Softer Than Steel (A Love & Steel Novel) Page 11

  I forgot to check on Jack this morning.

  She shook off the thought. Seamus was still home; she shouldn’t feel the least bit guilty of shirking duty.

  “Sidra! Yoo-hoo! Hello!”

  She shaded her eyes, seeking out the voice. Her friend Karen was standing in the train station lot by her Prius, waving wildly with one hand and clasping the swathed head of a baby, cradled against her breast in a colorful cotton sling, with her other. There were several clusters of mothers with kids around her, all waiting for the camp bus to arrive.

  “Oh my God, it’s been forever!” Sidra carefully hugged her yoga retreat pal over the baby’s sleeping head. “Look at Mina, she’s so big! And where’s my little man?”

  “Jasper’s too cool for Mom; he’s hanging with his friends over there.” Karen laughed, gesturing toward the six-year-old who was kicking up dust and gravel with two other boys. “Oh, and these are my friends, Katrina and Marissa. Ladies, this is Sidra. She’s the one I told you about; she’ll be teaching yoga to the kids.”

  Sidra nodded and smiled at the two other mothers. They were juggling coffee cups and camp backpacks as their two daughters dawdled behind them.

  “Sorry, we could’ve brought you a coffee, too, if we knew how you liked yours.” The one with thick wavy curls handed Karen a cup.

  “No worries, I had a venti on the train,” Sidra supplied.

  “Oh, to have a venti again!” the other woman groaned. She was dark-haired and voluptuous, with large sunglasses. “Two kids later, my bladder is barely strong enough to hold a small cup of coffee through the ride here. Where’s that freakin’ bus?”

  “Miz-ess, Miz-ess!”

  Sidra heard the familiar salutation her younger yoga students loved to greet her with before feeling solid little arms bear-hugging her waist. “Do you remember me, Miz-ess?”

  Sidra regularly visited several of the public and private schools in the five boroughs. She hated the formal “Ms. Sullivan,” yet found the kids didn’t listen as well when she went by “Sidra.” So “Miss S.” became the happy medium by which she taught the youngsters basic poses throughout the school year.

  “Of course, you were my best Tree pose this spring, Abbey!” Sidra gave the girl’s ponytail a tiny tug. She had nice waves in her hair, just like her mom. “What are you doing here?”

  “I’m going to camp!” Abbey stated as she demonstrated her Tree for her little friend next to her. “My mom does even better Tree poses than me, because of her name: Katrina! Actually, she has two poses named after her—Cat pose and Tree pose!”

  “My childhood friends call me Tree for short,” her mom explained. “But I go by Kat more these days. So you taught at Abbey’s school in the city?”

  “Yeah, there was a special grant last year for alternative exercise. I went in to teach the kids, as well as the phys ed teachers,” Sidra explained. “I didn’t think I’d see any of my city kids up here.”

  “We summer in Lauder Lake.” Kat turned to Marissa, who snorted. “God, that didn’t sound pretentious, did it?”

  “Kat grew up on the street where I live,” Karen said. “You should come up some weekend, Sidra. We could all do sunrise yoga on the beach.”

  “You can all kiss my big fat lilywhite ass,” Marissa stated. “I’ll sleep in, then cook you skinny yoga bitches bacon and eggs.”

  “Mariss!” Karen scolded. She pushed her palms over Mina’s ears, but the baby slept snuggly on. Kat just rolled her eyes with a smile.

  Sidra decided she liked Karen’s friends. “So what are you ladies going to do with your five hours of freedom?” she inquired.

  “Mina and I have a StrollerFit class,” Karen said, bouncing the baby gently. “Then a much-needed nap . . . for both of us, isn’t that right, Mina-girl?”

  “And we’re sneaking into Manhattan on a mission. Wedding reconnaissance,” Marissa said. “Kat’s going to book a wedding venue and date without telling her fiancé.”

  “Not exactly,” Kat said. “I’m changing the date, because his best man is being—”

  “A total asshole?” Marissa supplied.

  “He’s being high maintenance,” Kat said diplomatically. “They’re in a band,” she explained. “And our original date conflicted with a big show. So I agreed to change it. No biggie. I just haven’t told Adrian yet. I don’t want the two of them fighting.”

