Deep Dish (14 page)

A
s soon as Scott was gone, Gina jumped up and hurried to the vending machine in the staff lounge. She fed the machine eight quarters, and it fed her a stale pimento cheese sandwich.

Her last three quarters went to another Diet Coke. On a normal night, she would have sought privacy in her office. But Scott had swiped her last soda. Besides, everybody was gone for the night. She had the place to herself. She sank down into the chair she’d just abandoned and ripped into the sandwich wrapper.

But wait. The stinkin’ satin blouse with the drippy sleeves. She’d somehow managed not to splash anything on it during the taping, but she wasn’t going to tempt fate by eating a sandwich while wearing a $560 blouse. It would probably cost twenty-five bucks to have the thing dry-cleaned. She was wearing a perfectly modest beige satin camisole underneath, so she unbuttoned the blouse, took it off, and draped it carefully over the chair back next to hers, enjoying the feeling of the air-conditioning on her bare shoulders.

Gina chewed happily, letting the saltiness of the processed cheese spread wash over her, an absolute balm for her jangled nerves, which she washed down with a hearty slug of caffeinated chemical-laden carbonated beverage.

She reached into her tote bag and brought out the next day’s script and her reading glasses. She perched the glasses on the end of her nose and began skimming her notes.

Before all the fuss about The Cooking Channel had erupted, and before her life had been ruined, she and Scott had planned a Valen
tine’s Day segment they were calling a Heart-Healthy Dinner for Lovers. The menu had sounded sexy when she’d concocted it: roast Chilean sea bass with a citrus salsa, cold poached asparagus, and an herb-crusted gallotine of new potatoes. She’d envisioned a dessert of crème caramel—made with reduced-cholesterol eggs, of course, with a garnish of fresh raspberries.

But now, as she chewed and sipped, the menu seemed to lack…something. Zip? Originality? She wanted this show, probably her last, to be the best she’d ever done.

Suddenly, she heard footsteps. Somebody was coming this way. Crap! She hoped it wasn’t Scott again. Or one of the crew kids. She was too darn tired to deal with their childish problems tonight. She was just crumpling the cellophane sandwich wrapper when Tate Moody strolled into the break room.

“Hey,” he said, clearly startled. “I thought everybody had gone home for the night.”

“Almost everybody,” Gina said.

He stood in front of the snack machine for a moment, studying the offerings, and finally made his selection. An apple.

Uninvited, he sat right down at her table and bit into the apple. He chewed and stared at her.

She blushed violently, realizing for the first time that she was basically sitting there in her underwear. But she was doggoned if she’d make a big deal out of it. Let him think the camisole was a tank top. It looked almost like one.

“Hey, Reggie,” he said, when he was finished chewing. “You always go topless around here late at night? Man, if I’d known that, I would have moved in months ago.”

“Don’t call me Reggie,” she said. “And I am not topless. I happen to be wearing a camisole.”

“What’s a camisole?” he asked, taking another bite of the apple. “Kinda like a bra?”

“Forget it,” she said, refusing to be baited by him. “I was just leaving.” She swept the script and the crumpled-up wrapper into her tote bag in one swift motion, but in her haste, several pages floated toward the floor.

“Don’t go on my account,” he said, bending over to retrieve the pages.

But instead of handing them over to her, he leaned back in his chair, took another bite of apple, and to her absolute horror, started reading aloud.

“Hmm,” he said. “A Heart-Healthy Dinner for Lovers.”

She held out her hand and snapped her fingers impatiently. “Give that to me.”

He grinned and pressed the script to his chest. “I would tell you to keep your shirt on, but it’s a little late for that, don’t you think?”

She grabbed her blouse from the back of the chair and began putting it on. But the left sleeve was turned inside out, and as she struggled to fix it, he stood up and, unasked, yanked her arm out of the sleeve and turned it right side out.

Gina recoiled at his touch, and, of course, he noticed.

“Relax, Reggie,” he drawled, sitting back down again. “If I was trying to undress you, I’d pick a better place to do it than here.”

“Butthead,” she said. Her fingers were shaking as she fastened the blouse’s tiny satin-covered buttons.

“Roast Chilean sea bass?” he said, resuming his reading. “With a citrus salsa? Are you for real? Is this what you and Scotty-Wotty consider sexy?”

In answer, she snatched the pages out of his hands.

