Natasha turns away, crossing her arms.
"The next time she's in here, " continues Lucia. "Just grab her and tell her you're taking her home."
Natasha was never sure whether she was grateful for dating advice provided by Lucia. In some ways they shared the direct approach but where Natasha suffered crippling self-doubt, Lucia radiated preternatural self-confidence.
The next week, Sawyer didn't show up to rooftop yoga or LGBT yoga. Natasha is convinced that she had done something to scare Sawyer away. