibly, the photos on the Internet didn't do him justice.
Down girl. Stop thinking with the wrong head like a man.
"Uh … yeah." Gulp. "Nice to meet you too."
We both sat down as a production assistant came over to attach a microphone to his lapel. Her hands shook as she tried to do this while staring at his face and it ended up on his shirt pocket.
"I can take care of that, darling," he said, taking the microphone with one hand and patting her hand with the other. She turned red as a beet and smiled at him as he clipped the mike to his lapel. "I'm good," he said.
She just stood there.
"Uh, you need to get out of the shot," I said.
She turned to face me. "What? Oh … sorry." She moved off the riser and behind the camera.
"Ten seconds out," said the floor director, in the softest, most sultry tone I've ever heard come from her. (Instead of her usual, fingernails-on-the-blackboard nasal Brooklyn scream.)
Dexter Bishop stole a glance at my legs and smiled as the clock ticked down. I tried my best to focus as the red light came on.
"And, welcome back. Joining us today is Dexter Bishop, one of the judges on our nighttime hit Dance Off. Welcome to The Morning Show, Mister Bishop."
"Thank you, Veronica. It's a pleasure to be here. And you can call me Dex."
Plezh-ahh. Damn, that accent gives me chills.
"So, you'll have to help me out here a little bit. I don't watch your show."
He shrugged. "Not a problem. I don't watch yours either." He shot me a little wink.
Oh, so you wanna play?
Let's rock.
"Luckily, our promotions department has informed me that you're going to release the names of this year's contestants, right here on our show this morning." I turned to the camera. "For those of you in the newspaper business, stop the presses and get out the Japanese Bomb Pearl Harbor two-inch type." I turned back to him and noted his eyes had narrowed a bit.
He pulled an index card out of his inside jacket pocket. "Well, Miss Summer, we have quite an interesting lineup of celebrities for this season. Our contestants include Desdemona French—"
"That singer who's always in alcohol rehab? She can barely stand up, much less dance."
"She assures us she's been sober for a year. Besides, I thought you believed in second chances in this country."
Now it was my turn to glare. "This is more like a fifth chance for her. Anyway, who else you got that's not on the police blotter?"
"Daniel Hardestine, who has recently—"
"The former child star?"
"Yes, exactly."
"What's he, like, thirty years old now?"
"Something like that."
"The guy hasn't done anything in years. At least not that I know of."
"He's trying to resurrect his acting career, and viewers do so love to see their old favorites. It's that whatever-became-of factor."
"Whatever became of him is that he let himself go and wasn't cute anymore."
"I assure you, he's slimmed down considerably and the dancing will tone him up even more. He's also gotten a hair transplant and is quite a nice looking chap. You won't recognize him."
I gave a quick eye roll to the camera, then asked him about the rest of the "celebrities" on the list. As suspected, they weren't exactly A-listers, but considerably down the alphabet of fame. "Can't you get any big names on this show, or are they so expensive they might blow the budget?"
"You know, Miss Summer, there's no reason to act like a solicitor."
My eyes bugged out. Did he just call me a hooker? "Excuse me?"
"You're questioning me like a solicitor."
"Look, buddy, you don't have to like me but don't compare me to a prostitute!"
"I said no such thing."
"Well, solicitation is what hookers do on street corners!"
He started to laugh. "My dear, an attorney is sometimes called a solicitor in my country. I'm sorry if my comment was lost in translation, but you were treating me like a hostile witness in a trial."
"Well, I'm sorry I'm not up on current British slang."
"Trust me, the term was around long before the United States existed."
"Oh, still ticked off about that little thing called the Revolutionary War?"
He leaned forward, locking eyes with me. "Perhaps if you Yanks learned to brew a decent cup of tea instead of dumping it in Boston Harbor, you might be more relaxed. You have to actually boil the water … maybe you've heard of the concept?"
"Well, you people across the pond still haven
't figured out that beer and soda don't taste good warm. You're supposed to put them in this new fangled invention called a refrigerator … maybe you've heard of the concept?"
He leaned back and exhaled audibly. "Can we please get back to my show?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
"So, Dex, why do you suppose anyone wants to watch this stuff?"
