by Nic Tatano
He started carrying me in that direction as I rested my head on his broad shoulder and breathed in his cologne. He headed down the hallway and turned into my bedroom, which was slightly illuminated by the setting sunlight filtering through the cracked blinds. He turned his back to the bed and sat down on the edge, leaving me straddled on his lap. He took my head in his hands, running his fingers through my hair and massaging my head as his mouth moved down to my neck.
That rain check for Dexter was looking good.
To say I was about to explode after months of being celibate Sister Veronica is putting it mildly.
Suddenly Bradley looked up at me as a single tear ran from one eye. Oh my God, he's that sensitive about sex? I have hit bedroom powerball! I smiled as I gently brushed away the tear. "Oooh, babe, don't cry. Let Veronica kiss it and make it better."
He started to blink very fast, then his hands quickly went to his face and he rubbed his eyes. He began sniffling as if catching a cold. "You have a cat."
Pandora must be right behind me. "Yeah. She usually sleeps with me but tonight that spot is taken." I patted the bed.
His eyes were quickly turning red but I ignored them and started to unbutton his shirt. "Oh, God."
"My, aren't we eager. But let me take you slowly. You'll enjoy it more."
"No, not that. The cat."
I looked around and didn't see her. "What about her?"
He put his finger under his nose. "I'm severely allergic. I gotta get home and get an allergy shot." He slid me off his lap onto the side of the bed and stood up. "Sorry, Veronica, I need my vaccine or I'll end up in the hospital."
He headed for the door and I followed. "So, let's go to your place. I can cook there—"
He turned and looked at me with a quickly reddening face. His eyes already puffy. "It'll take all night for me to get back to normal. I'm really sorry but I gotta go."
Bradley hurried out the door.
Pandora started rubbing against my leg and let out a soft purr. "Great. You're the only action I'm getting tonight."
Full English and a couple of hot bangers, here I come.
As for Johnson, well … as Dexter would say, "Bloody hell."
***
Dexter was looking at his watch as I arrived ten minutes late to the restaurant on Saturday morning. Of course, I did it on purpose, just to get his knickers in a twist. (I also looked up some British slang last night since Bradley did the equivalent of hacking up a furball on our date.)
He stood up as I arrived at the table, a corner one next to the kitchen's swinging door. "Let me guess, you didn't have ten bucks to bribe the hostess for one near the window?"
"I like to eat in peace," he said, moving around the table and pulling out the chair for me.
"Thank you." Wow, talk about old school.
The restaurant was a throwback fifties joint, filled with loud conversation, the smell of bacon and the staff dressed like they were extras in American Graffiti. Old fashioned formica tables and wrought iron chairs added to the malt shop feel. "You become very adept at maintaining a low profile when you're internationally famous."
"I would think you'd love the attention."
He shook his head. "What's the old saying? People dream of being recognized and when it happens they go around the rest of their lives with sunglasses."
"Very true," I said, picking up the menu.
"Oh, you don't need that. Full English, remember? You're game, aren't you?"
I snapped the menu shut. "Of course. I'll try anything once."
"Good. This is one of the few places in New York that will serve one. I got them to put it on the menu when I moved here."
"Wow. You've got some clout."
The sound of glasses and dishes clanking filled the air as the kitchen door swung open and a middle-aged blonde waitress arrived at our table, hair put up with a pencil sticking through the bun. Her eyes were red and she was sniffling. Great, just what I need, to catch a cold.
"Take your order?" she asked, voice cracking a bit.
"Are you ill, my dear?" asked Dexter.
"Allergies," she said.
"Tell me about it," I said.
Dexter ordered two full English breakfasts and she headed for the kitchen. I folded my hands and rested them on the table. "So. Tell me about why you do what you do."
"You mean everything, or something specific?"
"Let's start with that four you gave me."
"Ah, so you do take the show seriously!"
I narrowed my eyes a bit. "Let's just say I don't like to lose."
