Free A New Lu by Laura Castoro Page A

open, and I turn my head to say something unkind when the strobe lights catch me completely unready.
    â€œThat’s a wrap.’’ Curran lowers his camera, grinning likea kid who’s just won his first applecart derby. “You were great.” He pats his camera.
    I’m gaping like a fish jerked out of water. “I—I don’t think I can—”
    â€œWe need dinner. Cuban!” Curran says with all certainty that his twentysomething stomach is cast-iron reliable. He glances at KaZi, who’s slim as a reed in funky capris and a shapeless vest that still manages to convey that she’s not wearing a bra, and possibly needs one. “Want to come?”
    â€œYou paying?” KaZi’s standard comments to Curran are always framed as a challenge. I suspect she likes him.
    The tips of Curran’s ears turn a painful pink. He’s broke.
    â€œOn me,” I say. Someone may as well enjoy a meal.
    Later, in bed with a carton of Healthy Choice ice cream, and wondering at what point in its consumption does it become an unhealthy choice, I ponder my day. I’ve lied, cheated, pretended and cried in the shower, and it’s only Tuesday. At this rate I won’t make it through the week on my own.
    I reach for the phone. Who can I call?
    Halfway through dialing Jacob’s number, I realize I truly do not want to speak to him. I hang up and reach for the TV remote.
    Ingrid is telling Cary how she doesn’t need him in her life anymore. She’s married now to Claude Raines. She’s fine—better than fine. Any fool can see she’s lying. But he’s a man, and he hears what he needs to hear so that he can leave her to her fate.
    Sometimes a woman is better off alone with her own thoughts.

May
    Women know that passion doesn’t end with aging.
So why sit around fanning and thinking,
wouldn’t it be nice if…?
That heat from within will smother you if you try too hard to resist.
    â€”“Late-Life Sex and Then Some”
CUE LU!

7
    Two weeks and nothing.
    My skin is creamier. I’ve had my pores vacuumed, helped by the array of new night-and-day and in-between creams I’m using. From now on, a monthly facial will be part of my routine. And I’ve decided I should exercise. Nothing stressful. I looked it up on the Internet. Doctors recommend something easy for pregnant women, like a beginner’s yoga class.
    â€œHave you ever done yoga?” Andrea asks this in a tone that suggests I know nothing of what I’m getting myself into. I’ve brought her along for moral support. Besides, it was my turn to pick our outing.
    â€œSure. About fifteen years ago.” For eight weeks, before life took over and yoga went the way of many things in a working mother’s world. Since then, I’ve tried lots of different exercise classes. But I suffer from interest fatigue. It doesn’t take long for me to tire of the same old thing.
    â€œYou don’t want to do this.” Andrea’s voice drops to a conspirator’s murmur as she leans toward me. “Trust me.Yoga looks pretty but it can destroy your soul.” Some moral support.
    We have our rolled rubber mats slung over our backs, as do all the women and a few men in the line inching its way down a narrow corridor toward the designated classroom. Andrea is wearing a fuchsia sports bra, and black shorts that make the most of her dimensions in that area. J. Lo would be proud. I have a turquoise T over my bra and stretchy ankle-length yoga pants.
    â€œThink of the alternatives.” She leans in. “We could be sitting in a bistro, saluting the demise of a pail of mussels in butter and broth with shots of vodka.”
    Pregnant women shouldn’t eat a lot of shellfish, I remind myself. Out of the side of my mouth, I say, “The last shellfish-and-alcohol combination made me sick.”
    â€œThen barbecued lamb riblets and lemonade,” the serpent in my