by Nic Tatano
The phone stopped playing music as the call went to voice mail.
"You gonna call him back?"
"Don't have to. He'll call again. Probably this afternoon. Veronica, you do know men come with handles so we can lead them around, don't you?"
"You know, you are one devious Southern belle."
“That’s the nicest compliment I’ve had in awhile.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The term "orientation" often conjures up images of that first day at a new job during which you have to sit through lectures, out-of-date Powerpoint presentations and often laughable videos about why it's a bad idea to have relationships in the workplace. (In the case of a television network, a studio would be a rather uncomfortable place to hook up. Though it could be argued that some guys could use a teleprompter when it comes to foreplay.)
But this is a different kind of orientation, as the celebrities and dancers were paired up and grabbing a space on the hardwood floor of a practice studio. One wall was covered by a floor-to-ceiling mirror, the opposite had a balance bar. A silver boom box sat on the floor in the corner. Everyone was dressed in workout clothes, ranging from garish yoga pants and a tie-dyed tee shirt (rehab girl) to shorts and leotards. I wore a baggy New York Giants blue sweatshirt and a gray pair of sweatpants.
Dexter Bishop was the only person standing. He was busy arranging a stack of folders on top of a small table which was the only piece of furniture in the room.
And considering I was seated next to Number Six and breathing in his Polo cologne like oxygen, this beat the hell out of a "don't have sex with your co-anchor under the set because a microphone cord makes for an uncomfortable thong" presentation.
"Nice to see you again."
I turned as Sergio took a seat opposite my partner. The voice didn't match the face. "What happened to your accent?"
"Oh, that's just for the show," he said, in a perfect American non-accent. "Sergio is my stage name." He stuck out his hand. "Howie Appleton, nice to meet you."
"Howie? Seriously?"
He shrugged. "The middle name is actually worse. It's locked up in a secret, undisclosed location often used by the Vice President."
"So, do you prefer Howie or Sergio when we're off the clock?"
"Trey is fine, since I'm Howie the third. It's one of my family's rather unfortunate traditions."
"Oh." I studied his face, not seeing a hint of the lounge lizard I'd previously encountered. His eyes were warm and friendly, the kind you could get lost in. Suddenly he wasn't the slimy creep I'd previously encountered. "Well, that's a great act you have."
"That's nice of you to say, since I would eventually like to break into acting."
"If nothing else, you could do voiceovers."
"Way ahead of you on that one. Anyway, I really thought we'd be working together. But you'll be fine with Bradley. He's a solid dancer."
"Good to know," I said. Also good to know Sergio isn't really Sergio, he's just a Latin-looking guy named Howie. Is this what Dexter was talking about? "So you can just turn that Latin lover thing on and off whenever you like?"
"I can be a Noo Yawkuh if ya want. So, youse wanna pahty afta woik, or what?"
I laughed a bit and took in his soft smile. "You're pretty good at that."
"Thanks."
"Welcome, celebrities," said Dexter, interrupting us and making everyone face forward. "And thank you for agreeing to participate in our little contest."
Agreeing? That's a stretch.
"You're about to embark on what I'm sure you'll find to be a unique, exhilarating experience. You may be surprised at your own abilities, about what your body is able to do, and how dancing can be an incredible workout. And, if you're doing things right, you'll discover how a dance can turn two people into one in a beautiful manner." He raised one eyebrow and dropped his voice. "Sort of like great sex."
The group laughed. I turned and smiled at my partner, who was in the process of rolling his eyes. "What?" I whispered.
"Heard it a bunch of times before," Bradley deadpanned. "Here comes the part about how dancing is going to change your life."
"These few months you'll spend dancing will change your life," said Dexter, right on cue.
"Not my first rodeo," said Bradley, looking at me with sad eyes.
"What's wrong?"
"Long story."
Dexter interrupted us by clearing his throat. "Uh, Miss Summer, is there something you'd like to share with the rest of the class?"
The group chuckled as my face turned red. "Sorry." I sat up straight and folded my hands in my lap. "Please, continue."