"Very well. As you probably know, I'm the judge people love to hate."
I playfully slapped my face. "Who would have guessed!"
"Funny. So I use reverse psychology to manipulate the voting. Viewers naturally like to disagree with me, prove me wrong. So if I want someone to remain on the show, I give them a low score, and, as you would say, rip them a new one on national television. It never fails, Veronica. Trust me, that four I gave you was your ticket to staying on the show, and I don't even have to … enhance … the results."
"Seriously? So people are voting against whatever you say?"
He nodded. "It has worked numerous times."
"So what was my real score?"
"After your little opening pratfall, you did pretty well. I'd have given you a seven. Six at the lowest. But then you might have been voted off the show down the road. You needed the sympathy vote right out of the gate. And I need to piss off the viewers, give them a reason to tune back in and prove themselves superior."
Sonofabitch. It actually made sense. "So, let me get this straight. You're basically cultivating a reputation as a jerk and casting me as a victim?"
"I'm simply playing a part, Veronica."
"A part. Right."
"You'd understand that if you got to know me. And, let's be honest, news people are basically playing a part, aren't they?"
"Whoa, now, don't go comparing what you do on a reality show to journalism."
"Oh, come on. Journalism? I've seen those promos about the best news team is the one you can trust and you people don't even trust one another in your own newsroom. I dare say Gavin would sell out his own mother for ratings. And all those phony stories about sitting down and consoling victims of tragedy … it's really a bunch of vultures picking over the bones."
My blood pressure spiked. "I don't do those kinds of stories."
"I didn't imply that you did. But many of your cohorts specialize in adding drama to the news. What's that saying you have … if it bleeds it leads? And that old song about dirty laundry?"
"Don't lump me in with all that."
"Fine. Don't lump me in with all reality show stars."
"Fine."
Dexter looked toward the kitchen. "Wish our bloody food would get here."
Ten silent minutes, fifty looks at my watch and eighty sips of my coffee later it did. At least I'd have something to occupy my hands and keep my mouth full.
The full English actually looked good. Eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes, those double entendre sausages known as bangers, baked beans (obviously eaten for breakfast by Brits who work outdoors), fried bread and coffee. I tore into it the moment it arrived. Dexter looked up at me for a moment, then down to his own plate.
A few more quiet minutes later he spoke. "Your fry up good?"
"My what?"
"Fry up. Most everything on your plate is fried, so we call it a fry up."
"Actually, it's very tasty. I didn't think you people were known for your cooking."
"Perhaps you'd like some jam for your toast … might sweeten up your attitude a bit."
Dexter picked up the dish of blueberry jam and handed it across the table. On the way his hand brushed against my glass of tomato juice, knocking it over. It landed on a fork, which turned into a catapult, flipping up and stabbing his hand. He flinched and sent the jam in a perfect arc onto my white cotton dress. It was accompanied a nanosecond later by a flood of
tomato juice.
I jumped up from my chair, my outfit now turned into a Jackson Pollock painting. "Look what you did!"
"Sorry, it was an accident." He looked at his hand, which now featured a drop of blood.
"Yeah, I'll bet." I grabbed my cloth napkin and tried to minimize the damage, but all the club soda in the world wasn't gonna fix this.
Dexter was biting his lip, obviously trying to keep from laughing.
"You think this is funny?"
"Well, the color scheme is appropriate for a Yank. Red, white and blue."
I noted he was wearing cream colored linen slacks. I sat down, pulling my chair forward so hard it slammed against the table and knocked over both his grape juice and coffee into his lap. He jumped up and started to say something but I cut him off. "Sorry. It was an accident."
Forty minutes later the waitress returned. "Anything else? More coffee?"
I had no desire to stay here any longer and have my profession run through the gutter while looking like Betsy Ross' nightmare. "I'm good."
"I'll take a coffee to go," said Dexter. "Light and sweet, like my companion."
