“Look, why don’t you plan to join Andrew and me at our October meeting? That way you can see how this comes together from the ground up,” I say briskly. “Meantime, call me when you get back next week and let’s get together then.” Before Patrice can say anything more, I hang up and punch up Oscar.

  “Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to get back to you about the wedding,” I say, heading right for professional collegiality and intending to stay there. “Any feedback yet?”

  “Alex, Alex, Alex, why are you avoiding me?” he says in an exaggeratedly aggrieved voice.

  “I’m not avoiding you. I spent most of yesterday with you,” I blurt out without thinking. Shit. This is exactly where I did not want to go.

  “Yeah, and then you just disappeared. Like your mother had died or something.”

  “I did not ‘disappear,’” I say, trying to back out of this hole and managing only to dig myself in deeper. “We both left. The Dodgers were losing, you had somewhere to be and so did I. End of discussion.”

  “End of discussion? When did you get to be so Robert’s Rules of Order?”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Caitlin stick her head in the door. “Look, I’ve still got calls to return here, so let’s touch base about the wedding when one of us hears from them,” I say, looking up as Caitlin hands me a note saying that the screening has just been canceled, some problem with the print or something. “Besides, I’ve a screening to get to tonight, so let’s talk later in the week and I’ll fill you in on C’s Christmas party. Patrice is already on my case about it, and it’s not even October.”

  “Fine, play it that way,” Oscar says, and I can’t tell if he’s actually annoyed or just cutting his losses. “I still say you’re avoiding me. Call me when you can.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I say, clicking off. I’m about to punch up the next call when I realize Caitlin is still standing by my desk.

  “What?” I say, looking at her.

  “Nothing,” she says with a small smile, turning for the door. “Nothing at all.”

  8

  On Second Thought, That Actually Hurts

  It takes us another thirty minutes or so to finish all the calls.

  “Okay, I’m leaving unless there’s something else,” Caitlin says, sticking her head in the door.

  “No, fine, go ahead,” I say, deep into returning e-mails now. Without the screening, I can really clear my desk tonight. Maybe even pick up my dry cleaning and swing by Whole Foods and get real food for a change. Actually spend an evening at home.

  I’m just dispatching the last of the e-mails when one from Charles flashes on the screen, marked NYC. What? Where is he that he’s e-mailing instead of calling me? Especially since we haven’t spoken all day. Must be from his BlackBerry. I click it open.

  In a late screening, will call u later, but spoke to PF. U need to be in New York next week. :) C

  It takes me less than a second to put this together. That bitch. Patrice must have called Charles right after she and I spoke, not thirty minutes ago. I cannot believe that she went around me to him. Again. And worse, that he bought her song and dance. Shit. I reach for the phone and punch up Charles’s cell. Of course, I get his voice mail. I hang up without leaving a message and call his BlackBerry. Same thing. Damn it. Now what? I hate getting bad news, and I especially hate it when I have to wait to get the bad news straightened out. Still, this is going to require some finesse on my part. Obviously I can stick with my plan and not go to New York next week, but that means Charles will run the first meeting on the party with Andrew and Patrice while I’ll wind up even more sidelined — and behind the eight ball — than I am now.

  On the other hand, if I go, I have to rearrange my whole schedule, rush to put something down on paper about this blasted party before we even have it figured out. Worst of all, it means I’ll have totally caved in to Patrice — and she’ll know it — which is absolutely what I do not, should not, do. Completely sends the wrong signal and opens a whole can of worms with her thinking we jump to her every move. Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I check my watch. Just about 7:00. What screening is going on at 10:00 P.M. in New York? And how can he have spoken to Patrice just a half hour ago and be incommunicado now? Wait, unless Patrice actually called him a couple hours ago, arranged the whole meeting in New York with him, and then called me and played all innocent. The more I think about it, the more that makes sense. Great. Maybe there’s a reason Patrice has climbed to the top of the food chain at C, not that there’s all that much food per se involved at a fashion magazine. Maybe she’s more of a handful than I bargained for.

