Tales from the Yoga Studio (30 page)

A few minutes later, she comes back to bed, and he's checking messages on his iPhone. She hates this contraption. Alan seems completely oblivious to the fact that half the time he's talking with her, he's playing with
it
—texting or looking at e-mails or whatever it is he does. It's created holes in their conversations that he fills with meaningless interjections of “ummms” and “yeah yeah yeahs” that tell her, even when they're not face-to-face, that he's peering into it.

“Have you noticed a difference in the boys?” she asks.

“Yeah, ummm . . . I don't know. How?”

“Can you put that down for a minute, Alan? At least while we discuss this?”

“You know it's really insulting to me when you say that. Like you think I can't do both things at once?”

“I'm just asking you if you wouldn't, that's all.”

He sighs in an operatic way, but puts the phone on the bedside table. “Happy?”

It chirps. Text message, probably.

“Well, have you?” she asks again.

“Have I
what
?”

“The boys. Noticed a change.”

“They're getting older; I mean, I don't know. They're taller. Kids hit puberty sooner these days, but they're only eight. I doubt it's that.”

“I mean their personalities. There's less fighting. At first I thought it was because Michael was getting less aggressive, but now I think Marcus is different, too. It's like they're balancing out finally, hitting some peaceful mean. And it began when they started practicing.”

Alan puts his hands behind his neck and leans against the headboard. “They're bound to change as they get older. I don't go in for the whole yoga-equals-magic-fix thing. If it's doing something for them, great, but no point in pretending it's going to completely change their personalities. I keep trying to teach Marcus that song I wrote on the ukulele and . . . nothing. Not interested.”

“I think we underestimated Barrett. If she can do this with the twins, I think she has real potential.” She puts her head on Alan's stomach, that solid plank of muscles. “I've started talking to someone at their school again to see if they're interested in having us start a yoga program there. For the kids, but also for the teachers. With Barrett as my assistant.”

“Barrett? I wouldn't get too entangled with her. On top of that, you're signing an exclusive contract. You don't want to start violating that before you've even closed the deal. Zhannette and Frank seem to find out about everything.”

Lee senses that she has to deal with this somewhat gently. The last thing she wants is to set Alan off. “I know,” she says. “But what if we tried to negotiate the deal a little differently? We pretty much just agreed to whatever they proposed.”

“Are you kidding me, Lee? You know what they're offering for a salary.”

“Yeah, but they loved my class, it's what they need. That should give us some room to bargain.”

Alan rolls out of bed and storms across the room. “Jesus, Lee. Don't tell me you're going to pull this on me. You hold all the cards here, and I'm just the little nobody in background with the squeeze box. If you decide to bargain, go right ahead. And if it ends up screwing up the whole deal, don't come whining to me about tuitions and health insurance . . .”

“I'm just putting it out there, Alan. Nothing's been decided.”

“And I'll tell you something else. If you
do
fuck it up, don't expect me to come around here and do this for you.”

“Do what?”

“You treat me like some pathetic pool boy you hired to get you off.”

“You heard me, Lee. You think men aren't capable of feeling they've been objectified? You think I don't feel hurt being treated like your paid companion?”

On the one hand, Lee is so insulted by this, she doesn't know how to respond. And on the other, she sees a hurt look on Alan's face that makes her doubt herself—her perceptions, her motives. It's all so confusing, it's almost a relief when Alan storms out of the house.

S
ybille Brent has moved out of the Mondrian Hotel and into a “cottage” she's rented in Los Feliz. She tells Stephanie that the Mondrian was just too ridiculously expensive. Stephanie finds this reassuring. You never know who has money in this business and who's bluffing, and only someone who is so loaded she can afford
anything
would dare complain about a hotel being too pricey. If she'd actually been appalled by the prices, she would have complained of inadequate service or some other pretense or stayed until she was forced into bankruptcy.

And then there's the “cottage.” Tucked discreetly off of Mountain Oak Drive, the white Greek Revival house has stunning views of the city, and gardens out back that have been maintained, since the 1930s, to their original design.

“I'm finding this a little more cozy,” Sybille says.

They're sitting under the pergola and gazing down the tiered garden where three people are clipping and raking. The pool is somewhere below, perched on a precarious-looking outcropping.

“It's gorgeous,” Stephanie says.

“It's adequate. It only has two bedrooms, believe it or not, but they're immense and in completely different parts of the house. Anderson can carry on in any way he likes. I suppose it makes him appear like more of a servant, but that doesn't seem to bother him.”

Stephanie doesn't know if this means he is a servant or not, but then decides it doesn't make much difference to her one way or the other. After all, since she's on the payroll, she's technically a servant of sorts herself.

“The house was built for a woman director and her female ‘companion.' I suppose it's been renovated a dozen times since, but it still has the feel of a little hideaway constructed for a successful, mannish woman without an excess of delicacy or taste.”