"Thank you for granting me permission," he said with a bow, to more laughs.
Everyone looked at me, probably waiting for a snarky comeback. Dexter shot me a wink, then dared me with a "come on" motion with one hand. I opened my mouth, ready to launch a zinger, then thought better of it.
"Amazing," said Dexter. "I'm apparently the only man on the planet with the ability to render this woman speechless. Though I doubt she has a future as a mime."
I smiled, narrowed my eyes a bit, and said nothing.
He rambled on for the next ten minutes, telling us some video from our rehearsals would be used on air, the rules of the contest, and how much practice the average couple goes through. We were told that there was no time limit as to the amount of practice, that we could put as much effort into it as we desired.
"Very well," said Dexter. "I know you're eager to get started. Your dance partner will escort you to your private studio, where you'll find your outfits for the practice sessions."
"We have practice clothes?" I asked.
"Of course," said Dexter, giving my outfit the once-over. "We cannot have you going around looking as though you're going to clean the loo."
***
"He wants me to wear this?"
Bradley shrugged as I held up the electric blue spandex outfit that would no doubt make me look like Catwoman had escaped from a seventies disco. "You've got the body for it."
"Thank you, but that's beside the point." Though it's awfully nice that you noticed.
"Look, they do this to all the attractive contestants. It's no big deal. Just sexing up the show. Consider it a compliment."
"It won't leave much to the imagination."
He tried unsuccessfully to hold back a smile. "Your point being?"
"My point being that I was promised I would not be forced to wear sleazy stuff, nothing with hemlines up to my ass."
"That doesn't exactly have a hemline." He moved forward and took my shoulders. "Look, Veronica, you're an attractive woman and this is prime time television. You're worth a lot of ratings to this show. And it's not like you're being forced to pose nude or anything."
"Well, can't I just practice in my sweats until the camera people get here?"
"There are no camera people, Veronica."
"I thought our rehearsals would be recorded."
"They will be." He pointed at a spot on the far wall. "They're already being recorded."
I squinted and spotted the hidden camera. "Oh, you gotta be kidding. I thought a camera crew would just come in here from time to time."
He shook his head, then cocked it toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror that covered one wall. "And that's one-way glass."
"Holy shit!"
"Don't worry, they'll bleep that out. But it's just like being arrested. Anything you say can and will be used against you in the court of public opinion."
My mouth dropped open as I stared at the mirror.
You behind there, Dexter?
You want a show? I'll give you a show.
"Anyway," said Bradley, "you need to change clothes. Don't worry, there aren't any cameras or microphones in the locker rooms or bathrooms."
"Well, that's comforting." I grabbed my spandex and headed for the locker room, trying my best to smile for whatever camera was recording me.
Said smile died a grisly death with Bradley's next comment.
"Soon as you're changed we can do your body analysis."
***
You've heard of devil in a blue dress? I'm the demon in blue spandex.
To say this outfit leaves little to the imagination is putting it mildly. At least a hemline up to my ass wouldn't reveal my ass. But this thing has done a wonderful job of tightening and separating my cheeks. Oh, and the low cut front and tight waist has the effect of a Victorian bustier as I am now close to spilling out of my outfit, looking as though I've been to a plastic surgeon and asked for an Anna Nicole Smith upgrade.
Somehow I don't think Dame Judi Dench will come to mind when the country sees me in this getup.
Bradley was holding a clipboard as I walked into the dance studio. "Okay, let's rock."
He gave me the once over, stopping, as expected, at my chest. "Wow. Are those yours?"
"Yeah. I've got the receipt around here somewhere." He finally looked up at my face. "Kidding!"
"Oh. I guess I need to get used to your sense of humor."
"Don't worry, it grows on you. So, what's the deal with this body analysis?"
He pulled a pen from behind his ear and moved closer. "I need to get your vitals, find out how flexible you are, how strong you are. So … height?"
"Five-eight."
"Weight?"
