I pull into the parking lot behind the nondescript building on Diversey with the discreet signage: L’Amour Dance Studio. Good Lord. I’m wearing a new workout outfit: black leggings and a black fitted tank with built-in bra, a zip-up fleece jacket, a new pair of trainers on my feet. My recent bet-related embracing of a fitness regimen required the acquisition of some gear, since, while chefwear is comfortable for a lot of things, working out isn’t on the list. I’ve been testing the options at various facilities around town, and so far I enjoy the water classes best because they are easiest on my joints. I’ve also had a test session with a personal trainer who specializes in sports injury recovery, working on building muscle mass specifically around supporting old injuries and protecting the body from future reinjury. It was strange to be back in a gym, lifting weights again after over thirty years. But the trainer seemed impressed. “The body remembers form and breathing and technique.” She said I wouldn’t have as far to go as I think to get my body back into better condition. Pilates and yoga have both been recommended to me, but I’m hesitant. They feel a little too earthy-crunchy to me, but I haven’t ruled them out yet.
The studio is dimly lit with pink and lavender lighting, and the walls are upholstered in tufted magenta velvet. There is a vague scent of gardenia in the air, which I’m presuming is meant to be romantic but reminds me vaguely of a perfume my grandmother wore. There are some other women milling around, looking at photos on the walls, cases of costume items, feather boas, corsets . . . I look around and spot Lynne across the room in a quiet corner sitting on a huge antique settee, immersed in her phone. When I step toward her she holds up a finger to let me know that she wants to finish what she is doing. The gesture is a little self-important and more than a little dismissive, and it lands badly with me. It reminds me of when we were kids and if anyone ever said anything she disagreed with, she would hold up her hand in front of their face. She did it with a smile, like it was a joke, but it never felt like much of a joke on the receiving end, and it always took most of my willpower not to swat her hand away. Teresa and I used to call it the Edicts of Lewiston, the way Lynne always presented her opinions as if they were indisputable facts, in a tone that indicated that if your opinions differed, not only were you wrong, but you were also an idiot. It makes me think about me and Lynne making fun of Teresa’s constant lateness, and I wonder what the two of them as a duo find annoying about me.
Lynne finally looks up from her phone and smiles at me. She pats the seat next to her, and I plop down into the deep cushions. “That crazy woman has precisely six minutes to show up to her own stupid dance class, or you and I are getting out of here and finding the nearest Bloody Mary.”
“No argument from me.”
A scantily clad trio of women appear in the lobby, opening a large set of double doors into the studio space. The other women start to head inside. Lynne checks her watch again and raises an eyebrow at me. “Four minutes.”
“I’m sure she’ll be here.”
“We shall see.” She turns back to her phone just as Teresa comes flying through the door.
“Hi, hi, I’m here . . .” she says breathily. “Traffic, and just, crazy at home with the kids . . . and you know, me!”
“Whatever,” Lynne says. “Let’s get this fiasco over with, shall we? I feel a thousand years old. All the girls that just went in there look about twelve.”
We head into the studio space and drop our bags on some chairs in the corner of the room.
A heavily made-up woman in a black brocade corset, platform stilettos in red satin, and a long purple feather boa strides to the front of the room.
“Hello, goddesses! Can everyone gather around, please?”
Lynne looks at me with pure disdain on her face as Teresa grabs our hands and pulls us toward the front of the room.
“So, today is going to be fun! This class is about being loose and free and in our bodies and celebrating the fabulous sensual power that we all have within us. Everyone will get a chance to do all three techniques that we are exploring here today: fan dancing, chair dancing, and pole dancing. We’ll be working in small groups. We’ll get started in just about five minutes—in the meantime, you’ll see some costumes and accessories on the racks and bins in the back of the room. Deck yourselves out in something that makes you feel sexy!”
“I hate you,” Lynne says to Teresa.
“C’mon, it will be fun, we’ll just stick together,” Teresa says, pulling us both over to a bin and draping a blue boa around Lynne’s shoulders.
“Yeah, Lynne, it will be fun,” I say, pulling out a pink satin stretchy waist cincher and snapping it around my thick middle.
“What the hell. Let’s get this over with.” Lynne hands Teresa a sheer silver scarf and we all head over to the other side of the room where there is a set of shiny chrome poles calling our names.
? ? ?
Well, this is not exactly how I had hoped to spend my Sunday,” Lynne says, handing me a cup of coffee.
“Yeah, me either.” I take it gratefully.
“Nurse says she should be in recovery for about another hour before we can see her.”
Giorgio comes flying into the waiting room, trailed by three enormous dark-haired boys. He comes over and hugs Lynne and turns to me.
“It’s so good to see you, Eloise, really, Teresa is very glad to have you both back.” He gives me a powerful hug. He’s just as I remember him, dark hair now sparkling with gray, and thinning a bit around the hairline, but still a big handsome guy with a broad smile. “Come meet the boys. Gio Junior, Francis, Antony, this is your auntie Eloise.” They all shake my hand deferentially. The honorific sounds strange since I’ve never met any of them.
“Boys, here’s some money, go find yourselves a snack or something.” He hands over a handful of bills to Gio Junior, and the three boys head off down the hall. Giorgio turns to us. “What the hell happened?”
“She fell. Broke her ankle in a couple of places. They are putting in some pins,” Lynne says matter-of-factly.
“She’s going to be bionic!” I say, in a very lame attempt at humor. Lynne and Gio both look at me awkwardly.
“How did she fall?” he says.
“We were in an exercise class,” Lynne says pointedly, sending me a message that I shouldn’t elaborate. After all, while Teresa wants to spice up her marriage, she wants it to be organic, and she certainly would not want to embarrass Gio by talking to us about feeling neglected. I suddenly realize that Teresa likely hasn’t told Gio about the bet at all, let alone that part of it.
“Yep,” I say. “My fault, trying out some new things, wanted to get back into shape.”
“Well, I know she was looking forward to hanging out with you girls.”
Lynne snorts. I can’t look at her or I’m going to laugh.
Because hanging was exactly what got Teresa in trouble. She was very enthusiastically executing a spin in a pair of borrowed Lucite heels when she tried to put down her foot at the end of the spin, the heel caught, the ankle turned, and she lost her grip on the pole, and her full weight just snapped the ankle with a loud crunching noise.
“Well, we are having a good time reconnecting, but obviously we’ll have to plan some less athletic events in the future,” Lynne says.
“I’ll bring over some dinners and things this week,” I say, my first impulse always to cook for someone.
“I can help with shuttling the boys to things if you need,” Lynne says, in a way that makes me think she is more likely to give them all access to her Uber account than actually take them anywhere.
“Not to worry, ladies. Between the women at the church and the PTA girls, not to mention my aunts and sisters, we’ll have the home front covered. You can be on cheering-up and keeping-company duty. Because if my T can’t cook and keep the house and run our boys around, she’s gonna go sixteen types of crazy. So plan on some quality time, capeesh?”
“Of course,” I say.
“That goes without saying,” Lynne says.
A doctor comes out. “Teresa Minetti?”