  “Sounds like the best man needs to get over himself,” Sidra said sympathetically.

  “Either that or get laid, as my fiancé so eloquently put it,” Kat said with a laugh. “But I can’t even imagine this guy on a date. His version of a pickup line would probably be ‘nice humbucker.’”

  Sidra was the only one who genuinely laughed at Kat’s joke. “My ex is a musician. I get it.”

  Kat smiled warmly at her.

  “The bus! The bus!” Abbey and the other kids began to hop and crow excitedly as the big yellow school bus began its descent down the long drive into the station lot.

  “Um, text from Red.” Marissa poked Kat. “She’s not meeting us. ‘Too busy at work.’ I call bull. Something is up with that girl; she’s been dodging us.”

  “You know how she gets. She throws herself into one thing to avoid another. I say we ambush her.”

  Sidra turned and helped the kids with their backpacks, not wanting to eavesdrop. She missed having her own close-knit pack of girlfriends. Most of her college crew had scattered to the four winds after graduation, and those who had stayed in Manhattan were busy popping out kids. Since new moms and single gals were about as likely to run in the same social circles—or to keep the same hours—as nuns and vampires, they just didn’t see one another that much. Liz was cool, but always so busy with work. Spending time with Fiona usually meant spending time with Mikey, and when you threw Seamus into the mix, it was more along the lines of a Roddy Doyle comedy than a Ya-Ya Sisterhood. And befriending any of her students, even the nicest ones, blurred the teacher-student line a bit too much for her comfort.

  Kat kissed her daughter’s forehead. “You be good. Listen to Miss S. and the other counselors, okay?” Abbey nodded.

  “Nice meeting you all; enjoy the peace and quiet,” Sidra called, and got in the line to board the bus with the kids. She didn’t mind hanging out with children, as long as she got to hand them back at the end of the day. Motherhood was definitely not a path she planned to walk down. She watched out the bus window as Karen carefully transferred Mina from sling to car seat and drove away with her coffee cup balancing, forgotten, on the roof of her Prius. It was neither a sacrifice nor a priority Sidra was remotely interested in.

  Rick

  As Good a Day as Any

  “Think we can finish sometime in this century, Summerisle?”

  Sam flipped a fat middle finger in Rick’s direction from behind the slanted glass wall of the studio. Overdubs had begun that morning. It was going to be a long week.

  “We’re experiencing some timbral inconsistencies,” Thor murmured, barely glancing up from the console.

  Rick muted himself from Sam. “Tell him to quit the five-string, then.”

  “He needs that B string,” Adrian argued. “You’re the one who wrote the bloody bridge.”

  “I didn’t think it was going to come off sounding so hollow,” Rick said.

  “It’s my favorite fucking part of the song,” Jim piped in. “Don’t kill it.”

  “I’ll use the compressor to get it into shape. A multiband.” Thor ran his index finger across his neck, signaling to Sam they were done for the time being. Sam practically threw off his headphones in disgust. There was a reason the rest of the band was on the other side of the glass. Their bassist had been working on the same track for the better part of the day and looked fairly murderous. And since Rick was the creator of the song, he was certain he’d be Sam’s first victim.

  Musically and vocally, “Demons Above” was a monster. Rick had done live takes on every other song, but this particular track had been hell on
his voice. Sam’s day had been a walk in the park compared to Rick’s. At one point, he had to put himself in an isolation booth and talk his way down from the ledge, skittering on the edge of a panic attack. He could feel he was distancing himself from the others, and the last thing a band needed in the studio was dissention among the ranks.

  During his final stab before calling it quits earlier, he had pushed his fingertips together out in front of him as he went for the difficult notes. It was a traditional technique for opening the rib cage, and for some reason, Miss Cream Tea occurred to him. The card she had given him was good for one free class, and it listed her yoga schedule on the back. Perhaps he’d take her up on her suggestion today.

  “For fuck’s sake, that one bloomin’ note!”

  “No worries, Sam. Thor will salvage it,” Adrian assured him, ever the peacekeeper.

  “Attack and release!” Thor boomed. “I’ll get the ratios right, even if I have to stay here all night.”

  “You just about live here anyway, am I right?” Riff chided. “Digger and I were just joking last week about our days of kipping on the studio floor. You know”—he tapped a finger to his lips in thought—“maybe you should look into a bigger property for the studio, one that could actually house musicians during the recording process.”

