A New Lu (6 page)

I don't have to ask who Rodrigo is.

“Lucky bitch!” Rhonda whispers, and pats me on the back as the meeting breaks up.

Rodrigo is the owner of the gym upstairs. When it first opened, the unmarried staff of
Five-O
used to take turns leaving the building when we saw him coming up the street to work. Whatever the weather, he walks to work. That way, each of them would have a chance to bump into him in the hallway or on the stairs. He never takes the elevator. He's not bulked up the way body builders used to be. He's lean with Lance Armstrong calves, and gluts as tight as those imported cigars that are said to burn forever. He's also married, with a wife who looks like Penélope Cruz, and two bambinos who are miniatures of their parents.

“By the way, your little vacation has agreed with you.” Tai smiles as if it's a bit of an effort, and moves quickly past me and out the boardroom door. “Babs!” She sounds efficient and annoyed as she moves down the hall.

Rodrigo and me. The absence of caffeine in my new morning routine makes me sit down with a little thump when I reach my office.

I wait thirty whole seconds, watching the sweep of the
hand on my desk clock, before I pick up the phone and ask Babs to connect me with Rodrigo's.

“Yes, a spring cold.” I pinch my nose for a congested affect. “The seasonal swing in temperature gets me every time. Heavy clothing, really? Denies the body healthy circulation and sunlight. Who knew? Vitamin C, one thousand milligrams? And B12? Hold on, I'm making a note. Yes, thank you, Rodrigo. I'll call when I'm better. Oh, and can this be our little secret? Tai is anxious for me to start. I wouldn't want her to think I'm not equal to the task. She asked you for weekly updates on my performance? You can tell her I won't release them for thirty days.” That should buy me a few days. “Oh, you're a doll. Bye, Rodrigo.”

Meanwhile, I try out a few of these beauty remedies. I select a box at random and pull out a blue pearlized tube. The going price in retail for this three-eighths-of-an-ounce serum is a cool one hundred and thirty dollars. But free to me! Now that's an assignment I can handle.

Tai signed off on Curran's desire to use black-and-white film, mostly because he convinced her that it would compensate for my newly acquired tan.

Curran is standing over me, adjusting what seems like a full set of interrogation spotlights placed in sunflower array.

I reach up to swipe away a drop of perspiration. “I'll be done in thirty minutes, if you baste me.”

“Too hot, huh?” He flips a switch, which douses most of the wattage. They will flash as he clicks, now that he has them set up correctly.

I feel pretty silly, sitting in a pair of gym shorts, for comfort, and an off-the-shoulder portrait top Curran says he found in a flea market.

“It makes for a retro forties
Photoplay
look,” he assures me.

“I'm not that old,” I grouse.

Acting as his assistant, KaZi has used body foundation to even out the tan lines on my shoulders from my swim-suit. My hair, usually worn loose and wavy, has been pulled back into soft poufs on either side of my face, held with big tortoiseshell combs. In place of lipstick she's dabbed baby oil. A little more on my cheekbones and eyelids. “Except for two applications of mascara, that's it,” KaZi says.

“Stay natural,” Curran has kept repeating under his breath.

We begin with classic poses. Chin not quite resting on the back of a lifted hand. The lean-in pose in three-quarters profile, eyes gazing upward. Full-face smile. No smile. Head down slightly, to the side, pensive. “Think Bette! Veronica! Marlene!” he encourages.

Again and again, we move through the repertoire in Curran's mind as he changes cameras, changes lenses, dancing around me as if I were a block of marble whose grain he is trying to memorize. Ten, fifteen minutes tick by as I'm repositioned, tugged and tucked. Then another set begins. Another break for prop changes, a genuine cashmere shawl, and then still more shots. Curran's burning up film like a pro. I hope Tai bankrolled him.

The weight of the last few days drops back on me from nowhere.

Suddenly I feel like crying. Tension trembles my chin. The torque of will on muscles pulls the corners of my mouth down. I shut my eyes against the flash of lights. Try to shut out Curran's elated, “Yeah. Yeah. You're doing great, Lu.
Ms.
Tallulah! Head back. That's it. Think profile. Neck. Ah! Sweet!”

This is so foolish, unnecessary, so ridiculous. As if I will really go through with this. Any of this!

All at once my eyes open, and I turn my head to say something unkind when the strobe lights catch me completely unready.

“That's a wrap.'' Curran lowers his camera, grinning like
a kid who's just won his first applecart derby. “You were great.” He pats his camera.

I'm gaping like a fish jerked out of water. “I—I don't think I can—”

“We need dinner. Cuban!” Curran says with all certainty that his twentysomething stomach is cast-iron reliable. He glances at KaZi, who's slim as a reed in funky capris and a shapeless vest that still manages to convey that she's not wearing a bra, and possibly needs one. “Want to come?”