"Because this stuff as you refer to it is elegant. It's a tad old-fashioned, though ballroom dancing has been making a comeback. It is dance partners working as one, as a team, dressed to the nines, to create something beautiful." He paused, then hit me with a question. "Don't you like to dance, Miss Summer? You've certainly got the legs for it."
I'll ignore that second part. (But nice to know he noticed.) "I love to dance. Took six years of ballet."
"So perhaps if you sampled our show you might enjoy it."
"I don't really want to watch a bunch of amateurs—"
"In fact, I have a better idea. Instead of watching our show, you could take the journalism approach and do the reporter involvement thing. We do have one slot open … how would you like to be one of our celebrity contestants? Take your morning show viewers along for the experience."
I raised one eyebrow. "You can't be serious."
He shot me a huge grin. "Yes, it would add so much to our show since it is filled with amateurs as you call them. So you'd get a chance to put some money where that rather ill-behaved mouth of yours is."
I had another zinger ready to fly but heard "wrap" in my earpiece from the producer. Dammit, he got the last word. "Well, we're out of time. Thanks for coming by."
"My plezh-ahh … I think."
"We'll be right back."
The red light atop the camera went out, the floor director yelled, "Clear!" and Dexter Bishop took off his mike and placed it gently on his chair. He didn't say a word to me, didn't look at me, as he got up and headed for the door. It swung open just as he reached it. Gavin walked through, shook his hand and smiled.
My eyes locked on them as they appeared to be having a nice conversation. Dexter then pointed at me, still smiling, and Gavin nodded as a huge grin grew across his face.
Oh, shit.
***
Layla handed the lunch menu to the waitress, waited until she was out of earshot, then turned to me. "You know, I love you Veronica, but sometimes you're a complete idiot."
"What the hell did I do?"
She pretended to search the heavens for an answer. "Oh, I don't know. You had the world's most eligible bachelor on your show and you treated him like dirt."
"Pffft. Not my type."
"Bullshit. He's every woman's type. He's your type but you won't admit it. And you might be his type since he noticed your legs."
"C'mon, Layla, you think I wanna get involved with someone who produces reality show garbage?"
"It's not a reality show, it's a competition." She grabbed her wine glass and took a sip.
"Semantics."
"You need to get the damn 'J' off your forehead."
"The what?"
"That invisible journalism tattoo you wear. Not everything in life has to be serious. Some things are meant to be fun and mindless, like cute guys. You need to learn to relax and take off your reporting hat once in awhile."
"I know how to have fun. I just don't want to watch that sort of show."
"You know, maybe you should watch it just once. It's actually a lot of fun. You like Broadways musicals, the Joffrey Ballet, right?"
"Sure."
"Well, this is a little bit of both. Professional dancers, choreography, great music, and a lot of personality thrown in. And you get to see some of your old favorite stars who had dropped off the radar."
I shrugged. "Whatever."
Long pause. "So, you gonna be a contestant—"
I put up my hand. "Don't even go there."
"Sorry, I thought it was a fun idea. Might get you out of the house. Spend some time with a bunch of cute guys. You should see the professional dancers on that show. Serious eye candy. But hey, you're on your way to being a cat lady so stay home."
"I only have one cat."
"That's how it starts."
"When the hell would I have time for a dance competition? I can barely make it through the day as it is. What am I supposed to do, anchor the morning show and then fly to Hollywood?"
"They shoot the thing in New York."
"Oh. Still, even if I wanted to do it, there's the time factor."
"I suppose. You still could have been nice to Dexter Bishop. I'd give my right arm for a shot at that."
"Too plastic."
"Just because he's on a show you consider superficial doesn't mean he's the same way. Maybe he's playing a part. Did your little bit of research turn up anything bad? Any scandals, drunken brawls, visits to drug rehab?"
"No. What's your point?"
"The guy's either squeaky clean or very good at hiding his bad habits. But you won't get the chance to find out since you were so rude to him."
My cell phone hummed which thankfully interrupted Layla's lecture. Scott was calling. Since I feel it's rude to talk on a phone in a restaurant I excused myself and headed out the door before picking up. "Hey."
"Hey, yourself. You doing okay?"
"Something tells me I'm about to not be doing okay."
"Depends on your point of view."
"Ohhhkaaayyyyyy … "
"You know, the Justice Department has nothing on my eavesdropping skills."
"Dammit, Scott, just spill."
"Gavin and Dexter Bishop were on a long conference call with the entertainment division."
The color began to drain from my face. "Oh, no … "
“Put on your dancin’ shoes, girl.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I've never had an argument with a boss at three in the morning, but I guess there's a first time for everything. In this case, I'd had a sleepless night (are there any other kind for me these days?) going over my defense strategy in my head for what I knew was coming.
And it wasn't even just from Scott's little bit of snooping. The blogosphere was buzzing with the possibility of my being a contestant on Dance Off. The show's Facebook page was loaded with comments begging the producers to put me on the roster. Twitter went wild as someone started a hashtag #Veronicainheels in which people speculated how I'd look in various revealing outfits that are apparently the norm for this show. Once I did a little research on that my blood pressure spiked; there was no way I was gonna parade myself in "costumes" that were one step above a bikini and platforms. They made my current network micro-skirts look positively Victorian.
And of course there was the scheduling issue. I'd be dead from exhaustion.
So when Gavin greeted me at the door with a huge smile as I emerged from my limo, I was loaded for bear.
"Morning, Veronica. We need to talk—"
"No. I'm not doing it."
He held the door for me and I blew threw it, leaving him in the wake of fast heel clicks provided by my best power walk. "You don't even know what I'm going to say."
"Yeah, I do. You want me to be on Dance Off, and that's not happening. I'm a journalist, not Ginger Rogers."
"Can we please talk about this in my office?"
I put up my hand so the back was facing him. "There's no point. End of discussion. You can go back to laying out this morning's show."
And then he dropped another big, friggin' carrot which landed with a thud and stopped me dead in my tracks.
"If you do it, you can come in at ten a-m for three months."
Again with the produce.
I spun around to face him, brow furrowed. "Say that again?"
He smiled and gestured toward the open door of his office. "Please, let me explain."
The prospect of actual sleep was intriguing, but what about The Morning Show? Were they gonna take me off after just a few weeks, screw with the incredible ratings and the new "business model" which revealed that
"perky" was no longer attractive for a morning show host? "Fine," I said, as I walked into his office and grabbed a chair opposite his desk.
Gavin closed the door, moved behind his desk and plopped down into his burgundy leather rocker. "Okay, here's the proposal."
I folded my arms tight. "If you wanna marry me you gotta get down on one knee. And give me a big-ass ring."
"It never stops with you, does it?"
"Nah, part of my charm."
"The network wants you on the upcoming season of Dance Off."
"Wow, what a news flash. Let's break into programming. Gavin, I'm exhausted as it is—"
This time he put up his hand to cut me off. "Let me finish. During those three months you would not be required to be live on The Morning Show. We think we can pre-tape about ninety percent of it. Scott can do the live news segments at the top, and we'll just bring the guests in later for you to interview. When you arrive at ten o'clock, tanned, rested and ready after a good night's sleep."
Ruthless bastard.
"We're going to pre-tape a national morning show?"
"As I said, Scott takes care of the breaking news of the day, and then we roll tape. It's not that big of a deal, it's only for three months and the viewers will be aware that you're working nights. Besides, the cross promotion with having you on a prime time show could take the ratings even higher."
"That's an interesting concept, Gavin. But there's one key element you seem to have forgotten."
"What's that?"
"That little deal we have about me getting The Chair after three years."
"Nothing's changed on that. What's your point?"
"My point is that after parading my half-naked body in front of millions of Americans in those revealing costumes I won't have a bit of credibility left. You think viewers will trust an evening news anchor who used to strut her stuff in stiletto heels and dresses up to her ass? I won't have a bit of gravitas left."
He smiled, shook his head and leaned back. "Veronica, we're a celebrity nation. Nobody cares about that crap anymore. Every major network anchor does stuff like this. They show up on sitcoms, tell jokes on late night talk shows, dress up on Halloween. We've got celebrities in Congress, for God's sake. What's the difference?"