If Ever

  IF

  EVER

  ANGIE STANTON

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  Cover design by Okay Creations.

  Copyright © 2017 Angie Stanton

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0-9855797-9-1

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9855797-9-1

  For Pat Mullett.

  You introduced me to Broadway,

  and I’m forever grateful.

  1

  Los Angeles

  "You're going to fall in love with me. But believe me. It'll be one sided."

  My eager smile falters as I stare at my dance partner, Dominic Yardley, with his dark hair smoothed into place, his perfect teeth, and cavalier grin. What the hell am I supposed to say to that? He's the guy I'll be spending the next three weeks with, and longer, if by some act of God I don't totally suck. He's one of the most popular pros on Celebrity Dance Off. I'd heard he was a nice guy and that everyone loves him, but so far, other than his good looks, he’s not living up to his reputation.

  Two camera lenses zero in on us for our first meeting, and my deodorant, strong enough for a man, stopped working for this woman. I'm told the cameras will become invisible to me, but I doubt it. I'm not from the land of celebrity.

  Dominic continues talking, but I don't hear a word. I'm in a vacuum of white noise. I don't plan on falling in love with him, or anyone else. The sting of being dumped by my boyfriend a few months ago still smarts. Ending up on this show is the last thing I expected to happen, but here I am, desperate for a fresh start in life and trying one of the craziest things possible, competing as the first ever non-celeb on a celebrity dance show. I have to admit, the prospect of wearing beautiful dresses and being swept around a dance floor is a fairytale dream come true for a girl like me.

  One of the cameras moves for a better angle. I stand straighter. My main goal is not to embarrass myself. I realize Dominic's looking at me expectantly. "I'm sorry, what was that?"

  "You need to talk and interact with me. It's going to be a pretty boring show otherwise." He flicks his eyes at camera one.

  His smile is as charming, as when I've seen him on TV. I clear my throat. "Sorry."

  "As I was saying, we'll be spending a lot of time together. We're already a week behind the other teams, so there's a lot of work to make up."

  I nod. The producers explained all this in their initial phone call. I literally choked on my spit when I heard they chose me as America's chance to dance on the hit show Celebrity Dance Off where I'll be surrounded by celebrities.

  "I hope you're ready because this experience is going to change your life."

  Which is the first and last thing I want.

  After dumping my bag in the closet-sized bedroom, I call my best friend Anna back in Iowa. "I survived the first day." I rip open the welcome basket from the show and collapse on the couch.

  "Tell me all about it. Who are you with? Did you meet Candace Capri? Is it awesome?" She squeals out her questions with rapid-fire speed.

  "I was paired with . . ." I pause for effect. "Dominic Yardley."

  "No flippin' way!"

  "It's true. I have no idea why."

  "I figured they'd give you some new guy with a thick accent and greased back hair, not the most successful guy on the show."

  I bite into a chocolate and something strong, tasting like cheap booze, leaks onto my fingers. I run to the sink, spit it out, and dump the chocolate in the trash.

  "Is he as awesome as he seems on TV?"

  I wipe my mouth with a dishtowel. "Well, he informed me that I would be falling in love with him, and that it would be one sided."

  There's momentary silence on the other end. I decide I need wine for this conversation.

  "That's odd and kind of mean," Anna says.

  "Tell me about it. He was pretty arrogant at first, and, oh my God, he is a perfectionist."

  "Maybe it's true what they say, that all famous people are egotistical jerks."

  "I'll keep you posted. " The idea of mingling with celebrities is thrilling and terrifying. I'm still pinching myself that I'm on this wild ride, but I hated my job and this was a perfect excuse to try something completely crazy.

  We talk for an hour about my packed schedule, the next two weeks, which are meticulously laid out in the pages of a binder, and Anna's mama drama as she plans her wedding.