But it seemed he’d read the whole menu and memorized it instantly.

“You know, of course, there’s no such thing as Chilean sea bass. It’s really just Patagonian toothfish. And poached asparagus? Reduced-cholesterol crème caramel? Sounds like hospital food if you ask me. Why not serve some red Jell-O and runny oatmeal while you’re at it?”

She knew he was deliberately baiting her. Knew she should ignore him and walk away. But the temptation was too great to resist.

“Just what would you consider an appropriate menu for Valentine’s Day?” she asked, trying to sound condescending. “Pickled pig’s feet washed down with a nice chilled six-pack of malt liquor?”

“Usually I start with oysters,” he said, taking another bite of his
apple and chewing slowly. “I ice ’em down good, and serve ’em on the half shell, with just a squeeze of lemon juice. You know what they say about oysters, right?”

“I’m aware that they are considered an aphrodisiac,” she said.

“Eat seafood, live longer,” Moody quoted. “Eat oysters, love longer. You might want to remember that, the next time you’re cooking for Scotty-Wotty.”

“You’re repulsive,” Gina said. “And I’m leaving.”

“So soon? And just when we were getting to know each another. But maybe it’s for the best. You really don’t like me, do you, Reggie?”

“I
asked
you not to call me that,” Gina said. “Anyway, I don’t like or dislike you. I don’t know you.”

He had to push it. “But if you did know me?”

She considered the question. “I like your dog.”

“We’re not talking about Moonpie,” he reminded her.

“Look,” she said, adjusting the shoulder strap of her tote. “We are very different people, you and I. That’s fine. My daddy says it takes all kinds to make this world go ’round. You just need to know one thing about me, Tate Moody, and we’ll get along famously. This cooking show of mine isn’t some hobby. It’s not some whim. This is my career here. I have a degree in home economics. I’ve been a food writer for a major metropolitan daily newspaper, I’ve taken classes at La Varenne and Le Cordon Bleu. I’ve been working toward this moment my whole life. I want this TCC show. Period. So you just stay out of my way, all right?”

Head held high, cheeks aflame with emotion, she started to walk out.

“Hey, Reggie.”

She whirled around.

Tate put down the apple, which he’d reduced to little more than a core. “I’ll stay out of your way. But since we’re getting all acquainted here, there’s something you need to know about me. You’re playin’ with the big boys now. This ain’t some high school popularity contest. I may not have your fancy chef’s credentials. I’m not sleeping with anybody important. But I am damned good at what I do. I want
this show just as much as you do. So don’t expect me to step aside, or bow out, or play by the girls’ rules. It’s winner-take-all, baby. And as
my
daddy always says, if you can’t run with the big dogs, stay on the porch.”

He gave her a dismissive nod, picked up the apple again, and casually tossed it toward the trash can six feet away. She heard rather than saw it hit its mark.

T
ate took the plastic hanger with the baby blue satin boxing trunks, opened the passenger-side window of Val’s Audi, and pitched them out onto the roadway. At a speed of sixty miles an hour, the trunks sailed away into the smoggy Georgia air. A truck behind them honked its horn in protest.

From his perch in the back of the car, Moonpie barked a flippant response.

Valerie Foster shook her head. “That’s littering, you know.”

“Fine with me,” Tate said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Those trunks had to be custom ordered from a company in Hackensack. And FedExed overnight.”

“Dock my pay,” he said.

“You pay me, remember? It’s your production company.”

“Okay. I’ll dock your pay. In fact, this whole idea is so bad, I may fire you.”

She took a long drag from her cigarette. He took it from her and threw that out the window too.

“You
are
in a mood today,” she observed. “Anything in particular bugging you?”

“We’re supposed to be taping shows,” he said. “We’re paying a crew just to sit around that studio while I get my nose powdered and my picture taken.”

“So. This doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’re getting your nose powdered and your picture taken with Regina Foxton?”

“Gina,” he said mockingly. “That’s what she likes to be called.”

“And you don’t like her,” Valerie said, glancing down at the clock on the dashboard. They were running late, and as usual, traffic on I-75 was bumper-to-bumper. She’d told that publicist, Deborah, that she’d have Tate and Moonpie at the boxing gym at ten o’clock. He’d thrown a fit when she’d told him about the plan. At first, he’d flatly refused to go. When she’d explained that the photo shoot was approved by Barry Adelman, he’d grudgingly allowed himself to be coaxed into her car for the drive down to the gym. Moonpie, once he’d been given a bacon-flavored chewie treat, had been loaded into the car without protest.