“You paying?” KaZi's standard comments to Curran are always framed as a challenge. I suspect she likes him.

The tips of Curran's ears turn a painful pink. He's broke.

“On me,” I say. Someone may as well enjoy a meal.

Later, in bed with a carton of Healthy Choice ice cream, and wondering at what point in its consumption does it become an unhealthy choice, I ponder my day. I've lied, cheated, pretended and cried in the shower, and it's only Tuesday. At this rate I won't make it through the week on my own.

I reach for the phone. Who can I call?

Halfway through dialing Jacob's number, I realize I truly do not want to speak to him. I hang up and reach for the TV remote.

Ingrid is telling Cary how she doesn't need him in her life anymore. She's married now to Claude Raines. She's fine—better than fine. Any fool can see she's lying. But he's a man, and he hears what he needs to hear so that he can leave her to her fate.

Sometimes a woman is better off alone with her own thoughts.

May

Women know that passion doesn't end with aging.
So why sit around fanning and thinking,
wouldn't it be nice if…?
That heat from within will smother you if you try too hard to resist.

—“Late-Life Sex and Then Some”
CUE LU!

7

Two weeks and nothing.

My skin is creamier. I've had my pores vacuumed, helped by the array of new night-and-day and in-between creams I'm using. From now on, a monthly facial will be part of my routine. And I've decided I should exercise. Nothing stressful. I looked it up on the Internet. Doctors recommend something easy for pregnant women, like a beginner's yoga class.

“Have you ever done yoga?” Andrea asks this in a tone that suggests I know nothing of what I'm getting myself into. I've brought her along for moral support. Besides, it was my turn to pick our outing.

“Sure. About fifteen years ago.” For eight weeks, before life took over and yoga went the way of many things in a working mother's world. Since then, I've tried lots of different exercise classes. But I suffer from interest fatigue. It doesn't take long for me to tire of the same old thing.

“You don't want to do this.” Andrea's voice drops to a conspirator's murmur as she leans toward me. “Trust me.
Yoga looks pretty but it can destroy your soul.” Some moral support.

We have our rolled rubber mats slung over our backs, as do all the women and a few men in the line inching its way down a narrow corridor toward the designated classroom. Andrea is wearing a fuchsia sports bra, and black shorts that make the most of her dimensions in that area. J. Lo would be proud. I have a turquoise T over my bra and stretchy ankle-length yoga pants.

“Think of the alternatives.” She leans in. “We could be sitting in a bistro, saluting the demise of a pail of mussels in butter and broth with shots of vodka.”

Pregnant women shouldn't eat a lot of shellfish, I remind myself. Out of the side of my mouth, I say, “The last shellfish-and-alcohol combination made me sick.”

“Then barbecued lamb riblets and lemonade,” the serpent in my ear suggests. “We don't even have to turn around. Just slow down, let these people flow around us. Then, when we're at the back of the line, we'll turn and make a break for it!”

“You said you'd be my ally in this.”

“I thought you meant something reasonable. I took yoga for one whole summer in Bombay.” She rolls her eyes. “It messes with your moral compass.”

I turn resolutely away from my tempter. “I am here to learn, to relax, to find inner pe—”

Andrea shoves me from behind so hard that I involuntarily step on the heel of the person in front of me. He turns, frowning. He's tall and tanned, with streaked blond cornrowed hair. His T-shirt reads Saint Barnabas Medical Trauma Unit.

“Sorry,” I say.

“You okay?” he asks.

“Oh, she's fine. Hi.” Andrea says. “You come here often?” That's when I realize that I was her excuse to speak to him.

“No, first time.” He nods at the young woman standing in front of him. “Deb says it's good for tension. Thought I'd try.” He shrugs manly shoulders. But what registers with me most is that he seems young enough to be my son. I can't help it. I see possibilities of my child-who-probably-won't-be everywhere. The suspense of the inevitable collapse of that possibility is killing me.

“Let's compare notes afterward.” Andrea is a woman with no fear of rejection. Why should she?

He nods. “Cool.”

The breathing part seems easy enough.

I start to lose consciousness before I realize that while all this fresh air might be good for the body, the brain takes a nap when thoroughly fumigated with oxygen. Lulled by vaguely Indian-sounding chimes and gongs played at low volume for atmosphere, my “Tree of Life” pretty soon looks like a sapling caught in a stiff breeze. I weave, sway, my head bobbing back and forth between my arms like a Hindu dancer's. Finally, it's landing gear down before I topple.