  The next morning at 9 a.m., I meet Dominic at a nondescript building on the east side of L.A. There are only a couple of cars in the lot. Inside the rehearsal room, the camera guys are guzzling Starbucks. They nod hello, looking less than enthusiastic about a day of watching me learn how to point my toes and not trip over air, but I can’t wait to begin my first full day of rehearsals. I’m going to learn to dance.

  Not sure what shoes I'd need, I wore tennies along with yoga pants and a black and gold UI Hawkeyes T-shirt. Dominic looks great in jeans and a fitted T. His smile is easy. "It's so quiet." I say. "I thought this place would be packed."

  "The other teams are at the main studio. There isn't enough room for everyone, and since you came on so late, my space was bumped." He shrugs, but his eyes reveal irritation.

  "Sorry. I didn't realize I was being considered until a week ago." My girlfriends and I had an impromptu audition six months before at a popular college bar in Iowa City when the show held a nation-wide search for America's choice. We were tipsy and goofing around. None of us expected anything to come of it.

  "The producers were on the fence about having a non celebrity on the show, but when film star Mallory Becker dropped out, they decided to go ahead and have an unknown step in."

  I realize that Mallory would have been his partner. That explains his less than stellar attitude. "Sorry you got stuck with me."

  "Last minute changes happen all the time," he says tapping a message on his phone.

  Not sure how else to apologize for ruining his season, I glance around the room, waiting for him to finish. There are some folding chairs and a small table with a sound system. One wall is windows overlooking the parking lot, the other wall is covered with mirrors. Otherwise, the room is bare.

  Dominic finally tosses his phone into his bag. "All right. Our first dance is a samba. We're going to start basic moves, building off some of the things you learned yesterday."

  I yank my ponytail tighter and wipe my sweaty palms on my shirt, hoping he won't notice. He instructs me on proper posture. Head up, shoulders back, frame tight, extend the leg.

  We can't have been at it more than thirty minutes before I'm breathless and sweaty. The moves are simple, but we go over them dozens of times until he's satisfied they're perfect.

  "I didn't realize how out of shape I am." Why couldn't I be one of those people who love a daily run, or don't feel complete without a trip to the gym twice a week?

  Dominic is breathing normal, without a bead of sweat on his brow. "And we haven't really gotten started yet. Just wait, by premiere night, you'll be much stronger." He drills me more on what we've learned. "Strong arms, eyes here, hips tucked, point your toes, and for Pete's sake, smile."

  Each day is the same, except the steps are more difficult and his attention to detail more strict. Dominic can be pretty gruff and my body is taking a beating. Still, it's a blast and I can't believe I'm here. It's a far cry from living out of my grandpa's car four years ago.

  During my downtime, I search online for details about the other
contestants while soaking my aching, blistered feet in Epsom salts, because that's the solution I found on Google. A few contestants I've never heard of, but they all have an impressive resume packed with experience on film & screen, the Billboard Top 100, or winning scoreboards.

  Most of the women are polished to perfection with blinding smiles, flawless skin, and lush figures. The men have hollowed cheeks, chiseled jaws, and muscled bodies. Some have suffered multiple divorces, career flops, or rehab visits, hence, their willingness to rebuild their image on Celebrity Dance Off. The more I read, the more I realize the chances of me succeeding on this show are slimmer than a mouse surviving in a tank of hungry pythons.

  Performance day dawns to a smoggy sky and my jumpy stomach churns with excitement and too much coffee. Following my highly-detailed schedule, I arrive at the sound stage at 7 a.m. I'm about to rub shoulders with the rich and famous. If only Mom could see me now. I glance at the sky above and smile.

  A young guy with a clipboard and radio directs me to my trailer, but I get lost and have to go back for help. He walks me to the end of trailer city, which looks like a traffic jam of little white boxes. I'm in the furthest row from the sound stage and begin to sense a pattern to my status on the show. But it's fine. I'm lucky to be here at all.

  Inside is a clean little space with a built-in beige couch, a small table, and a mini fridge. Nothing fancy, but it's private and quiet, and I soon learn a great place to hide.