But when Val showed Tate the boxing trunks and explained the whole setup, his reaction had been less than enthusiastic. She’d love to have seen the look on some truck driver’s face when the blue satin trunks landed on his windshield, but she’d deliberately sped up and fled the scene after Tate’s little tantrum.

They’d have to come up with another idea for the photo shoot, and fast. It was a shame, really. The idea of staging a sparring match between Tate and Regina Foxton was, in her opinion, brilliant. Newspapers and magazines ate up that kind of stuff. And the best part of it was, the publicity would be free for Tate. But it would be useless to try and talk him into it now. She glanced over at him. He was in a filthy mood, all right.

He stared out the window and drummed his fingers on the Audi’s dashboard.

“She’s got a friggin’ degree in home economics. I didn’t even know you could get a degree in something like that anymore,” he said.

“You’re right,” Val said. “That’s appalling.”

Tate gave her a sour look. “We had a run-in last night. In the break room in the studio. The woman’s frightening, you know?”

“Regina Foxton? Are you kidding? She’s a cream puff.”

“No,” Tate insisted. “That’s all just a facade. I saw the real Regina Foxton last night, and I’m telling you, Val, the woman is a machine. She accused me of deliberately sabotaging her show, and then she basically told me to stay the hell out of her way. She’ll stop at nothing to get this TCC show. Last night, she showed me her true colors.”

“And which colors were those?” Val asked, jerking the Audi’s
steering wheel hard left and passing a red minivan full of uniformed Little Leaguers, who all had their faces pressed up against the van’s windows. “Beige and taupe?”

He ignored that. “You know what I find most unattractive about her?”

God, would this traffic ever thin out? Val wondered. They were officially thirty minutes late. Adelman and his people were going straight to the gym from the airport. And she was sure that Regina Foxton and her entourage had been there since dawn. That would leave her looking incompetent and unreliable. Not acceptable. She glanced in the rearview mirror to see if there were any law enforcement types in the vicinity. When she saw none, she bit her lip, jerked the Audi hard right into the middle lane, then right again, and finally onto the shoulder of the road. From here, she had a straight shot to the exit ramp less than a mile ahead. She floored it.

“Jesus, Val,” Tate said, bracing himself against the dashboard.

She smiled grimly, her mind churning up believable excuses about why the sparring-match photo wouldn’t work.

“What were you saying?” she asked. “Something about what you find so unattractive about the real Regina Foxton?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “She’s ruthless. I’ve never seen anything like it. Naked ambition, you know?”

“Very unattractive,” Val agreed.

G
ina looked at herself in the full-length mirror in the grubby women’s locker room at the Southside Boxing Club and winced. “I can’t do this,” she wailed.

“Sure you can,” Lisa said. She poured some vodka into the carton of orange juice she’d bought at the Starvin’ Marvin convenience store, swished it around, took a sip for herself, and handed it over to her sister. “Take a belt of that,” she said. “It’ll make you feel better.”

“The only thing that’s going to make me feel better is to wake up and find out that this whole morning has been nothing but a bizarre nightmare,” Gina said, but she took a gulp of the screwdriver, then two more gulps, and then another.

“I look like an idiot,” she said, for the tenth time that morning. When she’d arrived at the boxing club at nine o’clock, she’d been positive she’d driven to the wrong place. The address Deborah gave her turned out to be a nondescript prefab metal building in a warehouse district two miles from the Hartsfield-Jackson Airport. But moments after Lisa and Gina arrived, Deborah and Scott drove up in Scott’s car.

“Wait until you see your outfit,” Deborah had squealed, running over to Gina’s car and brandishing a pink plastic garment bag.

Now that she was dressed, she was sure she was in a nightmare.

The white satin tank top had “
GINA
” emblazoned in six-inch flowing script on the front and back. But the shorts were worse. Much worse. Hot pink satin, and instead of baggy ones, like you saw on boxers on television, these appeared to be two sizes too tight.

“Whoa,” Lisa said when she’d seen how they fit. “Crotch cutters. Are you sure you don’t have them on backward?”

“I’m positive,” Gina said, near tears.

“Put the robe on,” Lisa urged. “At least it’s the right size.”

