Confessions of a ballroo.., p.2
Confessions of a Ballroom Diva, page 2
A few more keystrokes brought him to lists of suspicious activity in both LA and New York for the last three weeks, the time span Janet Dryer had been commuting. She needed to pre-record interviews for her show, for airing during the coming weeks while she was here in LA rehearsing and performing as long as she stayed on the show.
“If I have to trip her, I’ll make sure she doesn’t last long on my show.” Off stage he could deal with her as he must.
He tried a few refinements on his search, honing in on the three nightclubs.
Janet frequented and the three men she’d been seen with. Nothing unusual. Except a blog that followed such things:
High energy music seems to be the coming thing. No ballads within ten blocks of these night spots. People stomp and bump and shake their booties to the wildest music this blogger has heard in decades. Latin rhythms, Caribbean rhythms, African drums, and Maori battle chants rule the night scene. Talk show hostess, Janet Dryer calls it drum therapy.
Before he could think further, a light tap on his door brought him back to the current dance scene.
“Bryant, are you in there?” a breathy female voice penetrated the flimsy metal door.
Bambie Bright (real name Sondra Jorgensen, buried pretty deep), the show’s hostess, had an annoying voice that publicists called whimsical or sexy. He called it pouty baby talk. But she was young, with a delicate, fair coloring, and Scandinavian pale hair, (bottled? In three seasons with her he hadn’t noticed a single darker root or brassiness). During the NBA season she was lead dancer for a pro basketball cheering team. Eye candy for the male viewers.
If she had two brain cells she could rub together he hadn’t noticed. Except. . . .
There had been a time he’d interrupted a costume fitting where she’d discussed fabric drape and weighted hems in complete sentences with a knowledgeable vocabulary.
Frankly, Janet Dryer topped her for the eye candy spot with her mature elegance and generous curves. That was something she’d gained since her Bohemian Rachel Rafferty days. His dancing sprite from Woodstock had grown up, in many ways. Had her tastes in psychic energy matured as well?
“Bryant, the producer wants to make some changes to the staging of the opening, can you come back to the set to block it?” Bambie opened the door without invitation and stepped up to stand backlit in the doorway. The late afternoon sun caught the sequins in her gown and gave the illusion of an ethereal glow.
His heart beat a little faster and the male part of him twitched with interest. Eye candy, indeed.
The heat reflecting off the pavement hit him full in the face, dampening his enthusiasm. He wanted air conditioning. As much to pucker her nipples beneath her clinging draperies as to energize himself.
“Anything interesting?” he asked, closing the laptop without turning it off. Dangerous if anyone wanted to examine his search history. But it was programmed to come awake to his own profile on the show’s website. Someone would have to be looking for something suspicious to follow through more than the first couple of searches.
“Well, I think it’s interesting,” Bambie gushed, clasping her hands into the center of her cleavage, drawing his attention right where she wanted. “Stefan wants you to twirl me and your fellow judge, Mariana Cushing, at the bottom of the steps before we separate to our starting places.” She grabbed his right hand and executed a cute spin beneath his arm, ending in a modified curtsy.
“No problem.” He pushed her into a double chainé in place and caught her in a dramatic dip when she lost her balance. Her perfume invaded his senses and he held her a little too long. They both laughed and he pulled her up, holding her just a little too close, a little more intimately, so that she knew his reputation as a lady’s man was justly deserved. Temporary liaisons only. No one since Rachel Rafferty had captured his attention for more than a week or two. Most times his lust wore off after only an hour.
When she gasped a surprised “Oh!” he shifted to drape his left arm around her shoulders and drag her into the backstage area. The smile lasted as long as this quick rehearsal.
~~~
“Janet, have you lost weight since this morning? Not always a good thing, to drop too much too fast,” Mildred (never Millie), the head costume designer, said as she slid me into the fringe and sequin costume. The shoulder and back straps crossed each other in a complex pattern that required expert attention to keep them straight.
We had a half-hour before show time and the crew scurried faster than the performers.
“Just water weight,” I admitted and flashed her an engaging smile meant to lull her worries.
“Well, make sure you hydrate properly. Don’t want you fainting and crumpling sequins.” She eyed the plate on the small kitchenette table. The remnants of half a chicken salad sandwich (low fat mayo) on whole grain bread, veggie sticks, and iced tea seemed to meet her approval.
“Another bottle of water between now and show time.”
Enough real food to keep me going. But I’d need something else to sizzle on stage as I had during the rehearsal
“I’ll be fine.” Nervous energy built inside me again. This was the real thing. Show time. With Bryant Thomas as the head judge. He was notorious for scathing critique and scoring low. Three clicks on a Hollywood gossip site told me he had his own fan club who highly approved of his. . . disapproval. Who would notice if he gave me a four when his fellow judges gave me fives and sixes?
“Let me take a couple of stitches to shorten these straps at the top of the bodice. Don’t want any costume malfunctions on my show.”
“It’s happened before,” I noted on a giggle.
“Before my time, honey. The girl who was supposed to make sure that didn’t happen lost her job. But the producers gave her a letter of reference and a fine bonus for shooting the ratings through the roof.”
