by Nic Tatano
So, the answer to the question of "What do I do about Dexter Bishop?" is … wait for it … I don't know. While it is nice having the upper hand in that I know he has a "thing" for me, I'm not going to use Savannah's tactics because I'm not really interested. Definitely not. I mean, he's turned out to be a nice guy and all that, and he's smart, and he didn't take advantage of me that night I was hammered, and he defended my honor like some medieval knight, and he rescues broke waitresses, and he goes out of his way to do something special for kids who can't walk, and the locker room image of his chiseled chest is burned into my brain, and he looks right into my soul with those incredible eyes of his … but we're simply not compatible.
Yeah, let's go with that.
He was already warming up in the practice studio when I arrived. This was to be our first full dance practice, since he was light headed yesterday and we really didn't get anything done together. He simply put me through some steps, much as Bradley had done when we first started.
"How you feeling today?" I asked.
"I'm almost full strength. But it's a good thing we're pre-empted this week."
"We still going with the cha-cha?"
He shook his head. "I've changed my mind. I want something that's going to knock their socks off for our first time together, and the cha-cha isn't that hard. We're doing the mambo."
"But not the Bradley version, right?" I shot him a grin.
"Funny. No, this one will remain vertical." He reached for the stereo on the shelf and turned it on. The room filled with upbeat Latin music as he extended his hands. I moved toward him and took them. "The mambo is about the hips."
"Yours or mine?"
"Both. It is a very fast but sensual dance, and must convey the passion felt between the couple." Dexter pulled me a little closer and placed his hands gently on my waist. "Sway your hips in a circle."
I moved my body back and forth.
"No, no. Just your hips. Try to keep your upper body from moving." His grip on my waist got firm.
I did my best to keep my upper body in one place while moving my hips. "This reminds me of the hula hoop."
"Not quite, but you're on the right track." He looked down and slid his hands down my sides onto my hips. I felt a slight rush of electricity as he pushed my hips side to side. "More of an exaggerated motion."
He was close now, near enough for me to take in a breath of his musky cologne. He nodded in approval. "Now you're getting it."
"What about your hips?"
"Same thing." He moved closed and our bodies lightly touched as he began to sway his hips. His hands slid back to my waist. "Hands on my shoulders," he said.
"This part of the dance?"
"Just an exercise to get your muscle memory going."
Problem was, what we were doing had my muscle memory thinking back to my old boyfriend.
***
Three hours later, I was wiped out. I'd been lifted, twirled, flipped, dipped, you name it. If Dexter Bishop had wanted to take an inventory of my entire body with his hands, he'd done it. But for all the close contact, he never did anything that was unprofessional. You'd never know the guy had a crush on me. I may as well have been a seventy year old librarian. I had waited the entire session for one suggestive comment, one pass, one double entendre. Nothing.
He remained a perfect gentleman. As if he knew I wasn't interested and shouldn't take a shot.
I gotta admit, I felt a little, well … disappointed. I mean, I had some really snappy comebacks ready to launch. So I could stand there and let him know I had the upper hand. And then … nothing. Well, I did get that soulful look, which he apparently can't turn off. He had dipped me to end the dance and held me there, supporting my back as I bent backwards, for what seemed like an eternity, locking eyes with me. For a brief instant, and I do mean brief, I felt … I don't know, something I've never felt before.
Like I was welcoming him into my soul.
Chalk it up to being in close quarters with a very attractive man. I mean he's nice and—
Damn, I need to change the subject. Ya think?
Anyway, here's the other thing. I felt more comfortable dancing with him after one day than I did in all the weeks I spent with Bradley. That thing he said about two people becoming one on the dance floor … I felt it for the first time.
"You did well today," he said.
"You're a great teacher."
"Helps to have a talented student. So, miss Bradley?"
My face tightened. "Are you serious?"
"I meant his dancing. As a partner. How do we compare?"
"Well, you're very different. Bradley was more mechanical, with more repetition. With you … I don't know … you're fluid. It's like what you talked about on day one … two dancers becoming one. I never felt that with him."
"But you feel it now?"
"I understand it now."
Go ahead, say it.
Liar.
***
Savannah had told me the video would be sent out at midnight on Saturday night. Every network executive and producer would get a copy, as would every newspaper, magazine, major website, political blogger, etc.
So at one minute before the witching hour, I pulled out my cell and put it in the middle of my coffee table.
"T-minus one minute and counting," said Layla.
Savannah was on her cell with the person responsible for sending out the tape. She nodded, smiled, and hung up on her call. "It's on its way to everyone as we speak."
"Well, this is it," I said, raising my wine glass. "I hope we're doing the right thing."
"To doing the right thing," said Savannah, as we all clicked our glasses.
Layla patted my hand. "Don't worry, you are. Regardless of how it turns out." She nodded toward my phone. "So how long before you hear from someone at the network?"
I took a sip of sweet red, savoring the taste. "Within the hour, I think. Gotta figure it'll take awhile for the old boys club at the network to look at it. I'd love to be a fly on the wall 'cause they'll look like they had a prostate exam with an eggbeater. Then there will be some all night meetings with the heads of news and entertainment to figure out how to deal with the Senator and how to spin the Bill Recker situation."