There's no mistaking the fact that Sybille is
not
talking about herself. She's dressed this morning in a light dove gray dress that offsets her white hair perfectly and is moving in a striking way in the light breeze. The fabric is rippling like water. She's sipping from a large white cup of cappuccino. Stephanie wonders if Sybille requested a meeting at this time of day so the awkward question of alcohol would not be an issue. Hard to tell and there's no point in going there anyway.

Stephanie's screenplay is sitting on the table in front of Sybille, and sooner or later they're going to have to get to it. The longer Sybille waits to bring it up, the more dread Stephanie is feeling. There are little pink tags sticking out of the script, dozens of them. Hard to know if that's good or bad, but it's impressive that Sybille read the script that closely either way.

Stephanie notices Sybille noticing her noticing the script.

“We had quite a row with the author of this novel, you know.”

“I didn't know. You've been generous about keeping me in the dark.”

“He's quite the self-possessed young man. I think the reviews and attention went to his head. He was holding out for a ridiculous sum of money. The terms you gave him smacked of desperation on your part, my dear. I'm quoting my lawyer. I hope you don't mind hearing that.”

“It's accurate.”

“Were we trying to prove something by outbidding someone? A rival?” Sybille cagily picks up her coffee cup and gazes off at the pool, as if only marginally interested in the answer.

“Much more embarrassing than that. An ex-boyfriend.”

“Ah.” She sets the cup back down delicately and rearranges a croissant on the plate in front of them. Judging from her appearance, this little gesture probably constitutes breakfast. “Boyfriend. How unexpected.”

It's not clear from her tone if she's being ironic or not.

“So it was partly an act of vengeance?” Sybille says.

“I'm afraid so. Or trying to prove myself, in a very expensive way.”

“You sound so apologetic. I hope you don't think you need to be with me. I assumed it was obvious that a good portion of my motivation in being here was revenge and trying to prove myself. I don't find the fact of it embarrassing in the least. Pretending it was otherwise might be humiliating, but I'm obviously not headed in that direction. A productive life requires motivation of some kind. I don't see why revenge is necessarily a bad motivation. As long as guns aren't involved.”

“That's a liberating attitude,” Stephanie says. She's been putting off tasting her coffee for fear that her hand is shaking, but now it seems she doesn't have anything to worry about. As she lifts her cup, she notes with some pride that her hand is perfectly steady. “Jesus,” she says. “This is amazing coffee.”

“You knew it would be, didn't you? The bottom line is, I flew your little author out here to meet with me. Anderson was there, of course, and two of my lawyers. The whole idea was to intimidate him.”

“You're putting a lot of money into this.”

“I don't believe in doing anything halfway, and besides, it's a huge amount of fun for me. I always thought my ex-husband was a tyrant with his money, wielding power; now I appreciate how exhilarating it is flashing dollar bills.”

“Sooner or later,” Stephanie says, “you're going to have to tell me what you think of the screenplay.”

“Yes, I am, aren't I?” She pushes the cup and croissants aside, draws the script toward her, and puts on a pair of round purple eyeglasses, which, like everything else about Sybille, scream style and money. “As you can see, I've made some notes. I think all the characters need a little more development and precision in their motivations. The mother needs to be more glamorous.”

“In the book, she's a waitress with a prescription drug addiction.”

“We've taken care of the book,” Sybille says. “I see the mother as more the Catherine Deneuve type. I've met her at charity functions in Paris, you know, and I can send her the script. We can explain the accent in a line. Structurally, it's brilliant. I don't think that needs a thing. We've sent the script to Kathryn Bigelow.”

“You have?”

“I don't believe in wasting time, and money opens doors, as you know.”

Since Sybille seemed motivated primarily by the potential of humiliating her ex-husband through the character of the father, Stephanie is a little hesitant to bring him up. But she must. “What did you think of the father?”

“You did a magnificent job with him. The only change there is we'll have the yoga classes be those überheated things, so we can have him with sweat pouring down. We can cast someone like Danny DeVito and surround him with actors who look like Adonis. The contrast will be mesmerizing. The first act should end with him passing out in a class, drenched in sweat, flushed, completely ignored by the beauties, who don't even see him.”

Stephanie is making notes on a pad of paper she brought with her. In some peculiar way, all of Sybille's suggestions make perfect sense. Now that the question of revenge has been elevated to a higher plane, she feels free to toss in some of her own suggestions.

“Instead of passing out, we can make it a minor heart attack.”

“I like that. Unless you think it will elicit sympathy.”

“Not if it's shot correctly. And the ridiculous boyfriend. I think we should change his name to Preston.”

Sybille thinks this over. “I was going to suggest Kenneth. Little Kenneth. But I can live with Preston. In fact, I like. I think we're a very good team.”

“I do, too,” Stephanie says. And she means it. She wasn't expecting the project would ever be this much fun.