"You're asking a woman her weight? Seriously?"
"We're going to be doing a lot of lifts."
"Well, then you'll find out when you pick me up."
"Fine." He put the clipboard down, moved closer, and easily scooped me up. He bounced me up and down as he cradled my body. "One forty."
"Hey! I'm only one thirty-five! Well, maybe before lunch."
He put me down and picked up his clipboard. "That's one way to get a straight answer." He jotted down the numbers on the clipboard.
"You're not playing fair."
"This room is not a democracy. It's a dictatorship. If you want to win, you'll do as I say."
"Yes, Sir."
"Okay, I'm going to check your flexibility." He moved forward and put his hands on my waist. "I'm going to try to rest your ankle on my shoulder. I want you to wrap your arms around my neck for balance. Don't worry, I won't let you fall."
Our eyes locked as I snaked my hands around his neck. My pulse quickened as he slid one hand lightly down my leg, reached under my knee and lifted it so that it was bent. Then his hand glided down to my ankle and slowly lifted it toward his shoulder, sending a bolt of electricity through my body—
Which was interrupted by a bolt of pain down the back of my leg. "Ow!"
He let go instantly. "Not much flexibility," he said. "You ever do Pilates?"
"No."
"You're going to start. Today. It will improve your flexibility greatly and it's very good for relieving stress. Now, do you do any weight training?"
"No, but I'm pretty strong. Why, am I gonna have to pick you up?"
"Dancers of both sexes need to be very strong, as you'll soon find out. Drop and give me twenty."
"You want me to do pushups?"
"Yep."
I shrugged. "Ohhhh-kayyyy." I hit the floor and managed to barely do one before collapsing. He extended a sinewy arm and helped me up.
"Flex your arms. Let me see your biceps."
I assumed the pose of a bodybuilder and his hands slid across my arms, then ended up on my shoulders.
Again with the bolt of electricity.
"No upper body strength. We'll begin with light weights and work up. Do you do any running?"
"I run to the grocery store, run to the dry cleaners."
"I think I'm getting a clear overall picture of your exercise regimen. How many reps can you do with a TV remote?"
"Anything else wrong with me, Doctor?"
He smiled. "You'll be fine. I'll whip you into shape in no time."
"Is there something wrong with my shape now?"
His look down my cleavage and successive smile answered the question.
***
One Pilates workout, a session with weights, and several waltzes around the dance floor later, I was soaked in sweat as I headed into the dressing room. Whoever said horses sweat, men perspire and women glow never danced in a reality show. I was glowing like a stallion after the Kentucky Derby.
"There's nothing wrong with your shape."
I turned and saw Dexter leaning against the wall, smiling at me. "Ah, so you were behind the glass."
"There's a control room back there in the center of twelve dance studios, like the center of a clock. I'll give you a tour if you like. It affords me the opportunity to keep an eye on everything." His eyes ran the length of my body.
"And obviously hear everything."
"I can't listen to twelve rooms at once. But as you are this season's It Girl I surmised it would be beneficial to keep a close eye on your progress."
"Oh, you surmised."
"You are important to the show, Veronica."
"By the way, remember that little no surprises agreement we had?" I pulled the shoulder strap of my bodysuit and let it snap back. "What's up with the lacquered-on outfit?"
"Again, had you bothered to watch any of our previous seasons, you would know this kind of attire is the norm for those contestants who can pull it off, hence it would not qualify as a surprise. And you pull it off quite nicely, I must say."
I shook my head and rolled my eyes as sweat dripped from my chin. "Whatever. I gotta clean up. You wanna come in and watch?"
"While the prospect would not at all be unpleasant, I do have dinner plans."
"Yeah, I guess even reptiles need to eat."
“I’m escorting your friend Savannah this evening.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
This couldn't wait till Sunday brunch. I called an emergency meeting of the group for lunch at our favorite Italian restaurant after Dexter dropped the bombshell that he had a date with Savannah. Not that it was unexpected, but I'd forgotten about it after going through the dance version of the Bataan Death March yesterday.