The hot pink satin robe was barely thigh-length. And it had “
KID

FOXTON
” embroidered across the back.

“Gina? Let me see how you look,” Deborah said, sweeping into the locker room. “Oh!” she exclaimed, clapping her hands. “It’s just right!”

“It’s too tight,” Gina said, taking another sip of the screwdriver for courage. “And too short. I’m not having my picture taken in this rig.”

“But sweetie, it’s all set,” Deborah said. “Joel’s in the ring setting up his lights and cameras, and Mr. Adelman’s assistant just called from the limo. Their plane landed, and they should be here any minute.” She looked at her watch. “Val Foster called too. She said they’re stuck in traffic, but she expects to be here shortly.”

Her gaze swept Gina up and down with practiced measure. “I think you look absolutely adorable. And once you get some makeup on, you’ll feel much better.”

“I’m wearing makeup,” Gina said. “D’John stopped by my condo this morning and did my hair and makeup.”

“Oh,” Deborah said, tilting her head. “Of course! You go for that natural look, don’t you?”

Behind Deborah’s back, Lisa bared her teeth and made clawing motions with both hands.

Before Gina could repeat her objections, there was a knock on the dressing room door. “Gina, are you about ready?” Scott asked. “The photographer wants you to come on out so he can get some light readings on you.”

“One minute,” Gina called. She looked at Lisa. She looked at Deborah. And she looked in the mirror again. No amount of vodka would make her feel good about what she saw there.

She took a deep breath. “I’ll wear the robe,” she told Deborah finally. “But I’m not taking it off.”

“But—”

“Not under any circumstances,” Gina said, her voice steely. “Do we understand each other?”

“Fine,” Deborah said with a nonchalant shrug. “As long as you understand that I can’t guarantee any of the big newspapers or magazines will be interested in using these photos. The whole concept of the boxing match—the fight between you and Tate Moody—depends on costuming and the set.”

“I get that,” Gina said.

“Mr. Adelman loved the idea,” Deborah said, turning to walk out of the dressing room. “I’m sure he’ll be disappointed that you’ve decided not to fully cooperate.”

T
he Audi’s tires kicked up a dust storm of gravel as it made the turn into the Southside Boxing Club parking lot on two tires. Val pulled into the parking space next to Gina Foxton’s Honda, which was parked next to a charcoal gray Mercedes, which was parked next to a black Chevy Blazer with a prestige tag that read “
JSTJOEL
,” which was parked next to a black Lincoln Town Car with smoked-glass windows.

“See,” Val said, gesturing at the row of cars. “Gina is here. Her people are here. The photographer’s here. The network people are here. Everybody’s here.”

“Fine,” Tate said, opening the door and unfolding himself from the front seat. “Now we’ve called roll. Can we get this thing over with? I’ve got a show to shoot.” He opened the Audi’s back door, and Moonpie hopped out, trotted over to the Honda, and promptly relieved himself on one of the rear tires.

“Good boy,” Tate said, patting the setter’s head. “Piss on all of ’em, right, Moonpie?”

Val shot him a backward glance as she sprinted toward the gym’s door.

Inside, she approached the knot of people standing around holding clipboards, cell phones, and BlackBerrys. “Barry!” she exclaimed, grasping both the producer’s hands in hers. “And Zeke,” she added, turning to the assistant, who today was inexplicably clad in head-
to-toe green camouflage. “So good to see you. Did you have a nice weekend?”

“Where’s our boy?” Adelman asked, giving Val a nodded greeting. He looked meaningfully at the thin gold watch on his wrist. “The photographer wants to get started with the shoot. And I’ve got a conference call to the coast in half an hour.”

“Oh,” she said airily, “Tate’s outside. With Moonpie. We got into heavy traffic, and then, wouldn’t you know it, Tate insisted we stop to get some water for the dog. So hot, today, you know. And setters sometimes get overheated.”

“Can’t have that,” Barry said. “Viewers are very sensitive to any hint of animal cruelty. That’s why we don’t ever show whole fish being prepared on any of our shows.”

“Or lobsters,” Zeke added. “People don’t seem to mind if we roast oysters, or steam clams. But they’re very sensitive to the rights of crustaceans.”

“Crustacean rights?”

Val turned. She hadn’t seen Tate walk up with Moonpie at his heels.

She laughed nervously. “Barry was just saying that TCC steers away from any scenes that might be construed as animal cruelty.”

