Tales from the Yoga Studio (7 page)

YogaHappens is the Starbucks of yoga studios, a corporate concern that's rapidly gobbling up small studios or opening a superstudio next door and forcing them out of business.

Katherine knocks on Lee's office door and rushes in, too steamed to bother with formalities.

“You know those two guys showing off on the right side of the studio today? Tall and short, perfect everything? I
thought
they were a little Stepford Yogi. Guess where they're from? YogaHappens! Can you believe it? Probably scouts, looking to see whose business they can destroy next. Why don't they just change their name to Walmart and get it over with? Jesus.”

Lee bursts out laughing, not what Katherine was expecting. “I feel as if I'm watching ninety minutes of deep breathing go right down the drain.”

“Overreacting? You know how I get. But I hate how all these big chains come along and turn everything into a
business
. And what's with that logo of theirs? It looks like a big boob, which is probably a subliminal message they're trying to send. Do you have to let them in if they come back?”

Suddenly Lee isn't laughing anymore. She looks stricken, in fact.

“I'm sorry, Lee. Just ignore me.”

“It isn't that, Kat.” She runs her hands through her hair. “I invited them to class.”

“You
what
?”

“Close the door, will you?”

Katherine closes it and sits down in front of Lee's desk with a bad feeling. It's never a good idea to assume you're on the same wavelength as someone else. It's never a good idea to assume
anything
, a lesson she ought to have learned by now.

“They originally got in touch a couple of months ago. They heard about me and wanted me to ‘audition' or something crazy. I didn't pay a whole lot of attention.”

Get to the point,
Katherine wants to say. She's always hated backstory, no matter how necessary for the plot.

“Please don't give me that face, Kat. I'm just trying to keep my options open, okay? I've got two kids, and the school they're going to is one mishap away from disaster.”

Katherine has always hated the way kids trump everything. What's she supposed to say to that?
Forget about them
?
They'll live
?
I went to public school—in
Detroit
, for God's sake—and I turned out all right—once I got off the heroin
? Katherine feels like reminding Lee that her plan was to work
with
the school, not abandon it, but sitting across the desk from her like this, Katherine suddenly realizes it's probably as much about Alan and whatever is going on with him as it is the kids. And Lee's posted a big Danger: Stay Away sign in front of that part of her life.

“It's still yoga,” Lee says. “They're not bad people; they just have a different idea of how to run a business.”

“Yeah, marketing research, cookie-cutter classes, and buy, buy, buy. Don't you know how special you are, Lee? You saved my life. About half the people who come here feel the same way, even if the reasons aren't as dramatic. I know that means something to you.”

“I'd still be teaching. That's the deal.”

Deal? Things have gone that far? “They'll have you doing their spiels in six months, I guarantee. They have forty-five studios between here and San Francisco, they're planning to go national, and they have enough lawyers on staff to roll over you at every turn.” Okay, so she's riffing, but the essence of what she's saying is true.

“I've got to think about Alan,” Lee says. Katherine knew this was coming. Kids and husbands. What an unbeatable combination. “He's been interested in this for a long time. There might be something in it for him, too. I'm just exploring the options. All right?”

Katherine stands up and opens the door. “It's your studio, Lee. It's your decision. I've just gotten a little hooked on feeling like family.”

“I'm exploring, Kat. They're exploring. They want to look over our books, see how much we're actually bringing in.”

“I'm sure they'll have fun with your bookkeeping system,” she says. “I've got a client in a few minutes.”

As she's closing the door, Lee says, “I almost forgot . . .”

Katherine leans back into the office. “Shoot.”

“You got a call while you were out.”

“Appointment?”

“No. A message from somebody named Conor. He said to tell you he likes your bike.”

T
he demographics on this project are through the roof,” Stephanie says. “The novel got the most amazing reviews of the year, everyone is comparing the writer to a young Bret Easton Ellis, and the author
himself
is working on the screenplay. It's got love, Las Vegas, and poker. What more can you ask?”

The producer, Lon Borders, is a handsome young guy with fine, light hair and the kind of freckled skin that is probably going to put him at high risk for something malignant once he hits forty. Stephanie has always had a thing for guys who look like this—swimmer's body and sun-damaged skin, not that she's been anywhere near a beach for twelve months now, not since she and Preston broke up. (
Cheeseburger, cheeseburger,
she silently chants, as she always does when Preston pops into her head.)

Lon produced a couple of so-so horror movies that made money, but
Hello, Pretty!
, an indie hit two years ago, is what got him this office on the Paramount lot. American girl goes to Tokyo and gets involved in Japanese beauty pageants. It did
not
deserve the two nominations it got, but it was cute and a lot smarter than most movies of its sort. He would be perfect for this project. He thinks outside the box and he needs to do something a little more hard-hitting. Another reason he's perfect? He's the last top-tier producer in Stephanie's list of possibilities. If she can't snag him, she's going to have to shift into desperation mode and start working on private investors and grants from Canada and every unlikely place she can think of. Not the way she planned to spend her spring—not to mention the next year and a half. She's running out of steam at exactly the moment she's going to need the most.

Stephanie optioned the book,
Above the Las Vegas Sands
, right around the time she and Preston broke up. She paid more than she should have, but there was a lot of interest, and it was a matter of pride. Preston told her she'd never be able to get the rights. He'd just sold a script and she'd just gotten downsized out of Christine Vachon's development stable.