We both chuckled as she deftly flipped her needle with hot pink thread, to match the fringe, through several layers of elastic and spandex that lifted my cleavage higher than I thought possible on this body. For all my lushness, most of my weight drifted to my hips.
“How come I get you, the best costume designer in the business, instead of a lowly dresser?” I asked as Mildred stepped back to scrutinize her handiwork. “I’m just a late-night talk show host, not a soap star or an aging television ‘icon’ who hasn’t done more than three character roles a year for the last decade.”
“That television icon has turned conserving her energy into an art form. Three of my best girls have been with her for well over a half hour when each of you has been allotted fifteen minutes with one dresser to get you ready. I’m filling in with the people who are polite, and whom I like. And I don’t like the fashion designer the icon brought with her.”
“Oh?” The icon always had an entourage, mostly young men, very young men with energy and stamina.
Mildred shook her head in dismay. “Yeah, a middle-aged man, very distinguished-looking with blond hair just going gray. About your height, but tall compared to her. The way his eyes follow you when he appears to look elsewhere is just creepy.”
The man in the audience with a tablet. Of course, he was studying our costumes.
“Well, thank you, Mildred. I hope you win an Emmy for costume design next time around.” I gave up the notion of stealing a little energy from her. I liked her too much, and she was a valuable asset in this crazy business. Not even the most blood-thirsty vampire spent assets.
I hoarded my assets, much like I did my money. Charlie’s medical care got more expensive by the month.
But news of one of my rivals being so listless she required three dressers concerned me. I swear I hadn’t been near her since before the dress rehearsal, and even then, I only took a tiny amount of her energy.
Maybe I’d misjudged her health and even a little bit was too much.
Quickly I reviewed the scene in my mind. The only taste I remembered was the champagne fizz from Chalet Glorioso. Everything else was an ordinary blur. The smell of cat piss was elusive and without a source I could pinpoint.
Then Alexai was at my door and loosed a wolf whistle, the tiny, gold twisted half circle earring glinted in the lowering sun. “My, my, my you do clean up pretty,” he said from the doorway. Only a hint of his Ukrainian origins remained in his accent. That told me was relaxed and happy.
Mildred brushed past him clucking her tongue and telling him to behave. “You can go all rough and tumble afterward, when both of you have returned your intact costumes to the wardrobe,” she added over her shoulder.
“Won’t jeopardize our contracts,” Alexai said sadly. “But after we win, anything goes!”
I laughed sarcastically. Not going to happen, little boy. He might be three-time European Champion in Foxtrot and Tango, and two-time South American Champion in Cha-Cha-Cha, but he was still only twenty-six. Much too young for me. Though his energy was as tempting as his fit and toned body.
Nope, he was another asset I couldn’t afford to deplete. Bryant’s Challenge made me up my goal from not going home after the first week, to lasting at least halfway through the ten-week competition. No. Make that the final four. The longer I lasted the more money I had for Charlie. And I didn’t want to give Bryant Thomas the satisfaction of seeing me fail.
CHAPTER THREE
Bryant scowled at the stack of score sheets a nameless minion handed him for approval. The producers had tried to copy the traditional ballroom competition forms and point system—possible totals for technique, staging, choreography, and performance. It grated his nerves that the system came up amazingly short on technique and high on personality.
“These are not professional or even seasoned amateur dancers,” he’d been told. Still, every season Bryant went around and around with the producers, trying to push them beyond the popularity contest the show had become. He hated that viewer votes counted as much as professional judges. The viewers knew nothing about the rigors or the subtleties of true dance.
“You gonna be the usual curmudgeon this season?” Julie Martinez asked. She might be the hottest thing on the competition circuit this year, eye candy on the Latina side—that came from spray tans and too much makeup even for television cameras. She was still a gum-popping twenty-something from New Joisey and not truly qualified to judge. Yet; she was getting there as more and more she copied his criteria.
Mariana Cushing elbowed up beside him. “Oh, let the old fart make his mark anyway he can. Heaven only knows he’s got the personality of a three days dead fish and can’t dance anymore. Ha ha.”
“I can still make you look good with lots of lifts and gimmicks because you never did learn to point your toes,” he bantered back. He hated the minutes backstage while they waited for the tech people to finish and count down the seconds until the network feed went live. One never knew which mic was live and which cameras zoomed in.
“Ever tried pointing your toes in three-inch heels?” Mariana batted her extended eyelashes at him. She’d held her beauty together with face-lifts and rigorous diets, but she knew him from twenty years ago, when he’d partnered her around the competition circuit. She’d been twenty and everyone thought him a mere ten years older back then. Neither of them talked much about the “old” days or their real ages.
Unlike Francis Xavier O’Toole, the fourth judge, who’d choreographed hip hop music videos, and danced in them for ten years before taking his first ballroom lesson. He talked endlessly about the good old days, as if this high-paying gig was a comedown for him.
A minion popped up with his right hand held with three fingers splayed to indicate the number of minutes before show time. He made a point of catching every gaze to make sure they understood his gestures. Then he winked at Janet—or was it Alexai that earned that charming and cherubic smile? Either way, the man was a regular minion and kept the backstage orderly and on time.
