Page 4 of Sway

Marina gathers up my luggage and stands obediently by the door.

“We’re off like prawns in the sun,” Benny says. I kiss Cha-Cha, my rescue pug mix, goodbye and head out the door. Marina loads my bags into the Jag as I settle in. Benny slides into the driver’s seat, waits for Marina to climb in the back, and then revs the engine.

“Venyochka, do you think I’m going to win tonight?” I gently caress his thigh.

“Of course, Lassie, that’s surer than a bum in a bucket. My girl is the best. And you are dancing with m’boy Jared. You two are the good oil.”

Good oil? That’s a new one. Half the time I have no idea what he is saying. His Australian slang is too much for my limited English. “Salomé and Ricardo can’t beat us, no?”

Benny floors the Jag. “Not unless the Sahara freezes over, and the camels come home with skates on,” he replies. He’s right. My husband, his ex-wife, my stepdaughter and her husband and his parents are six of the eleven judges on the panel—and the other five are all close business associates of Benny. We’re a shoe-in. My family has a vested interest in maintaining our monopoly of the ballroom industry. This sort of nepotism keeps Dancesport out of the Olympics. Nepotism and the fact that not one of the couples competing for tonight’s United States National title are both actually American citizens.

The valet takes our car and we make our grand entrance. Before Dancing under the Stars was on television, competitions were low-key events relegated to the ballrooms of hotels. These days, if one of the dancers on the show is competing, then a red carpet is rolled out and TMZ cameras are in our faces. I sign a few autographs and take a couple of pictures with Benny and then we head inside the lobby. After waltzing through the luxurious lounge, we head over to the cramped vendor room and make our way through the maze of stage jewelry, ballroom shoe peddlers, photographers, and costume designers. Once inside the ballroom, we do our rounds and kiss up to the judges in the house.

Nicole and Eric run over to us, cradling their infant daughter.

“Hi, Daddy. Hi, Vika. Are you excited about tonight?” My stepdaughter’s smile seems totally sincere. I think she genuinely likes me, despite the fact that I am ten years younger than her. Maybe she should go into acting? Dancing wasn’t her gift. She and Eric used to dance this pathetic show dance when they were still competing in Latin. She wore a sequined American Flag and Eric wore red pants and a blue and white shirt. They danced rumba to an acapella version of “The Star Spangled Banner.” Who dances a rumba without music? I was embarrassed to be related to her, even if it is only through marriage. They could never cut it in the International Latin so in order to win a title they competed in American Smooth, which suited Eric’s cheesy “game show host” vibe perfectly.

I put on an even better smile. “Privet, Nikita. I’m thrilled. Thanks for covering Dancing under the Stars charity event this week for me.” I should win an Academy Award next.

“No worries.” Nicole hands Eric their baby, Rebecca. The creature has drool on its cheek. Why anyone would want one of those is beyond me.

Benny coos at the baby. Thank God he is done having kids. Nicole still hasn’t lost the ten pounds of baby weight, and her formerly shiny fire engine red locks are now frizzy and sport long dark roots—a cardinal sin in the ballroom world. I can’t believe the Dancing under the Stars producers cast her again this season. I guess they thought America would like to see a “normal woman” as one of the professionals. She’s just a shadow of the former champion she once was.

“Okay, hon, let’s go get you ready.” Nicole grabs my arm and dutifully guides me to the ladies dressing room. Marina follows, carrying my costumes and makeup.

“Salomé, hold still!” Jenny Ming’s voice rings out as we walk through the door. That woman couldn’t whisper if her life depended on it.

Jenny, Salomé, and Diana Young are in front of a single-mirrored makeup table. The room is smaller than my closet, but then again, my closet is bigger than most apartments.

Diana looks up and spots us in the mirror. “Uh-oh, girls, look who’s here.”

Jenny stops fussing with Salomé’s dress straps. “Well, lookie here. Tell me, Vika, how did you come up with your cha-cha?” she says in perfect Russian. She studied it at Harvard because she thought it would help her dancing career. So much for that theory.

“It was beautiful, wasn’t it?” I say. Salomé stops spreading her Sun Shimmer and narrows her eyes at me. I meet her stare dead-on. “I had so much fun at Emmys. Too bad you ladies weren’t invited.”

“Don’t you mean the Emmys?” Jenny says, making fun of my English. Bitch.

“I guess my invitation got lost in the mail,” Salomé says. “The producers must’ve gotten confused and wrote down your name instead. Since it was my cha-cha.”

“Okay, ladies,” Nicole blurts, stepping between us. “That’s enough. All cha-chas have similar steps, no? Let’s drop it, for me,” Nicole pleads. Ahh, the benefits of having a stepdaughter who is the nicest dancer in the industry.

Salomé’s lips go tight and white. She squirts more Sun Shimmer into her palm. “Sorry, Nicole.”

Even Salomé isn’t stupid enough to bitch at me in front of one of the judges. Jenny murmurs something to Diana, who laughs as she sews a loose rhinestone onto Salomé’s dress.

Nicole frantically starts gluing crystals above my eyebrows. Marina brushes the soles of my shoes. Schmoozing with the judges cost me precious preening time. I shove my hair into my sequined headband. At least ten other dancers are in various stages of undress. One nameless dancer is curling her hair; another is being sewn into her costume. I feel sorry for them. They’ve spent thousands of dollars to compete and endless hours practicing their routines and they won’t even place. That was the story of my life until I married Benny.

The door flies open, startling all of us. I nearly faint at the familiar rancid smell of yesterday’s stroganoff and Drakkar Noir Cologne.

“Lovely, the rest of the Russian Mafia is here,” Jenny mutters to Diana.

Marina buries her head in my bag, looking for God knows what. Salomé’s ex, Genya, his gorgeous Polish partner Iza, and their six-person entourage take over the dressing room. Three men dressed in identical black Armani suits chat simultaneously on their cell phones, clearly oblivious to the fact that this is the ladies dressing room. Not that anyone will say anything. Their booming voices put Jenny’s shrieks to shame. Genya’s mother Irina and two pre-pubescent Russian dancers start spreading Iza’s costumes in the cramped right corner of the room. Iza strips down buck-ass naked except for her dance heels.

I go to her and kiss both of her cheeks. “Dzien dobry, Iza,” I say in my best Polish. I try not to stare at her perfect non-surgically enhanced body.

“Privet, Vika, good luck for you tonight,” she answers me in Russian. We dancers from the Eastern bloc dominate this sport and understand each other. She binds her long black hair into a knotted ponytail on the top of her head, like an Arabian princess. Iza is my closest friend on the circuit, though it’s hard for her to be around me sometimes because I always place higher than her. We have so much in common—we both came from Eastern Europe in our teens to dance and are at the complete mercy of our partners’ families. I don’t know what I’d do if she wasn’t on Dancing under the Stars with me.

“Iza, sidyat!” Irina grabs still naked Iza by her hair and shoves her into a chair to finish her makeup as her ladies-in-waiting start fussing with her nails and her jewelry. Genya drops his pants, revealing his black bikini brief. He slips his leotard-like manty over his hairy chest. His gold, diamond-laden Star of David necklace gets lost in the forest surrounding it. I catch Salomé staring at Genya. Yup, she is still in love with him.