“Seriously?” Tate asked, looking from Adelman to Zeke.

“Absolutely,” Barry said. “Wendy and I are on the board of Save the Seas, you know. It’s one of our passions.”

“Wendy was chairman of the Party with a Porpoise Ball in May,” Zeke said. “Maybe you saw the photos in
Town and Country
?”

“Honorary chairman, actually,” Barry said.

“But we raised sixteen thousand, six hundred,” Zeke reminded his boss.

“Have you people ever actually seen my show?” Tate asked. “
Vittles
is about hunting and fishing.”

“Oh, not really,” Val said quickly. “I mean, yes, technically, in a sense there is
some
limited talk about hunting, but really,
Vittles
is about the human connection to the great outdoors. It’s about Tate’s commitment to conservation, and his vision for seasonal, heritage-type cuisine.”

“I kill things,” Tate said flatly. “And then I cook ’em. Moonpie
helps. He’ll eat a live shellcracker if you don’t watch him good. That’s what my show’s about.”

Zeke’s face paled. Val fixed Tate with a laser stare.

“People?” The photographer was standing in the boxing ring, his neck strung with heavy cameras. “So sorry to interrupt, but can we get Mr. Moody into his wardrobe? And see about his makeup? I’m losing the light here, people.”

“Tate?” Val said it pleadingly.

“Ready when you are,” Tate said, walking toward the ring. He turned and gave a sharp whistle. “Come on, Moonpie. Showtime.”

G
ina squared her shoulders. “I am a network star,” she told herself. “I am a network star. I am a network star.” She knotted the belt to the satin robe, opened the door, and, head held high, glided out.

The first thing she saw was Tate Moody. He and the dog were in the middle of the boxing ring. Moody was glaring at the photographer, who was glaring right back. The dog was sitting on his haunches, ears back, teeth bared. Deborah Chen and Valerie Foster were fluttering ineffectively around the two men. Scott and the men from the network were outside the ring, each talking on a cell phone while holding a BlackBerry.

Tate Moody was not dressed in a satin robe, and he was certainly not wearing any baby blue satin boxing trunks, as Deborah had promised. In fact, he was wearing pretty much what he wore every time she saw him around the Morningstar Studios, which consisted of a pair of faded blue jeans and a golf shirt.

“Hey,” she said sharply, climbing under the ropes and into the ring. “What’s the big idea?”

Moody’s head swiveled around. All the others simply stared at her.

“You see?” the photographer said, gesturing toward Gina. “This is how you were supposed to dress. Your producer agreed.”

The photographer stopped glaring at Tate long enough to smile at Gina. “Just Joel,” he said, offering his hand and flashing dimples under both eyes, which were a bright blue, with unnaturally long, doelike black lashes.

“Gina Foxton,” she said. “I thought—”

“Nice outfit, Reggie,” Tate drawled. “Did you forget the pants?”

Now Scott Zaleski was climbing inside the ring.

“Now, wait just a minute,” he said. “Our understanding was that both Tate and Gina would be dressed in boxing gear for this shoot. Our publicist has pitched this story to the entertainment weeklies this way.” He lowered his voice a little. “That’s what we told the TCC folks we were doing. That’s why they flew all the way down here today.”

“Our understanding?” Tate leaned back a little, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. “I don’t know who cooked up this whole deal, but I never agreed to anything except having my picture taken.”

“Uh, Tate,” said Valerie Foster, tapping him on the shoulder. “Actually…”

“It’s supposed to be a boxing match.” Now Deborah had jumped into the fray. “Why is this such a difficult concept for you people? That’s why we’re in a gym today. That’s why we rented a boxing ring. And why both of you were supposed to be wearing satin boxing trunks. Pink for you,” she said, nodding at Gina. “And blue for you,” she said, turning her winning gaze toward Tate Moody. “Now, be a good sport and get dressed, please?”

“Nope,” Tate said. “I didn’t get any memo about playing dress-up. Wouldn’t have agreed to it if I had. Now, I don’t mind having my picture made. I don’t even mind having it made with Reggie, here. You all can pitch it any way you want.” He looked from Deborah, to Just Joel, to Scott, and then, last, to Gina.

“All right with you?” he asked pleasantly.

“Fine with me,” Gina said.

She wanted to leap into the air and offer Tate Moody a high five. Instead, she fled into the bathroom to change into her own clothes.