  Consulting my map, I venture off to find the makeup trailer in this maze of boxes. There are a few people meandering, but no one I recognize and no Dominic. The trailer ends up being close to the studio. Do I knock or barge right in? I'm not sure of the protocol and wish that guy with the clipboard would have stayed with me.

  Cracking the door, I peek inside. There are six makeup chairs facing lighted mirrors and several women organizing masses of bottles, tubes and makeup brushes. A middle-aged woman spots me.

  "Come on in."

  I step gingerly into the small space.

  "You must be Chelsea," she says going back to her task.

  "How did you know?"

  "You're early," she adds with a quick smile. "I'm Bev."

  "Sorry, I can come back." I make a move for the door.

  "Nonsense. Today's going to be chaos. It'll get better as the season goes on and people are cut." She waves at the far chair. "Have a seat and Mary Kay will take care of you."

  I nod and smile at a short gal with long red hair and freckled skin. She looks barely out of high school and smiles back, seeming a little uncertain of herself. As she works on my face, erasing all my imperfections and giving me dramatic eyes complete with false eyelashes, contoured cheeks, and pale glossy lips, I learn this is her first gig in the industry, that she last worked at the Macy's MAC cosmetics counter.

  "Sorry you drew the early call," she says as other girls straggle in, all young, reed thin, and gorgeous. I hope to spot Candace Capri, the famous singer, but it turns out these girls are in the dance troupe and a tight knit group as they giggle, gossip, and gulp their lattes.

  Bev checks Mary Kay's work, suggests a few tweaks, and I'm pronounced ready, then off to the hair trailer for more of the same.

  After an hour and a half of pulling, curling, and teasing, I leave looking glamorous, like I might actually fit in on stage. But now I stand out next to the various crew milling around in jeans and t-shirts all on their way somewhere important.

  I explore and start noticing the other pros and stars. It's easy to pick them out as they're beautiful specimens of humanity, or more likely because they all have a tiny dog or an entourage of yes people. There's no sign of Dominic.

  No one seems to know who I am, and I don't want to barge up to a music legend and introduce myself while her groupies stare down their noses at me. So I sidestep by and eventually discover the Craft Service table. I gaze over the chafing pans of eggs, bacon and fried potatoes, to gorgeous platters of strawberries, mango, and pineapple. There are candy bars, coffee, tea, juices, bottled water, yogurt and oatmeal with all the toppings.

  My stomach rumbles, so I take a plate and get behind an old fellow with gray hair and slouched shoulders. He piles his plate high, tucking a bottle of orange juice under one arm and holding coffee with another. Just as he turns to leave, a young production assistant, I can tell by the walkie-talkie and panicked expression on his face, bumps right into the old guy, sending the coffee flying. I reach out and save his plate with my free hand.

  "I'm so sorry," the headset-wearing rookie glances around to see if anyone important witnessed his gaff.

  "Aw, that's all right. I've had too much coffee today anyway. Get on to wherever you're late for." He turns to me and I offer him back his plate. "That was a mighty good save, you play ball?" He grins through wizened old eyes and a web of crow's feet.

  "No, I just hate to see good hash browns go to waste."

  He admires the large mound on my own plate. "You must be the mystery girl, Chelsea."

  It dawns on me that he's the oldest contestant on the show, a country singer from well before my time. "Yes, and you're Hank Curdy. My grandpa died listening to your music."

  Hank raises a bushy gray eyebrow.

  "Oh my God. That sounded horrible. I meant we played your music so he could die."

  He stares at me, either offended or trying not to laugh, I'm not sure.

  "Shit. I'm sorry. He loved your music. It was comforting to him." I hope I haven't just alienated myself in front of this legendary figure.