  I stare out my window. Just after 7:00 P.M. and it’s still searingly bright — and probably still 100 degrees outside — but the roar of the rush-hour traffic on Wilshire is plainly audible. Well, I can either sit here like an idiot and wait for Charles to get out of whatever screening he’s in and call me so we can spend the rest of the night arguing about it, or I can leave, do my errands, go home, and we can argue there. Suddenly the idea of dry cleaning, grocery shopping, followed by arguing with Charles in the midst of my house filled with all the painters’ stuff is too mind-numbing to contemplate. Besides, it’s way too passive.

  I turn back to the computer and type my reply.

  Heading out now. Let’s talk tomorrow. NYC could be tricky.

  I read it over a couple of times, delete it, and retype it.

  Spoke to PF earlier. NYC is fine, timing tough. Talk tomorrow, heading out to screening now.

  I read it again — much better, nonconfrontational and yet assertive — and press SEND. I scroll back up my e-mails to Maude’s weekly yoga update, click it open, and type my reply:

  Hey, screening canceled, see you in 30!!

  I’m halfway to the yoga institute in West Hollywood when I realize I have nothing to wear to class. I used to keep a bag of gym clothes in the car, back when I had a semblance of a regular workout schedule, but I quit hauling that around months ago when I realized it was just making me feel guilty. What now? The institute has a lost-and-found that always has T-shirts and shorts in it, although that’s kind of gross, even if they do wash them. Wait, I have my earthquake kit in the trunk, if I can remember what I shoved in there. A bottle of water. Aspirin. Band-Aids. Tampax. A roll of TP. An energy bar, I think, unless I dug that out and ate it one night after working some long food-free event. I did stick some clothing in there, although I can’t remember what exactly. Oh well, whatever it is, I’m wearing it. I only hope it wasn’t my old ripped leggings that I used to use for painting.

  It’s almost 7:30 when I pull into the parking lot, and of course, two minutes before class, all six of the spaces are filled with the usual schizophrenic cars — glossy BMWs and SUVs belonging to the students and then rotting-on-their-hubs Toyotas, which are the teachers’. There’s a lone cherry red VW Beetle holding the middle ground. I bump my Audi over the potholed alley to the lot behind the nail salon a few doors down and pull in between the Mercedes S class and the Range Rover parked there. More inner-directed yoga students.

  I jump out of the car, pop the trunk, and fish out my old backpack. I reach inside past the Band-Aid can, the aspirin bottle, the TP roll, and the flask — a flask? what was I thinking? — to the clothes wadded at the bottom. Great. My earthquake wardrobe, such as it is, is the paint leggings and an old, ripped LIFE GUARD T-shirt from the college summer I worked the pool at Helen and Jack’s country club. Obviously perfect for the next 5.8 shaker. Oh well. No time to worry about it now. I shove the leggings and the T-shirt into my handbag, and the flask for good measure, slam the trunk, and make a dash for the studio.

  They’re already chanting when I slip in through the back door and head for the changing room. Haven’t been here for almost a year, and nothing’s changed. Still the same ratty carpet, the old high school lockers spray-painted blue, the scuffed wooden bench, and a few hooks and hangers. Two laminated signs are thumbtacked to the wall. Oh, these are new. One has a picture of a cell phone with a red line through it, and the other reads IN RESPECT TO YOUR FELLOW STUDENTS, NO PERFUMES, SCENTED OILS, LOTIONS, OR SCENTS OF ANY KIND ARE TO BE WORN.

  Oh, please. No perfume? How about a sign banning all those weird guys in their yoga diapers who just reek of curry and B.O.? Talk about no respect for your fellow students. I toss my bag to the bench and kick off my mules. They’re still chanting down the hall, although I’m more than happy to miss the opening sing-along. Way too out there for me. It’s only amusing if you keep your eyes open while everyone else’s are closed and watch all the Brentwood yentas in their manicures and breast-lifts warble the Hindu “Kumbaya.”

  I’m just pulling on the leggings — man, these look worse than I remember, with all the paint spatters and the holes at the knees — when Maude pokes her head around the corner. “Alex, oh my God, you’re here,” she says, shoving her glasses up her nose. “I can’t believe it.”

