Tales from the Yoga Studio (19 page)

“I guess I hadn't thought about it much, to be honest.”

“Oh, now you're trying to discourage me, but I think he's
right
. We could have people put those mats out on the side porch in summer. And he thinks the barn could be converted into a big yoga studio or whatever for under a hundred thousand. We'll have to get another mortgage to put in extra bathrooms, anyway.”

“I thought Bob was feeling pinched during the recession.” Bob was an ineffectual man who retired from the insurance business at exactly the wrong moment. Lee had been hoping that he had invested at least some of his portfolio wisely and had a good portion of it locked away.

“When you decided to go into this yoga business, Lee, I didn't discourage you.”

True, assuming you don't consider “Yoga is a freak thing. You'd be better off joining the circus” discouraging.

“Honestly, Mom, if you've thought it through and you really think it would be a good idea, then I'm behind you, one hundred percent.”

“That's all I wanted to hear, honey. All I want is your support. I don't want or need or expect anything else but that. Oh, one more thing: Laurence wants to do a little benefit weekend here to get things off the ground and help raise some money for the blocks and belts or straps or whatever it is. And he asked me if you and Alan could help him launch it. It would be such a huge, huge boost to us if you did—a big yoga instructor and her rock star husband from Hollywood. We could use the names of some of the celebrities you teach. Who's going to know if it isn't true? It would be incredible. He tried to get that Asian one with the long hair? I forget his name, but he wanted to be
paid
! Can you believe it? The whole point is it's a
benefit
. And he wanted us to pay for his plane ticket! Even after I told his ‘agent' he could have our bedroom and we'd sleep in the guest room. I told him I'd make him breakfast, too.”

“I'll think it over, Mom, but to be honest, now isn't the best time.”

“I know I'm completely insignificant in your lives, honey, but I helped you out when you needed money. You'll be coming east to visit us anyway, no?”

“I've been meaning to talk with you about that.” She had hoped Alan would be back home before it ever became necessary to discuss any of this with her mother.

“Is something wrong?” Ellen asks. “It's not the twins, is it? I know you don't believe me, but I have a sixth sense about these things.”

“It's not about the twins, Mom. They're fine.”

“Thank God. I knew it couldn't be. I would have had an intuition.”

But Lee still can't bring herself to mention it, so she tells her mother that she's been given a very nice offer to work at a big yoga studio, health benefits and all, and she probably shouldn't leave L.A. for a while.

“In other words, you're saying my little retreat center is too rinky-dink for you now. Well, I never pretended it was a big deal like
your
life. Give me credit for
something
, Lee.”

“Please don't, Mom. It isn't that. It's just . . . Alan temporarily moved out, Mom.”

There is a long moment of silence from the other end of the phone, and then, in a different tone of voice, one full of warmth and the kind of compassion that Lee knows—has always known—her mother to be capable of: “I'm so, so sorry, honey.” It's almost as if the petulant, insecure child she was talking to a few minutes ago passed the phone to an adult. “What happened?”

Lee tells her a version of the story that almost makes sense to her as she's saying it. She emphasizes that no one's planning any drastic moves for the moment, but everything's a little complicated now. It's not as if they're breaking up, it's just a little breather. Her mother sobs audibly. She mumbles something about the twins, and Lee is happy that she's told her, and, in this moment of shared sadness, she feels closer to her mother than she's felt in a long time.

Ellen blows her nose. “I'm so happy you felt you could tell me, honey. It makes me feel so much closer to you. So . . . maybe Alan would come play at the benefit alone while you take care of the kids out there.”

S
tephanie is nursing her second Diet Coke and finishing her pitch of
Above the Las Vegas Sands
to Sybille Brent. Sybille appears to be listening in a vague, wine-soaked way, sprawled back into the cushions of a banquette in the Sky Bar at the Mondrian Hotel, her very thin legs wound together tightly. It's nearly dusk, and from where she's sitting, Stephanie can see miles of Los Angeles down below, bathed in the faint golds and yellows of twilight, the sickly hues of the unhealthy air pretty, soft, and languid. Like something from a fever dream, which is how the sprawling, overstuffed city often looks to Stephanie at this aching in-between time of day. Stephanie can't decide if Sybille's little nods and eye-widening gestures in reaction to what she's saying represent genuine interest or condescending detachment. The bar is one big outdoor room, and a cool but pleasant breeze blows through the bougainvillea and Sybille's soft white hair moves slightly.

Stephanie's manager set up the meeting. Sybille, a woman of a certain age—although no one's certain what age that is—recently made a vast fortune in a spectacularly ugly divorce from her husband, a high-profile real estate developer in New York. She's spending a few months at the Mondrian to get away from New York, and she's looking for projects to invest in. At one time, she apparently had acting ambitions, and this is a way to connect with the business later in life without looking ridiculous. It would give her something to do, a hand in movies, and a screen credit her friends can applaud at the premiere.

It's a fairly common way to raise money for a project, but it's not the easiest way. In some respects, it cheapens the project—everyone knows this is no one's first choice for funding—and usually these folks expect something in return—a role for a friend or a hand in the shooting. Over the past few weeks, Stephanie has had four such meetings with four such people, all pretty discouraging. No one has read the book; no one seems especially interested in the story. They all want to talk about casting (without really knowing the roles) and dropping the names of people they allegedly know or supposedly worked with or hope she knows. One guy even asked her if it could be shot in 3-D.