  He chuckles, causing his ample belly to jiggle. "Nonsense. I was once told my music drove a woman to attempt murder on her husband." He pops a crispy chunk of hash brown in his mouth. "So where've they been hiding you? I've been to that damned studio five days a week for three weeks now and all I've met are Botox, boobs and brawn."

  I laugh. "I'm none of that. Dominic and I are at an annex. Probably because I'm so bad he's embarrassed for anyone to see."

  "Nonsense. A pretty thing like you, I don't believe it."

  "Can I get you a new coffee?"

  "Nah, I'm so jittery I'll never be able to pull myself together to do this damn thing. Maybe I'll start on the bourbon instead. That ought to calm me enough to prevent a coronary on national TV."

  "You're nervous?" He seems like the kind of guy who can't be rattled, unlike me, who over thinks everything.

  "Hell, yes. Prancing around a stage in sequined boots is the last thing a man my age should be doing, but we all have our reasons for putting ourselves through this public humiliation." He eyes me curiously, probably wondering what my story is.

  "I don't know why I agreed to do this except maybe to shake up my life. Now if you'll excuse me. I'm off to my trailer to stuff myself and probably throw up because I'm so nervous."

  Hank gives me the side-eye.

  "No! That's not what I meant. I'm just so nervous, I don't know if food will stay down. You must think I'm terrible.”

  Hank chuckles and pats my shoulder. "You, my dear, will be just fine. You're too normal not to be."

  There's a kindness to his voice, so I know it's not a put down. "I'll catch you later at that blasted dress rehearsal where I'll be trussed up like there was a sequin factory explosion at a country hoe down."

  When it's my turn at dress rehearsal in the gleaming ballroom, Dominic snaps, "Chelsea. Focus."

  I am, just on everything except him. The house band in the corner eyes me curiously, and there are numerous cameras aimed at us from every direction. Other dancers watch from the safety of the cheap seats as they size up the competition.

  He takes me by the shoulders and leans close. "Get your head in the game. We have one shot at dress rehearsal. Do you want to embarrass yourself?"

  I shake my head, trying to focus on his steady voice and steely eyes.

  "Good. Now take a breath and follow my lead."

  The lights glare brightly, the sound of the band drowns out all thought. Our cue hits and Dominic pushes me t
hrough the number, feeding me each move as we get to it. My legs are stiff and uncoordinated and my brain has turned to mush. The music ends, and I've blow the entire number.

  Horrified, I turn to him. "I am so sorry. My mind went blank."

  He can't hide his grimace. "Don't worry about it. It's dress rehearsal." He leads me to the judges' table where three production assistants make random comments so the dress rehearsal will time out the same as the live show tonight. I'm such an idiot. Why did I think I could do this?

  Minutes later we're backstage surrounded by glamorous dancers who look confident and avoid my eye contact. I don't know these people yet, but I'm pretty sure they know exactly who I am—the girl, famous for nothing, who stumbled through her number. My hands start to shake and go clammy. I see the EXIT door and bolt into the bright light of day.

  "Chelsea." Dominic catches up and steps in front of me. "Don't panic."

  "I can't do this." I wring my hands. Taking chances is not what I do. I'm a survivalist. I play life safe.

  "Yes you can," he says.

  "I need to go." I search for the direction of my trailer, but I'm surrounded by a sea of little white boxes.

  A PA appears around the corner and throws up his hands in frustration when he spots us. "We need you guys set!"

  Dominic waves him off and steers me further into the maze of trailers. "We're going to walk this off. Take a breath before we return for the final line up."

  "I can't go back in there. I made a fool of myself." I stop, but he pulls me along to keep me moving.

  "No, you didn't. I've been throwing a lot of moves at you. I've been pretty harsh and you didn't deserve it. I take responsibility."

  But his words glaze over me as I try to think of ways to get out of the show, like faking an appendicitis or running into traffic. At the end of the row, he guides me back toward the studio.

  "As soon as dress rehearsal is over, we'll find a quiet spot and mark through the number. You've done it a hundred times in the past two weeks."