  “Hey, honey,” I say, leaning forward, one leg still half in and half out of the legging, to give her a fast hug. I’ve known Maude more than a year and have yet to see her anywhere outside this studio. But with her short red hair and helpful student-teacher mien, fostered by years of volunteering at the institute, Maude is one of the only remotely normal people here. “Yeah, I sent you an e-mail,” I say, turning back to wrestle with the leggings. “A screening got canceled, and I realized it had been too long since I’d taken Marla’s level two class.”

  “Oh no,” she says, looking stricken. “Didn’t you read the e-mails I sent? Marla doesn’t teach it on Mondays anymore.”

  “Oh well,” I say, hopping to get the leggings adjusted and managing to rip the kneeholes even more. “Who is teaching it?”

  “Sarah, and it’s a level three now.”

  “Oh, shit.” I don’t scare easy, but a level III Iyengar class will flush the sheep from the goats in a hurry, especially when taught by a yoga Nazi like Sarah. Not only am I not a level III student — well, okay, I can hold my own in forward bends, but no way in back bends — but Sarah is one of the toughest teachers. Which in Iyengar terms puts her just shy of a cult leader. I had her twice when she was subbing for Marla last summer, and after two classes — the last one where she told me if I wasn’t willing to push myself to do the poses correctly, I should pursue my practice at home — I never came back.

  “Maybe I should just bag it,” I say, staring at my ripped and paint-spattered leggings. “I’m already late.”

  “No, no, you’ll be fine,” Maude says, running her hands nervously through her baby-fine hair. “But hurry, because she hates latecomers.”

  The class has finished chanting, and everyone is scrambling for mats and straps when Maude and I slip in. Only a few heads swivel in our direction. I recognize a couple of faces — like the guy who owns that cool antiques shop on La Cienega, and the frizzy-haired woman who teaches something at UCLA, and isn’t that Annette Bening in the corner? — but true to form, no one says hello or even cracks a smile.

  “What are we doing today?” I whisper to Maude, trying to work out the Iyengar calendar in my head. What was it, first week of the month is standing poses, second is forward bends, and third is back bends, or is it back bends before forward bends? God knows how I ever thought yoga was relaxing, with all the rules.

  “Back bends,” she says, heading into the crowd.

  Oh, great. I should just turn around and walk out now. While I’m still ambulatory. Last time I took a back bends class, I pulled my lower back so badly it took two weeks before I stopped limping around like a marionette. Besides, if I leave now, I still can make the dry cleaner’s, Whole Foods, and be home having a drink in less than an hour. I’m seriously considering slipping out the door when I hear a voice at my back.

  “Haven’t seen you in a while.” I turn. Sarah, with her whippet body all but quivering in her black leggings and turquoise tank top inscribed with some Hindu script. Probably says something like YOGIS DO IT ON THEIR HEADS.

  “Yeah,” I say, forcing a smile. “Well, I’m out of town a lot.”

  “Apparently,” she says, eyeing my outfit. “Well, I hope you’re up for a good workout tonight.”

  The thing about yoga is that if you have any flexibility at all, you can pretty much force yourself into a pose, at least for a second, before you fall out of it. You can fool yourself, or more important, fool those around you, that you can actually do the pose. Holding it is another matter. So even though it’s been almost nine months since I’ve set foot in the Iyengar House of Torture, I manage to get through almost all the poses Sarah dishes out. Shoulder stand, headstand. I’m so there. Even the scary ones — camel, wheel, pushing yourself up into a back bend with your hands on blocks, which to my mind only makes it harder, not easier — I manage to get through. Maybe this wasn’t as hard as I remembered it.

  “I can’t believe you haven’t been here for so long,” Maude says when we’re partnering on one of the last poses, a killer seated pose with your body pressed against the wall, one leg twisted under you and the other pulled up the back that I have never done and that might be called octopus for all I know.