  Thor’s brow shot up in contemplation. “I like that. Good thinking, Riff.”

  “Always thinking like a CFO,” Adrian joked. “Why else would we keep him around?”

  Rick gave his best mate an elbow jostle. “It would certainly be a draw for artists who don’t live here in town.”

  “Well I, for one, like to rely on the hospitality of the local ladies.” Sam grinned. “Any port in a storm, I say!”

  “And which port is your cock docking in tonight?” Jim asked.

  “It’s Monday, so let’s see.” Sam licked his fat thumb and began to tick off on his fingers. “Today, it’s Monica. Then Tuesday, on to Tabitha. Haven’t found a Wendy yet for Wednesday, but I’m managing. Thursday is always Trixie. On Friday, there’s Franny. Then the twins get me over the weekend. Serena.” He shivered happily. “And Sabine.”

  “Good God, man!” Adrian laughed. “Do you make them wear Day of the Week panties?”

  “How else would I keep track?”

  “All right, all right. Speaking of tracks . . . we done here? It’s almost half four.” Rick glanced at the clock above Jim’s head.

  “What’s your hurry?” Sam demanded.

  “I’ve got a five o’clock class.”

  “Control Freaks Anonymous? I’m glad you’ve finally admitted you have a problem.”

  “Go ahead, Summerisle. Take the piss. It’s a gym class, if you must know.”

  “Mixed martial arts?” Jim piped in. “Jazzercise?” Everyone had a laugh.

  “So witty, you lot. I’m going to a yoga class. And before you open your gobs to anyone about it”—he wagged a finger in warning—“think of all the skeletons I could drag out of your closets. You”—he pointed at Sam—“codpiece and lipstick. I’ve got photographic proof. Digger . . . I won’t even go there,” he said, and shook his head. Adrian held up his hands, surrendering quickly. “Jim, just because you’re the new guy doesn’t mean you escape unscathed. I’m recalling a certain night . . . oh yes, last summer. The Brass Rail will never be the same.” Jim reddened at Rick’s mention of the famous strip club in Toronto. “And even you, Thor.” Rick turned on their producer, who was practically doubled up in laughter over the console. “Three words: Vietnamese basket trick. Oh, and five-hundred-dollar daily cocaine habit.”

  “That’s more than three words,” Thor pointed out, sobering a bit. “And I’ve been clean—and I’ve been practicing Tai Chi—for over seven years now. Nothing wrong with yoga.”

  “Yeah, mate. Kat has me doing a bit,” Adrian admitted. “I like it.”

  “My wife loves hot yoga,” Jim supplied. “We have some great sex,” he added randomly.

  Sam perked up at the notion. “Think there’s room in your class for one more?”

  “No, bugger off!”

  * * *

  Rick glanced down at the address on the card once he located Rivington Street. He wasn’t very familiar with Manhattan beyond the numbered grid. “Don’t let the address fool you,” were the words of the NYU instructor. Whatever that means, he thought. Isabelle had called the area skid row, but she rarely ventured off Park Avenue. His thumb rubbed over the name of the studio, Evolve, printed on the slightly dog-eared card as if it were trying to coax a genie out of a lamp. Come on now, he thought. Show yourself.

  Like the East End of London, the Lower East Side of Manhattan still had a whisper of old world Judaism to it. He passed Streit’s, the old matzo maker, with its Kosher food items lining the shelves. Paul had been right; the area was clearly in a state of hyper gentrification. Trendy bars and shops were muscling their way in between the dirty brick buildings with their ancient fire escapes, and a newish glass boutique hotel hulked over the tenement landscape. It may have stuck out like a sore thumb, but the structure clearly just thumbed its nose at everyone walking by, daring them to question its foresight. Yes, this area was an up-and-comer. While touring, he and the band were always happy to discover there were places like this, apart from the Ritz-Carltons and Four Seasons of the world.

  He found the building that matched the number on the card, sandwiched between two empty storefronts. But it was a record shop, not anything resembling a yoga studio. Could she have gone out of business in the half a week span since he had seen her? It would be a pity. His eyes were drawn to the flickering neon Open sign in the record store’s window. Tiny lights raced around each letter, highlighting them one by one, then blinking the entire word madly, on off, on off. He imagined his brain doing quite the same thing as it sent out its messages during one of his anxiety attacks. S-T-O-P, stop-stop-stop. H-E-L-P, help-help-help.

