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.”
The 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.
Her car is roasting hot, and when she turns on the AC, she hears that funny ticking noise the engine’s been making for the past few weeks. Like she needs another expense. According to careful calculations, she can live off her savings for another two months. If she’s careful. After that . . .
But she’s not sure what happens after, and she’s not going to drive herself crazy thinking about it. She’ll get the money. She will make this movie. She’ll show . . . Cheeseburger, goddamn it!
Stephanie is supposed to meet Graciela this afternoon, but if she hits any traffic at all, she’ll probably be late anyway. She’s not entirely sure if she’s eaten yet today. She was nervous about the meeting and rushing around. Oddly enough, she’s not hungry. What she really wants is a drink. There’s a restaurant not far from here that serves great salads and the kind of fun, frothy cocktails you can pretend are smoothies.
But as she’s heading down Melrose, all that sunlight and sparkle start to get to her, and she can feel the headache creeping up on her again. She decides to head up to Santa Monica Boulevard and go straight back to West Hollywood. She’s got a list of a dozen names of people with no credentials but a few extra dollars they want to use to buy their way into the movie business. She never thought she’d have to sink this low, but it is what it is. Might as well plunge in. She’ll pick up a bottle of wine, head home, pull the shades, and start making calls.
Lee takes it as a positive sign that Alan has agreed to go to the gallery for the opening of Garth’s show. She couldn’t get out of attending since she sees Lorraine at school almost every day, and to have gone solo would have been humiliating and the start of rumors and gossip. At least this way, they’ll present a picture of domestic stability. She’s surprised that this matters to her—the picture—but right now, it seems important. There’s no need to make this temporary move of Alan’s look more significant to friends than it is.
The night of the opening is so cool and beautiful, that when Alan shows up at the house, they decide to walk. Another positive sign. It should only take them about thirty minutes. Barrett, one of the interns at the studio, has agreed to babysit for the twins. Barrett’s a senior in college studying early childhood education. She was a gymnast up until a few years ago when she aged out of the sport and made a canny decision to transition to yoga. She’s studying with another gymnast-turned-yogini at school and she has an impressive (if maybe too athletic) practice. Someday she could be a great teacher. The twins like her. Lee does, too, even though she doesn’t always trust her. Sometimes Barrett gives indications of being envious of other people’s lives—Katherine’s massage practice, Chloe’s teaching skill—in ways that make Lee uncomfortable.
“Katherine spotted the YogaHappens people at the studio the other day,” she says to Alan as they stroll along.
“It’ll be all over the studio in a week,” Alan says.
“She’s the most discreet person I know,” Lee says. “I didn’t even ask her to keep it quiet. It’s understood.”
“It’s understood until she decides to blab,” he says. “People like her get better, Lee, but they don’t change.”
Lee decides to keep her mouth shut. Alan is thirty-four, two years younger than Lee. He’s been on the fringes of the music business since he was twenty. Although squeaky clean himself, there’s no question that he’s hung out with his fair share of drinkers and druggies, but the fact that they’re musicians somehow excuses the substance abuse in his mind, even when it’s ongoing. The fact that they’re men helps, too. At Alan’s level, there’s a lot of sexism in music—it’s a bit of a boys’ club—and he, like a few of the guys he plays with, has a very thinly veiled resentment of women who get the attention he thinks he deserves. The same old arguments about women not being real guitar players—as if—what?—you play guitar with your penis? (Grudgingly, they admit that women can sometimes be real pianists and, of course, violinists.) If Katherine were a man, he’d be more understanding about her past and her transformation.
“There are a lot of bad feelings about that YogaHappens,” she says. “Too corporate, too aggressive.”
“It’s about us, Lee. It’s not about Katherine. It’s good for both of us.”
She’s grateful that he’s talking about them as a couple. “Let’s have a nice time tonight,” she says. “And speaking of discretion, I’d really appreciate it if you don’t say anything about your current housing situation.”
“Give me a little more credit than that,” he says.
“How’s the work going on the songs?” she asks.
“Jesus, Lee. You sound so suspicious when you ask that. Like you assume things aren’t going well.”