A too-loud clatter of feet trotted toward Bryant from behind. He winced. Dance shoes were designed with soft soles to better feel and grip the floor, but also to be silent. If a dancer needed to stomp noisily as part of the routine then, and only then, did one use the heels.
“Don’t,” Mariana said, gripping his arm just above the elbow. “Curmudgeon on stage, not off.”
He muttered and growled.
Then he caught a glimpse of fluttering pink out of the corner of his eye. He had to turn and look. Had to. Just checking to make sure she behaves, he told himself.
Janet Dryer flashed him a bright, toothy smile. Her eyes held a challenge. The challenge. She dared him to under-score her routines.
And then the waiting was over. Lights snapped on, music blasted, and the announcer came over the loud speakers for all to know that Dance From The Heart began its fifth season with a splash.
Bryant smiled dutifully when it came his turn to enter. He paused at the bottom of the sweeping steps and spun Mariana under his right arm and. . . Julie under his right.
They’d rehearsed with Bambie.
He checked the darkened spot beside Don Davidson, the new host. Bambie scuttled into place just in time for the spotlight to hit her in the face. At the very last second, she plastered on her professional smile, spoke a scripted ten words, then retired to the green room.
What was all that about?
No time to ask or figure it out. He had duties and responsibilities as he guided his “girls” to the dais and took his seat.
Don asked him, as head judge, to say a few words about what he expected of the season. Bryant deepened his voice to authoritative levels and spoke the scripted part about high energy and professionalism, making it all look off-the-cuff. But he had to add some snide comments about expecting the pro to instill a sense of discipline and technique in their partners. That wasn’t on the script.
The director flashed him the slice across the throat to indicate he needed to shut up. The spotlight changed back to Don before Bryant could speak further.
The show progressed. First up the boy band rocker with surprisingly good feet and a lot of enthusiasm. The younger set in the audience went wild. Bryant told him to work on completing his movements and to lead his partner through the Cha-Cha-Cha with his entire body and not just his too-high shoulders. Marianna and Francis gave him sixes. Julie gave him a seven and a promising smile.
Bryant, never one to give too high a score the first week, countered with a five.
Then, Savannah Lyons, the aging TV icon, floated through the foxtrot surprisingly well. But her gown had too many yards of light fabric that flowed better than she did. She barely lifted her feet off the ground, relying on the gown to cover for her. Still, she kept time to the lovely music and had enthusiastic audience approval—more for the popularity of an old sit-com than for her, probably.
Fives across the board.
And then Janet was up. She looked nervous in the dim lights upstage, swaying right to left, lips moving in a silent count. That surprised Bryant. She was reviewing the dance in her head, her feet shuffling in place of actual steps. A professional attitude, more concerned with the dance than the audience or the camera.
Decades ago, she’d plunged into spontaneous movement without a thought or plan in her head.
Don cut to a commercial and a quartet of extra pro dancers came on to demonstrate what a real Cha-Cha-Cha should look like. The studio audience remained quiet, seemingly unaware of the shift.
Everyone on or near the stage relaxed and turned off their clip-on mics. Except Janet; her eyes still looked glazed as she counted herself through the upcoming dance.
Mariana peered at Bryant closely. “Do you know her?” she whispered, pointedly checking that her mic was off. “I saw you slam out of her trailer earlier.”
“We met once, before she became famous,” he muttered. With the music blaring across the stage, no one should hear this muted conversation. “She’s pushing too hard to have me on her talk show where she can bully me with made-up scandal.”
“Good publicity.”
“She threatened to go over my head to the producers. I countered that I need to wait until the season concludes and am no longer involved in judging her performances before I commit. I don’t like talk shows.” A better explanation than he’d killed her in the line of crime-fighting duty before Marianna was born.
“None of us are comfortable on talk shows, darling. We still have to use them for our own purposes.”
“True. I’m waiting for an appropriate time.”
The lights changed, and the director signaled that mics were live as the quartet finished their number.
Alexai took Janet’s hand and strode to the center of the dance floor. He paraded her in a full circle and blew her a kiss before settling on their marks. A blare of trumpets. She tensed. A subtle tap of drums. She shifted her weight to the balls of her feet.
And they were off.
Clean footwork, high energy, lots of flash, and Janet used the music as if it was the palette and she the artist.
On top of that she knew it and glowed with pleasure.
Glowed.
Inwardly he scowled.
The audience rose to their feet applauding before the last measure of music faded. And so were the judges. He found himself standing and applauding with a smile on his face for a wonderful performance.
Gobsmacked. The only word to describe his reaction.
Suspicion at how she’d pulled it off clouded his pride in her.
He signaled Don that he wanted to go last in the comments and scoring. He needed to weigh the mood of his companions. Had they noticed the slight shuffle when her right shoe strap slipped off her heel? That slipping strap had kept her from pointing her toes completely. And she led with her heel instead of her toe on that Chassé, tombé, pas de bourreé combo. Had they noticed the extruded thumb in her hand gestures? Those were things he could legitimately mark her down on.