“I hadn't considered it,” she said.

All the mutual pretending makes her feel a little crazy at times, although certainly less crazy than she was before the shameful intervention at her apartment. And since nothing else has worked out for Stephanie, it's worth a shot. Claiming she's raised a certain percentage of the budget will make it more likely for others to invest, and in any case, it beats lying around her apartment with a bunch of empty bottles and used kitty litter. But she's not going to go
there
right now.

“I like the way you describe the plot,” Sybille says.

“It's an amazing novel, and the author is incredibly talented.”

“I read the book last week, as soon as we had the meeting arranged. I found it interesting and passionate but overwritten in places. A young writer using language like a new toy and a little too in love with the sound of his own voice.”

“There's some of that,” Stephanie says. She's always felt this way, but it was never discussed in any of the reviews, so she's kept her reservations to herself. Stephanie is impressed that Sybille read the novel and that she's put her finger on a stylistic weakness. She has a velvety voice, a little smoky, like Lauren Bacall's, and one of those carefully trained and modulated ways of articulating every word.

“It sounds as if you read a lot,” Stephanie says.

“Yes, but don't tell anyone. It makes you look out of touch these days. I studied literature at Vassar, another piece of information I don't toss around since I look enough like a dilettante already. Your description of the book makes more sense to me structurally than the book itself,” Sybille goes on. “I like the way you emphasized the sister's wedding. I think that could be a frame for the whole piece. Set it up as the place the story is going, right from the first scene.”

When Stephanie mentioned this very idea to the author, he was insulted and refused to talk with Stephanie for two weeks. “I've always thought that's how it should be done, but the author didn't agree with me.” Stephanie finishes the Diet Coke, and a waiter materializes at her side and asks if she'd like another. “Please,” she says.

Sybille observes this over the rim of her wineglass, and Stephanie has the feeling she's attaching exactly the right significance to it. One of the worst things about
not
drinking is that everyone immediately assumes you're a drunk. A few weeks ago, she would have been on her third glass of wine by now, and Sybille wouldn't have batted an eye. But “I'll have a Diet Coke” is treated as if it's synonymous with “I'm an alcoholic.” Well, if the shoe fits. And after struggling with this escalating drinking problem for the past year, she's willing to admit that it does fit. As bad as it all was, the worst for her was realizing afterward that she had
Silver Linings
playing on the TV with the sound turned off. Oops, not going
there
, either!

Sybille has that sleek, carefully tended rich-lady hair and the figure of a one-time trophy wife. Someone named Anderson, a much younger man with beautiful eyes, occasionally appears and hands her a message or discreetly asks a question. Stephanie is guessing he's a gay assistant, but hasn't entirely ruled out the possibility that his duties include more than arranging her calendar. Sybille gives off an air of intelligence and genuine compassion, but there's also the aura of refined decadence that sometimes surrounds people with lots of money and equal amounts of free time. She's wearing a subtle, intoxicating perfume that isn't quite like anything Stephanie has ever smelled before. Probably made with the glands of an endangered animal and costs in the five-hundred-dollar-an-ounce range.

“Have you thought about writing the screenplay yourself? ” Sybille asks. “You have good ideas, and you'd have more control over the project. I think you have integrity.”

“The author wants to write it. Although I'm not sure that's working out very well. Promising him he could is how I got the option, and it's in his contract.”

“You could buy him out, I'm sure.”

No doubt she could, assuming she had the money. The Diet Coke arrives, and Stephanie can feel Sybille's eyes on her as she sips.

“You don't drink?” she asks.

“Not today,” she says. “I've been to a yoga class and might attend a second one later tonight.” Nothing untruthful in that.

“There's lots of that here, I'm told. Yoga. New York as well.”

“Everywhere these days.”

Sybille shrugs. “Everywhere” is not of great interest to her. Her sleek, aging body indicates pretty clearly that she works with a private trainer, probably at home. Pilates, no doubt.

“You know a lot about it?” Sybille asks. “Yoga?”

“I've been doing it for a while,” Stephanie says.

“Well, that is perfect. I'm interested in putting a yoga element into the script.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Your expertise would undoubtedly be useful.”

“To be honest,” Stephanie says, “I'm not sure how much I know about anything these days.”

Sybille leans forward, puts down her wineglass, and pats Stephanie's knee. “Sometimes you need to feel that way. I suspect you know more about a lot of things than you give yourself credit for.”

Stephanie is suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude and looks off into the sweet melancholy of the dusk, the fading sunlight, the twinkling buildings. What was it Dorothy Parker said? If you can make it through the twilight, you can make it through the night? Something like that. Well, she's almost made it through the twilight of one more day. Three cheers.

“I like you,” Sybille says. “You have smarts and courage. Vulnerability, which always helps balance things out. I watched
Silver Linings.
Anderson told me you're rumored to have done a lot of the writing on it.”

“The screenwriter had a breakdown during rewrites, and I took over.” It's a relief to finally admit this to someone since, for years, she's been protecting the writer's interests.

“Let's be blunt with each other, shall we? I want a project, and I like the sounds of this one. I like you. I feel I can push you a little bit, although I count on you to call me on it if I go overboard. Basically, I don't know much about the business, but I'm ready to start writing checks.”