“I’m not assuming anything. I just asked how your work is coming along.”
“It’s in the tone. It’s all about the tone.” He moves away from her slightly. “And it’s coming great. We’ve finished three songs. One of them is definitely right for a new reality show that has a soundtrack. Ben’s agent is going to be sending it off soon.”
“I can’t wait to hear.”
He shakes his head slowly, another indication that he’s taken offense at her tone again. Maybe she did reveal something. When she hears Alan’s songs or sees him performing, she can see and hear the talent, no question of that, but also has a strong sense that there’s some small but crucial missing piece. Maybe he knows it, too, and that’s why he’s so defensive. It’s probably best to keep quiet.
The gallery is on the fringes of downtown Silver Lake, a former curtain shop that’s been painted white from top to bottom and is, if you can believe Lorraine and Garth, becoming one of the more important galleries in a neighborhood known for its artists. There’s a crowd of thirty or more people inside, most holding wineglasses, dressed primarily in jeans and stylish little print dresses, listening.
The gallery owner is in the middle of introducing Garth when they walk in. He’s a rotund man with huge black eyeglasses that cover half his face.
“. . . And so we’re caught in this miasma of tertiary malignancy. The question isn’t whether the artist responds, but how. And Garth’s way is to contextualize the incumbent . . . voluptuary . . . solemnity of the current ardency. That’s why this series of paintings is so important, not only to his body of work, but also to our very existence. The malevolent betrothal we all feel when we look at this work makes it possible to say: Yes.”
There’s a smattering of polite applause, and then Garth is introduced. He and Lorraine are wearing identical outfits—untucked navy blue shirts over white jeans. And Birdy, standing beside them, is color coordinated. Garth holds up his hands and lets his head drop. He’s a handsome man, probably in his late forties, with graying hair he keeps plastered to his scalp.
“I am truly humbled by Tony’s words,” he says. “They’re obviously unearned, but if ”—he throws up his hands”—this work keeps the planet spinning on its orbit for even ten seconds longer, I will be happy. I’m grateful to all of you for coming and giving me the opportunity to move you in some small, small way with this work. Now for Christ’s sake, let’s enjoy!”
Lee sometimes wonders if her own inability to appreciate art is the problem. In style, Garth’s painting are somewhere between David Hockney and gay porn. Cool California blues and greens, lots
of water, and lots of male flesh. This series of twenty or so paintings depicts Garth sprawled nude (of course) in a variety of positions—faceup, facedown—on a reclining webbed lawn chair. She’s not sure what “malevolent betrothal” means, but she’s pretty sure it doesn’t mean the combination of embarrassment and faint revulsion she feels when she looks at the paintings. What does Lorraine make of all the lurid images of his ass that seem to be invitations? And what about Birdy? She’s dressed in a lacy white dress and navy blue Chinese slippers, and is looking at a painting while her father kneels beside her, pointing to something or other on the canvas. Hopefully a palm tree.
When she whispers some of this to Alan, he says, “Don’t be such a prude, Lee. You’re around bodies all day. You wanted to be a doctor.”
“It’s not the nudity,” she says quietly. “It’s that you’re supposed to pretend you don’t see it and comment instead on the malignancy or whatever it is.”
“A minute ago, you were asking me to pretend I hadn’t moved out.”
Lorraine comes over and gives them big hugs. She smells lemony and sweet, not as if she’s wearing perfume, but as if her golden hair and skin are emitting this lovely fragrance.
“We are so delighted you could come,” she says. Again, there’s the emphasis she gives to her words that makes Lee think she knows or suspects something. “Isn’t the work amazing? The show is causing a sensation. You’re looking as devastating as always, Alan. Don’t let him out of your sight, Lee.”
Although Alan is (deservedly) vain about his looks, he has begun to express regret that he never gets complimented for anything other than his appearance. People don’t even ask him anymore what he’s doing musically. Lee wouldn’t say so, but she sometimes wonders if this is a matter of friends politely not wanting to rub salt into wounds, since he often reacts in the hostile way he did to her questions.
Tales from the Yoga Studio Page 5