  “Yeah, it’s not too bad,” I breathe, reaching around my back with my left arm to grab my left ankle and winch my calf up my back while Maude pushes on my hip and shoulder. Got it. Got it. Got it. Okay, don’t have it. I fall out of the pose, thumping to the floor so a few heads turn in my direction. “Yeah,” I say, struggling to sit up. “I totally forgot how fun this is.”

  “Okay, switch,” Sarah calls out, clapping her hands like a balletomane.

  “Gladly,” I say, crawling to my knees and turning to help Maude twist herself into the pose.

  I’m just pushing Maude’s right shoulder to square up with her left hip as she grabs her ankle when Sarah bustles over. “Partners watch,” she calls out to the class, pushing my hands out of the way. “Like this,” she says as everyone swarms to watch her adjust Maude’s back into what looks exactly like what I was just doing. “I’m seeing too many of you do this,” she says, moving her hands imperceptibly. Everyone nods sagely.

  “Got it now?” she says, turning to me.

  I nod. “Yeah, thanks,” I say. “That really helps.”

  “She’s only trying to help,” Maude says when Sarah moves off.

  “Please, she could have been on the staff at Abu Ghraib,” I say, pushing on Maude’s back again.

  “You know, yoga isn’t about ego,” she says, breathing hard. “It’s about letting go of ego.”

  “That must be why India is such a major player on the world scene,” I say, pushing harder. “All that lack of ego.”

  “Okay, come out of the pose,” Sarah calls out, and Maude and I collapse onto the floor. Actually, I collapse. Maude unwraps herself.

  “Thanks, that felt great,” she says, rolling her shoulder blades in their sockets.

  I smile weakly, pawing at the small of my back. “Yeah, great.”

  “You okay?” she says, eyeing me.

  “Oh, sure,” I say, pushing to my feet. A searing pain flashes across my lower back. Oh, fuck. Just when I thought I might get away unscathed. Instead of going home like a normal person and resting, I had to be a maniac and spend my free night doing killer yoga.

  Sarah calls out the next pose, and everyone rushes for blocks and straps. I check the clock on the wall. 8:45. This has to be the last pose. I look around. Everyone is sitting on the floor, tying their legs together with the straps and then lying backward on the blocks. Okay, at least we’re lying down. I can probably get through this and then head home for a long drink and a hot bath, my bloodstream a soothing cocktail of alcohol and ibuprofen.

  I’m just settling back on my block — oh, God, maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all — when a cell phone burbles down the hall. So much for the precious sign.

  “Apparently someone forgot,” Sarah says, accusingly gazing around the room. No one says anything, and after a few more rings, the phone falls silent.

  “Okay, settle into this and breathe,” Sarah says, reaching for the light switch and dimming the room. In the murk, I hear everyone breathing gently, like babies in their cribs. Apparently, I’m the only one lying on a bed of nails. I reach under my back and try to adjust my block, but there is no way to get comfortable with a three-by-five block of unvarnished pine digging into your sacrum.

  I shift around some more, trying to get comfortable or at least somewhere where the pain is less intense, when suddenly the woman lying next to me rolls off her block and begins plucking angrily at the strap around her thighs. Sarah rushes over to her. There is a whispered exchange before the woman grabs her block and strap and stalks off to the far side of the room. What’s her problem? I’m the one with rigor mortis setting in.

  I turn back and stare at the ceiling, trying to think calm thoughts, get some calming visual, but I’m too distracted by the cracks in the ceiling, which seem to be mirroring the spasms in my back. I’m just trying to figure out how many more seconds I can stay in this pose without crumpling to the floor when I feel warm breath on my cheek. I turn so quickly that I lose my balance, slip off my block.

  “Did you miss the signs?” Sarah hisses, her face close to mine.

  “It wasn’t my phone,” I say, struggling to sit up and realizing the pain in my back makes this impossible.

  “Perfume!” she hisses again. “It’s so polluting.”

  “I’m not wearing any,” I say, propping myself up on my hands, my legs still strapped together. I look like either a seal or a paraplegic, but in any event, I’m fragrance-free. Well, other than some Magie Noire body lotion I smeared on my neck at 7:00 A.M., but that was more than twelve hours ago. What does that woman have, the nose of a coonhound?

 

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