"Sure," said the waitress, who wiped away a tear, then placed the check in front of Dexter.
"Don't wanna drink it here?" I asked.
"I have another appointment. At a dry cleaner."
"We could make it a double date."
Dexter pulled a leather billfold out of his inside jacket pocket, took out a hundred, and placed it on top of the check just as a manager arrived.
"Good morning. Just checking to make sure the food was okay?"
"The part we aren't wearing was excellent," I said. The manager laughed.
"Yes, quite," said Dexter. "Though you might give your poor waitress the day off. She seems to be suffering from allergies a great deal."
"She's a trooper," said the manager. "And it's not allergies, she's dealing with some upsetting financial news. Her ex cleaned out her bank account and stole her daughter's college tuition. If you feel she gave you good service, a nice tip would make her day."
"Done," said Dexter, patting the hundred. "Tell her to keep the change."
Just when I start to hate him again, he does something like that.
"That's very kind of you sir." He took a closer look at our clothes. "You know … I do have some wait staff uniforms in the back that you could borrow so you don't have to go out in public like that."
Dexter smiled and started to shake his head. "That would—"
“Be very nice of you,” I said, shooting a big grin at Dexter. “C’mon, Dex, it’ll be fun.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Yeah, it was fun all right. Until the paparazzi jumped out from behind a car and snapped a photo of us which ended up in the Sunday morning paper. Along with a story about why we were dressed that way.
On, you know, the front page.
YOU WANT FRIES WITH THAT?
By Jansen Reid
If you're a regular viewer of Dance Off you know the contestants are always dressed in outfits appropriate to the music, while the judges are decked out in formal attire.
That's why New Yorkers had their jaws drop yesterday when British judge Dexter Bishop and contestant/network info-babe Veronica Summer emerged from a restaurant dressed as a waiter and waitress.
Publicity stunt? Nope.
Are they a couple? Not according to another restaurant patron who dined at a nearby table. "They look as though they can't stand each other," said Billy Hember, who was within earshot of the two. "He spilled some food and juice on her, she got ticked off and rammed her chair against the table, spilling stuff on him. I thought it was going to escalate into a food fight. Their clothes were ruined so the managers gave them a couple of wait staff uniforms so they could get home without looking ridiculous."
Well, so much for that last part.
Bishop, widely considered one of the planet's most attractive men, was nattily attired in a form-fitting blue polyester shirt and black slacks, while Summer was rocking a matching blue jumper that made her look like a malt shop waitress from the doo-wop era.
A wave of snickers followed me as I headed into our usual Sunday brunch restaurant. I politely smiled as I saw Layla already at our table.
"Ah, finally," said Layla. "Can you take our order now?"
"Very funny," I said, as I sat down.
"Guess your poodle skirt is at the dry cleaners."
"Go ahead, get it all out of your system," I said.
"Coulda been worse. You could have been eating at Hooters."
"The outfit would have been less revealing than my blue spandex," I said.
"So how much of the story is true?" asked Layla, holding up the newspaper.
"Just about all of it. We can't stand each other—"
"I wouldn't say that," said Savannah, sneaking up behind me and patting me on the shoulder. She waited a beat and, as if on cue, a cute guy in his twenties magically appeared to pull out her chair.
She started to thank him but I beat her to it, turning on my attempt at the magnolia. "She always appreciates the kahdness of strangers."
She sat down and smiled at the guy, who backed up while staring at her. The back of his knees hit a chair and he went head over heels.
Savannah stood up. "Oh, my. Are y'all okay?"
"Sure," said the guy, brushing himself off as he got up, face red.
"Y'all be careful," she said, as she sat back down and shook her head. "I wish I didn't have that effect on men."
"Oh, give me a break," I said. "So what's this garbage about me and Dexter liking each other?"
"You may not like him, but he likes you."
"Really?" said Layla. "Do tell."