Nonetheless, Layla and I were eagerly waiting Savannah's arrival as we ripped apart a hot loaf of crusty rosemary bread and dipped it in olive oil infused with spices. Seriously, I could simply skip the entree and eat this all day. Crumbs already littered the red-and-white checkered tablecloth, making it look like we'd been there for hours. The air was filled with the smells of garlic, provolone, and the sounds of Dean Martin, while the walls were covered with mostly black-and-white photos of celebrities (and famous members of the Mafia) who'd eaten here over the past seventy years.
Anyway, for the first time since I've known Savannah, I was worried about her. I mean, I know she can take care of herself, but Dexter is obviously a world class playboy and might even be able to fight off exponential magnolia.
"So how was day one?" asked Layla.
"Great sleeping in. But the dancing wore me out. I actually nodded off at eight. Maybe when I get back to my regular shift I ought to keep doing it."
"I can work your tail off at the gym if you like. We've got a bunch of aerobics classes you'd like."
I spotted Savannah entering the restaurant. "Speaking of working one's tail off, here she comes."
It should be noted that Savannah likes to make an entrance, so I try to get to our meeting places early to watch said entrance and the reaction that accompanies it. Customers and staffers along her path parted like the Red Sea as she sauntered in, swaying those hips while ceiling fans blew wisps of her hair back like she was in a shampoo commercial. Jaws dropped, conversation stopped, eyes bugged out, knuckles were bitten. And the men had an even stronger reaction.
But this time she was not wearing the cat-that-ate-the-canary face she usually exhibits after taking a man for a bedroom excursion that sources say would rival the best roller coaster on Coney Island. The phrase "you must be this big to ride" takes on a whole new meaning with Savannah.
"Hey, y'all," she said, sitting down as a bald, middle-aged man from the ne
xt table jumped up and held her chair out. "Thank you, sweetie," she said, shooting him a smile. "Such a gentleman. Ah do appreciate the kindness of strangers." The guy melted and you could tell this made his day. Or decade.
"Okay, we want news," said Layla, not wasting any time.
"Well, I got a new political campaign yesterday," she said.
"Not that kind of news," I said. "Kiss and tell. Dish about Bish."
"Very clever," said Savannah, as she reached for a piece of bread. "I'll have to remember that. Y'all ordered yet?"
"Details. Now." I said.
"Ah'm just playin' with y'all. We had a nice time."
"Liar, liar, sheets on fire," said Layla.
"There were no combustible sheets," said Savannah, "as he did not end up in my bedroom."
"So you ended up in his?" I asked.
She grew an indignant look. "I am not a carnival ride, despite what you may think. We had a lovely dinner, went to a show, and he took me home."
I needed more than that. "And?"
"Then he asked if I was free sometime this weekend."
I sat up straight. "Let me get this straight … you go out with the supposedly most desirable bachelor on the planet who is obviously smitten with you … and nothing happened?"
Long pause. She looked at the ceiling as if searching for an answer, then back at us. "I think I've reached the point in my life where I need to stop kissing and telling."
Annndddd … cue the chorus of "give me a break."
"No, seriously," said Savannah, who was actually wearing a serious look. "The more I tell you guys, the more you think I'm some sort of wanton damsel of ill repute. And some things should remain private. We had a nice time and that's all you're getting."
"Dammit," said Layla. "Guess I'd better renew my subscription to Cinemax."
Savannah changed the subject but I kept studying her face. Alas, she revealed nothing.
The date either went badly, or …
She's already in love.
With him.
***
For the last thirty years or so, the major networks have been running their best shows on Thursday night while pretty much giving up on the weekends. Their theory is that the coveted demographic of people who are between eighteen and forty-nine are out and about on Friday and Saturday night. Of course, they've forgotten that Dallas was the number one show back in the eighties and was a staple of Friday night television. As was Miami Vice, in the same time slot, no less, and was also a ratings grabber. X-Files was a Friday hit in the nineties as well.