  He felt something cold and yielding under his palm and realized he had his hand on the shop’s doorknob. Well, if I can’t find peace through yoga, I may as well take a gander. Music shops ranked high in his comfort zone, at the opposite side of the spectrum from yoga. He sighed. Was it in relief, or disappointment? He wasn’t quite sure.

  The smell of vinyl and cardboard hit him instantly. It brought home a rush of memories, some dating back as far as the seventies. He remembered himself and Digger as kids at Ditcham Park School. His Aunt Bootsy piling them in her Karmann Ghia and dragging them to various shops, from Oxford Street to Camden Town, in hunt of new music. Introducing the boys to Deep Purple’s In Rock, the album that would become their favorite and most influential. He had forgotten this particular smell, and the thrill of walking into a treasure trove just waiting to be excavated. Having fifteen quid in his pocket as a lad and endless hours to peruse.

  Rows and rows of used vinyl beckoned Rick. But he was surprised to also see the number of new releases on vinyl, displayed on the wall above the register. It hadn’t occurred to him to offer a simultaneous vinyl release. Label executives and their distributors were always going on about metadata and the digital formats these days. He wondered how many record manufacturers still existed out there, in the world of the compact disc and MP3.

  He skipped over the Metal section and went straight for the Ds in Rock. Looking for that old album, ironically titled In Rock. In a simpler time, it was the heaviest thing Rick had ever experienced. He could picture the cover in his mind, the band members’ heads in stone as a rock and roll Mount Rushmore, set against a brilliant blue sky. Even their long hair, a style so coveted by the two schoolboys, chiseled into the rock. The store had some oldies, like Made in Japan and Machine Head. Rick chuckled to think his fifteen quid would barely cover one these days.

  “Hi, need some help?”

  A very curvy shopgirl stood before him, her elbow propped on the Bs.

  “Just browsing. I once had this, pressed on purple vinyl.” He held up Machine Head. “French import.”

  “Sw
eet!” The jet-black fringe above her brow ruffled with her exhale. “Mikey’s always looking to buy, as well as sell. He’s the owner.”

  “Cripes, I wish I still had it. Lost along the way, I’m sure.” Probably before you were born, he almost added, but didn’t. “Hey, erm . . . do you know about . . .”

  “Sidra’s classes?” She gestured toward his hand, and he looked down. Cripes, he’d been clutching the card she had given him the whole time, and now it was sweaty and rumpled in addition to slightly dog-eared. “Her students usually use the other door. But I’ll take you through the shop; come on.”

  Rick followed the girl, his face curiously hot at the notion of being someone’s “student.” Sidra’s student. She led him away from the familiar and into a serene yellow corridor through the back of the shop. Rick glanced over his shoulder. Had he not been so fixated on the record store at the time, he may have noticed this long corridor when walking through the front door. It was a straight shot, whereas he had had to make an abrupt right turn through another entryway to get to the music store.

  “Better hurry, I think she’s starting. Changing room is over there. It’s a one-staller, so always knock. Use any of these”—she gestured to a row of pale green lockers—“for valuables and shoes. Grab a mat and you’re all set.”

  “Right. Thank you.” Rick felt compelled to keep his voice low, although there was still a door separating the yoga studio from the outer lounge. Once left on his own, he surveyed the cozy space. It was decorated in an East Indian style, with dark pipe and drape. Spicy Votivo candles burned on a low table between two couches. It was a place, as his sons would say, to “chillax.” He had experienced dressing rooms backstage that had tried hard to achieve this same vibe, yet fell flat.

  He studied the class schedule tacked to the wall. With the exception of Thursdays, each day of the week offered a variety of classes to choose from. Rick smirked as Sam’s Day of the Week panty girls came to mind. Different day, different flavor. He contemplated sitting out the class in the lounge, waiting until he could just speak with Sidra privately. Maybe he didn’t need a bevy of classes, but instead a breathing technique to quell the anxiety. Something he could practice at home. He didn’t have hours to devote to lying on some floor with a bunch of strangers.