“Our careers are going in different directions,” he'd said. “Let's not get in each other's way.” Total creep.

But she showed him (
cheeseburger
), even if she broke rule number one to do so and paid out of pocket. Almost all of the $150K she'd inherited from her mother. Talk about pinning all your hopes on one thing. She was depressed at the time. And even though she's pretty sure she didn't make the offer while she was drinking, she can't quite remember the whole process that led up to the final, way-too-high figure.

Lon's assistant is a little brunette who looks like she graduated high school last year. She's supposedly taking notes on her laptop, nodding at everything Stephanie says, wide-eyed and eager. It wouldn't surprise Stephanie to learn she's really answering e-mail.

The only person who seems engaged is Brady, a spindly guy in skinny jeans sporting a shaved head. He's made a few comments that indicate he actually read the novel before the meeting. Imagine that. He clearly gets the book and appreciates how it could be made into an amazing movie. Too bad he obviously has no power whatsoever.

Lon, the swimmer type, taps his fingers together and glances down at his watch. A small gesture that says way too much. “Tough working with novelists adapting their own books,” he says. “In my experience.”

No kidding. The way she got the option was by outbidding Christine Vachon, promising the writer he could do the screenplay himself, and then paying him Let's-not-get-into-it up front. Only to have him prove to be a spoiled diva, a type she knows well from her days studying creative writing at Iowa. He cranked out fifty pages that were basically the opening chapters of the novel with different punctuation.

“I think this material would really appeal to Diablo Cody,” bald Brady says, God bless him.

“I've already sent her the book,” Stephanie says. “She promised she'd read it this weekend.”

Stephanie talked to Cody's agent two months ago and was told Cody is booked with writing projects for the next two years and can't even look at anything else. An Oscar can do that. Lying like this is pointless, but it's pride rearing its dangerous head again. She gets the feeling Lon is wasting her time, teasing her along because it gives him a kick to make her perform for him and see her sweat, let her believe he
might
be interested if she jumps through enough hoops. She's seen this dynamic too many times already. Since the contraction in Hollywood, there are about forty-three thousand, two hundred and seven freelancers like Stephanie bopping around town trying to get some traction, and most of them are spinning their wheels. She knows it, Lon knows it, but they still have to do this dance.

Then again, he
might
be interested. You can't burn any bridges.

“Not only that,” she says, improvising, “but I was talking to Imani Lang the other day—we go to the same yoga studio—and she's a huge fan of the book and is dying to play the singer.”

“I thought she quit the business,” Lon says dryly, opening a desk drawer in a random way.

Gossip wakes up the young assistant, who rattles off a monologue about Imani littered with facts (you can put quotes around that), some of which Stephanie didn't know. She's married to a pediatric surgeon and quit
X.C.I.A.
at his suggestion when she got pregnant. Then came the very public miscarriage and the very publicized depression. Come to think of it, Imani
would
be perfect for the singer, a character with so many ups and downs they could name a ride at Disneyland after her.

“Interesting,” Lon says. “But Imani can't open a movie.”

“She has an amazing voice,” Stephanie says. Who's to say she doesn't? “She originally wanted to get into music. She would be a natural for the soundtrack and tie-in video. Anyway,
Vegas Sands
is an ensemble piece.”

She decides to stand up before Lon makes his move. The more she thinks of it, the more excited she gets. Even if the author is a pain in the ass, the novel is brilliant, and it
is
going to make an incredible movie. If Lon isn't interested, she's not spending another minute here. You can't burn bridges, but you can cut your losses.

As bald Brady is ushering her down the hall, he says, “This has fabulous potential. I'm going to talk to Lon about it some more.”

“Thanks,” Stephanie says. “I appreciate that. It has the kind of characters that would attract a really great cast. And believe me, we could do it cheap.”

“You don't have to talk me into it. I loved
Silver Linings
, by the way. It's a big favorite with me and my friends. I've watched it four times.”

She can't help but wonder if this is true, but why not take the easy way out and believe that it is?
Stop judging and start feeling,
Lee said in class last week.
What would it feel like if we just accept things as they are instead of judging them?

She's not going to let it show on her face, but listening to Brady crow about the movie, she could easily tear up.
Silver Linings
came out five years ago, a small, intelligent movie about a troubled family. She got the project to the producer, and even though she didn't make anything, she got a producing credit. The movie was a big hit at Sundance, and if you believe the reviews, a lot of that was thanks to the uncredited work she did on the screenplay. The scenes she rewrote from top to bottom are the ones they always praise.

Unfortunately, all the excitement, prestige, and promise was followed by a lot of heartbreak with distributors, deals that didn't materialize, and a commercial run that never got off the ground. It was through the movie she met Mr. Cheeseburger. Still, the film continues to open doors for her, just not as widely as it once did.

Outside, the sun is too bright and there's something dry and suffocating about the air. She woke up with a headache this morning and psyched herself into believing this meeting with Lon was going to change her losing streak, even though she knew the chances were slim. She loves being on the Paramount lot and always has. It's a kick. Unless, that is, you've just been kicked in the pants. Then all the classic Hollywood fixings—the stucco buildings, the cute little golf carts—start to grate on your nerves.