"Really? I figured they'd call everyone in the morning." asked Layla.
"Hell, no. They'll have a gag order out within the hour. Because print people and the competition will start calling every employee at my network for a quote."
"Why is entertainment involved?" asked Savannah. "Wouldn't it just be a news division problem?"
I shook my head. "News is a cash cow. Cheap to produce, and brings in money to spend on entertainment. Same deal with The Morning Show."
"I sure hope this works out for you," said Layla.
"Speaking of things working out," said Savannah, "how are things going with Dexter?"
I knew where she wanted to go with this line of questioning, so I changed the topic. "He's an amazing dancer and a great teacher."
"I didn't mean on the dance floor."
"Well, that's all we're doing."
"Uh-huh."
"What, uh-huh?"
Layla jumped in. "Can we go over that checklist of the perfect man we had years ago?"
"What for?"
"I'm your best friend. Humor me." She looked up at the ceiling, as if searching for inspiration. "Ah, yes. Let me see. He had to be a gentleman, right?"
"Yeah. Still does."
"And Dexter is a gentleman. You've said so yourself. And he had to be kind, right?"
"Yes."
"Let's see. Now Savannah, would you say what he did for that girl in the wheelchair was a kind act?"
Savannah nodded. "I'd say it was incredibly kind."
"Guys—"
Layla put up her hand. "Let me finish. And he had to be old fashioned, the kind of guy who would protect you if necessary. And since he ended up with stitches defending your honor, I'd say Dexter qualifies."
"You
done?" I asked.
"Just about. If I remember correctly he had to be smart, driven, have a great career, and finally, be good looking. And he had to be head over heels for you."
I finally had enough. "Stop using logic on me!"
"Well, y'all are too stubborn to use it on yourself," said Savannah.
Layla reached out, took my hands and looked into my eyes. "You're fighting it, Veronica. Let yourself go. Put away the journalism credibility outfit and let the wave take you where it wants. Stop thinking with your head and follow your heart. Give the guy a chance."
"I'm not fighting anything."
"Yes you are," said Savannah. "Everyone can see it but you."
"You're a reporter," said Layla. "You know the truth when you see it, right?"
"Yeah."
"Then look in the mirror."
***
At three minutes to one, my cell rang.
It was Gavin.
"Hello?"
"Veronica, it's Gavin. Sorry to call you in the middle of the night and I hope I didn't wake you."
"Nah, I'm hanging out with my friends. What's up?"
"Listen, a major story has broken about Senator Dixon. She's apparently having an affair."
"Holy shit! Are you kidding me?"
"Nope, we've got video. It got dropped on us an hour ago and I understand every news organization in the country has it. Our tech guy already confirmed the video is legit. And you're not gonna believe who she's having an affair with."
"Someone else in Congress?"
"Nope. None other than our own Bill Recker."
"Damn, Gavin, that's unbelievable!
"You're telling me."
"Have you talked with Bill?"
"Not yet. His voice mail message says his mailbox is full. What a friggin' nightmare. And I thought the Katrina Favor situation was the worst I'd ever have to deal with."
"Jeez, Gavin, I'd hate to be in your shoes." At this point I smiled and flipped the bird at my phone. "So what is the network gonna do with him?"
"I don't know. I'm about to go into a conference call with the west coast people. We'll probably be up all night figuring out how to deal with this. Meanwhile, if anyone contacts you for a reaction—"
"Say nothing, got it. I have no idea what they're talking about and should refer them to the network's PR department."
"Which is conveniently closed on the weekend. We'll talk more tomorrow, Veronica. Right now we gotta decide how we'll handle this on the Sunday morning show."
“Okay, Gavin, thanks for the heads up.” I hung up and smiled at my friends. “Okay, the shit has hit the fan. Now I have to hope none of it gets on me.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Were it not eight in the morning, this would call for popcorn, chips, guacamole and a barbecue.
Alas, I needed one of the basic food groups for breakfast, so I would have to settle for a mimosa while watching the Sunday morning shows.
I'd set the DVR to tape every network, but we were going to start with mine.
Layla and Savannah had spent the night, an old fashioned slumber party. Scott had dropped an hour ago by with bagels, croissants, fruit, and all sorts of delicassies to make this the ultimate Sunday brunch. Those in the news business love to cheer on a good fall from grace, especially when it involves a previously squeaky clean politician. When there's a burning at the stake, we bring the marshmallows.
We'd already had plenty of stuff to read, as papers were strewn across the floor of my living room. Every newspaper's front page was plastered with a screen grab of Margaux's surveillance tape featuring Senator Dixon grabbing Bill Recker in the crotch. Best headline: "Home Recker", which was accompanied by a cartoon of our anchor reading from the set with the Senator under the desk wearing a Cheshire cat grin and a bib, smiling. Though "Recking Ball" wasn't bad either, with our anchor doing a Miley Cyrus impression.