Savannah leaned forward a bit. "Well, last night he talked about her."
"Yeah," I said, "I'm sure he was filled with compliments after I covered him with food. And why the hell would he be talking about me when he's out on a date with you?"
"Really, I thought he was all puppy-dog eyed over you," said Layla. "That's not very nice that he takes you out and talks about another woman."
"Look," said Savannah, "it wasn't like that."
"What, he forgot your name and shouted Veronica during sex?" asked Layla.
Savannah rolled her eyes. "We do talk during dinner, you know. Do y'all think we just order room service and act like a bunch of rabbits? And, by the way, we simply enjoy spending time together. That doesn't necessarily imply we spend that time in the bedroom."
"So, you do it in the kitchen," I said, piling on.
"Can we just order?" she said.
"Not until you tell me what he said about me."
"And we are officially back in high school," said Layla.
"He said he admires you," said Savannah. "That you're so passionate about your career. He said he likes a woman who can obviously take care of herself."
"That's it?" asked Layla.
"Pretty much," said Savannah. "Except for … "
She left the words hanging in the air. "Except for … what?" I asked.
What she said next boggled my mind.
***
Gavin was wearing a huge smile when I arrived in the newsroom on Monday morning. Which, I figured, must mean he's either up to something or about to drop a bomb on me.
"You look awfully cheerful for a Monday," I said.
He held up a single sheet of paper in one hand while clutching an assignment sheet in the other. "I've got good news."
"Oh, shit. What now?"
"No, seriously Veronica, this is great. The Emmy nominations are out."
"And … "
"You were nominated!"
"For what, Best Performance by an Anchor in Spandex?"
He shook his head as he rolled his eyes. "Best Morning Anchor, of course. Scott was also nominated."
"Then please withdraw my name. I have no desire to compete against Scott."
"Sorry, too late. You shoulda told me that before I submitted our entries."r />
"You shouldn't have submitted both our names. You know we're close friends."
"You're allowed two entries. I have two anchors, so I entered both of you." He tossed the paper on a nearby desk, then handed me the assignment sheet. "Well, since that didn't cheer you up maybe your story this morning will."
***
I didn't recognize the address on the assignment sheet but it clicked when we pulled up in our news car.
It was the very same restaurant at which I'd debuted the Julia Child spring collection on Saturday.
The manager who had so thoughtfully provided our outfits opened the door to greet me as I got out of the news car. "So glad to see you again, Miss Summer," he said, as he led me into the restaurant. "Sorry about what happened this weekend. I didn't think you'd end up on the front page."
"It goes with the territory," I said. "So, what's the deal? All I know is that some customer left a very large tip here that broke some kind of record."
"It's easier if I just let the waitress explain it to you."
I saw our photographer had already set up in the back of the restaurant as the umbrella light gave off a soft glow.
I also saw that the woman to be interviewed was the waitress who'd served us on Saturday. She smiled, stood up as I approached and extended her hand. "Miss Summer, I'm Elizabeth Franks. Nice to see you again."
"You too, and call me Veronica. So, you're the one who got the big tip?"
She nodded as we both sat down. "It changed my life. More like saved my life."
"Really," I said, as the photog handed me a microphone and I clipped it on my lapel.
"The whole thing is unbelievable. I was at the end of my rope, and then … it was like some guardian angel must have been looking out for me."
The photog focused on the waitress, then turned to me. "Anytime you're ready."
"Go ahead and roll," I said. He pushed a button and I heard the tape engage. I started as always, getting the spelling of her name correct and a little background information before proceeding with the questions. "So, when I was in here Saturday and you said you had allergies…"
"I'd been crying."
"Tell me why."
"Well, as you can imagine waitresses don't make a ton of money, but I get by okay. Anyway, my daughter is about to enter her senior year in college. Thankfully my ex husband and I had put money away for her education years ago, but on Friday I discovered he'd closed the bank account and taken off with all the money."