Chaos Choreography (InCryptid, #5)(9)
No breakup had ever inspired me to the amount of self-destructive ice cream consumption Dance or Die had. I still injected a bit of awe into my voice as I replied, “I never thought of it like that, but you’re so right. It’s just like ending a relationship.”
“We’ve been commissioned for another season, thank God, but the network is starting to look a little reluctant to commit. So we were passing the old idea hat around, and Brenna came up with the best suggestion any of us had ever heard! Got a guess on what it is?”
“Um . . . reduce the number of audition shows from eight to four so you don’t have to deal with the ratings drop that always comes from people getting bored and changing channels during hour two?”
A faint sharpness came into Adrian’s voice. “You know how important the audition shows are to our audience, Valerie.”
“I know, I know, I love them, I watch them with my family, but I understand the level of technique we’re seeing,” I said, trying not to sound like I was covering a mistake. Even though I technically was. “Those shows establish why the lineup looks the way it does once the season starts. I’m just saying, sometimes people come up to me and complain about how long it takes to get to the competition. So I might give up some of those shows if it meant the ratings of the rest would go up.”
“Ah,” said Adrian, sounding mollified. “I suppose that’s not bad thinking, even if it goes counter to what we try to do with this program. Brenna’s idea does dovetail a bit with what you’ve been saying, darling, in that it would replace the audition shows for this season with a pair of clip shows—and given that we’ve already passed the window for auditions by a good measure, it’s what we’re doing. I just wanted to know if you were on board. You’re one of our stars, you know, even if you didn’t go on to set the competition world on fire.”
“I’ve been busy,” I said, too relieved by the return of “darling” to his vocabulary to think about the rest. Then my brain caught up with my ears. “Wait. On board with what, Adrian? You didn’t say what her idea was.”
“Oh, didn’t I? Silly me. We’re doing an all-star season, my dove. The top four from the past five seasons returning to duke it out and learn who America’s Dancer of Choice really is.”
“Whoa,” I said.
“There’s a quite decent prize package,” he said, wheedling. “Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, a feature in Technique Magazine, and a year’s paid rent on a Manhattan flat. And the exposure, of course. It could kick your career to the next level.”
My career was over. I had walked away from it willingly, and with no intention of going back. “That’s tempting, Adrian, but—”
“The other three dancers from your season are already on board. We can punt and go to the girl eliminated in the number five position, but wouldn’t it be better to bring back the dream team? Come on, sweetheart, be a peach and do it for me. Even if you don’t need this, I do.”
I hesitated. My career was over . . . but that didn’t mean I couldn’t have one last hurrah. “Can I call you back in an hour? I need to check my schedule and have a word with my boyfriend.”
Dominic’s expression darkened at the word “boyfriend.” He held up his left hand, looking exaggeratedly from me to his wedding ring and back again. I mouthed the word “sorry” at him. He scowled.
“Just don’t leave us hanging any longer than that, all right, darling? I need to get this locked down. Talk to you soon.” Adrian hung up. I lowered the phone.
Dominic was still scowling. “Boyfriend? Was there a demotion in the night that I was unaware of? Because I didn’t allow myself to be lectured by a woman in a skin-tight sequined jumpsuit just to be bumped back to ‘boyfriend’ as soon as—Verity?” His scowl faded, replaced by concern. “What’s wrong?”
I must have looked pretty distraught if he was having that reaction. I put the phone down and thought about standing, but I wasn’t sure my legs would work. Better not to risk it until I had a bit more confidence. “That was Adrian Crier, the producer of Dance or Die. It’s his baby. He has a real thing for dance education, and he basically went into reality television so he could have a dance show one day.”
“Dance or Die—that’s the show you were on.” Dominic and I had spent a comfortable night curled up in a motel room in Colorado watching all my dance routines and solos on YouTube, with me explaining how each number had gone right—or wrong. I’d been more brutal to myself than the judging panel had ever been, but when I was done, Dominic had been there to kiss me and ask for more videos. It had been therapeutic in the extreme, and at the time, it had felt like a fitting funeral for my dance career.
Apparently not. Or maybe not, anyway; I still had to talk to some people, starting with the man in front of me.
“Yeah, that’s the show I was on,” I said. “He wants to do an all-star season, with the top four dancers from the past five seasons. I was number two in my season.” Me and Lyra, the only female top two in the show’s history. We’d promised to keep in touch after the show was over. I hadn’t heard from her since she’d won.
Dominic’s scowl lifted. “He wants you to be on television again?”
“Yeah.”