I hadn't had much sleep. Can you blame me? This was an anxiety filled Christmas morning, since I didn't know if I'd find the ultimate gift under the tree or a stocking full of coal.
We all took our places in front of the television armed with drinks and sustenance. I practically inhaled a croissant topped with raspberry preserves, my stress already burning through calories at an alarming rate. The moment I finished that pastry I reached for a bagel.
"You trying to make the weight?" cracked Scott.
"Just nervous," I said, as guilt forced me to grab a bowl of fruit instead. I saw the network animation for the Sunday morning show fly across the screen, so I fired the remote at the TV and turned up the sound. "Here we go."
The animation dissolved into the serious face of Jack Krenshaw, the elder white-haired statesman of the network who'd spent forty years covering Washington and had moderated the Sunday morning show for two decades. "Good morning, Americans. If you've already picked up your Sunday paper from the driveway you know the top story today is a bombshell which not only has rocked the political landscape but also this network. The video you're about to see is not suitable for children and you might find it offensive."
"Still the best tease in television news," said Scott. He was right. Nothing makes viewers stop dead in their tracks than the notion that disturbing video is coming up.
The anchor voiced-over the video as it rolled. "Late last night this videotape was released showing Presidential candidate Senator Sydney Dixon in what appears to be a hotel bedroom with this network's main evening anchor, Bill Recker." The video rolled, looking impressive on my giant flat screen television.
"For a French maid, you're not a bad photographer," said Layla.
The anchor continued. "Our technology experts confirm that the tape is legit and has not been tampered with. So far, we've had no comment from Senator Dixon or her campaign, though we understand there might be a statement later in the day or tomorrow morning. As for Mister Recker, we're joined now by the President of our news division, William Fincastle. Sir, thanks for joining us this morning."
"I would say it was my pleasure, Jack, but this has been a very upsetting night for all of us at the network. To say I'm shocked by the behavior of one of our oldest and most trusted employees is putting it mildly."
"I understand you've talked with Bill Recker."
Fincastle nodded. "Yes. He was very apologetic and may or may not make a statement of his own at a later time. He admitted to the affair with the Senator, which has apparently been going on for a long time. He and I both agreed that his intimate involvement with a Presidential candidate has severely tarnished his credibility. That said, he tendered his resignation early this morning."
"Did you ask for it?"
"I didn't have to."
"Yeah, right," said Scott. "Fincastle would have waterboarded him to get him to quit."
"How do you feel about all this?" asked the anchor.
"Look, we can't expect the viewers to trust an anchor who can't be trusted by his own wife."
"Ouch," said Savannah. "That one left a mark."
"C'mon," I said. "Ask Fincastle who gets The Chair."
"So," said the host, "where does this leave the network as far as a main anchor is concerned?"
I leaned forward. "Here it comes."
"It's too soon to make a permanent decision," said Fincastle, "as we have to weigh our options. We of course were planning to have Bill Recker anchor our evening news for a few more years until his retirement. For the time being we'll go with substitutes, as we have a deep bench at the network. Unless, Jack, you want to move to New York."
The host smiled and shook his head. "Happy right here in DC, but thank you for the offer."
The rest of the show was a political feeding frenzy, as the sharks in Washington smelled blood in the water. While media people enjoy the fall from grace, politicians will provide the shove off the cliff. The other party slammed Senator Dixon for being a hypocrite while speculation was already running rampant from her own party as to who might be the candidate in the next election since she wa
s now "unelectable."
After our show ended we watched the others. Of course the competing networks piled on big time, one even coming up with a montage of clips showing Recker's now obvious bias toward the Senator.
By the time we were done one anchorman's career and reputation had sunk like a stone while a slam dunk Presidential campaign had hit an iceberg and was taking on water. With my future possibly stuck in steerage.
"So, what happens now?" asked Layla as I turned off the TV.
"They put Jeff Garlen in as anchor for right now," said Scott. "Knowing him, he was down at the network this morning starting his campaign. Luckily we're not in ratings so they don't have to make an immediate decision. Besides, Veronica still has a month left on Dance Off."
Savannah turned to me. "How do you think it went?"
"Well, I thought they'd simply fire Bill Recker, but the outcome is the same. The fact that Fincastle was non-committal about his replacement was good. I think." I turned to Scott. "You think I should call Gavin today?"
He shook his head. "Play it cool for now. Garlen is going to be hounding management all day. You should be the one to act professional."
So I was supposed to do the right thing again.
That wouldn't necessarily get me the dream job. Because acting professional with people who weren't might not be the right way to go.
***
I didn't have to play it cool very long. Gavin called late Sunday afternoon.
"How's your day going?" I asked.
"Finally going home to get some sleep. I was here all night. Listen, I need you to come in at six-thirty tomorrow morning. We need you to be live."
"Something special?"
"I can't talk about it."
What the hell was this? Were they going to announce me as Recker's replacement? Were they going to have me announce someone else as Recker's replacement?
"How about a hint?" I asked.
"Sorry," said Gavin. "See you tomorrow." He ended the call.