Our instructor has already told us that there is no such thing as perfection in yoga. We are to do what we can. That to strive is to lose the purpose. Every effort is its own reward. Hmm. Yoga is not a competition or an exertion in achievement, but a ritual attempt to effect peace, each in our own way. Yeah. Right.

My “Rising Cat” and “Descending Dog” poses remind me of how long it's been since the illustrations in the “Karma Sutra” looked like a fun time.

Midway through the class, I leave the “Warrior” pose for one that has me with my legs so wide open that, when I bend forward and down, the top of my head nearly touches the floor. This is my singular moment of vile western-influenced sense of achievement. Who knew such things were still possible?

As we are gazing inward, each through our own “Arch of Life”—my description—I begin to hear the labored breath of a fellow straddler. I try to orient myself, upside down. The source of great distress comes from over my left shoulder, upside down. If I were upright, it would be facing forward to my left. That's where Andrea placed her mat. Deep, sudden intakes of air increase in volume, like someone is going under water repeatedly. No one else says a thing. I hear desperation in that heaving. I can't stand it. I think, Andrea's having a heart attack!

I arch up and put a palm flat on the floor to steady myself as I seek her out.

But Andrea is not the gasper. She's gazing at me through her spread legs with a big fat grin on her face. Okay, my need to mother is satisfied. Some other neophyte yoga student is on her own.

By the end of the hour, I'm so tired I don't uncoil with the rest of the class. I sit slumped for a full minute while mats are rolled and eager acolytes gather around our instructor to question the specifics of a pose. Finally I lift my head, proud just to have survived what looked simple enough. Andrea's right. My poise and ego will never be the same.

Our instructor is back on her mat, demonstrating a maneuver that draws sighs of approval from her students.

“Double-jointed ho!”

Andrea has this trick of being able to throw her voice. Those nearest her turn in the opposite direction to glance in disapproval at a sweet young thing in a red thong. Only I see Andrea's wicked grin as she comes toward me.

Andrea, beautiful even with her face oiled in sweat, helps me to my feet then hands me a towel. “Did you hear that breathing in class?”

I nod, toweling off sweat that feels like cold cream on my skin. “I thought it was you, having a heart attack.”

“Girl, it was Dr. Yummy!” She jerks her head toward
the sculpted medicine man. “That was worth the price of admission.”

I smile, too. To think he could be in such good shape, and yet lose control of his breathing at the moment of my personal triumph. Maybe there's hope for me yet. I wink at Andrea. “Want to come again on Tuesday?”

“Wouldn't miss it. But first I'll see if he needs a little mouth to mouth.”

She's back in two minutes, rolling her eyes. “Medical resident. Can you imagine his loans? It'll be years before he's in my league.” Andrea doesn't do poor.

“I got to think of my future. I am an example for my family,” she once said to me. “We need to start trading up, and staying up. Sex is fine, in its place. Mergeable assets are essential.”

The first time I heard Andrea speak like this, I thought she was a little cold-blooded. But I've since heard enough stories of her childhood, growing up poor with both immigrant and minority situations to deal with, to sympathize with her attitude. What's that saying about money? It doesn't guarantee happiness, but it sure makes a nice cushion for the bumps and scrapes of life.

“Now can we eat?”

“I don't think I'll be going back to yoga.”

“Why not?” Andrea is sitting behind a vegetarian Thai salad stacked like a beehive. “Who knew it would be a place to pick up men?” Andrea charged on, answering her own question. “Women, of course. Natalie says gyms are better places for picking up women than men. Uncle Tito would disagree.” Andrea has a bisexual female cousin and a gay uncle. I have yet to see any situation stump her for long.

I fork several pieces of baby spinach and munch a few moments. “I'm not looking to pick up anything anytime soon.”

“You say that now. But once you realize that the men you see are all fair game—” she pauses to glance around, as if to show me how easy it all is “—you'll soon be feeling twenty years old all over again.” Every man in the bistro does seem to be aware of her presence. She starts doing the cha-cha in her seat. “You gotta get your groove on, girl!”

I spear a grape tomato. “I'm afraid that's already happened.”

Andrea stops chewing bean sprouts. “Get out! Who was it?”

“That's not important.” I contemplate the idea of a tomato the size of a Thompson grape and wonder if this qualifies as a genuine agricultural achievement. It sure tastes good. “What's important is that I'm not going to be doing any more screwing around anytime soon.”

“You screwed him?” Andrea's face brightens up. “You didn't even say you were dating.”

“I'm not.” I give her a quick glance.

“A one-night stand?
Mi'ja,
you got to be careful with that.”

“Wish I'd talked it over with you first.”

“That bad, huh?”

“The worst. I'm pregnant.”

It just comes out. I guess I was dying to say the words out loud to someone.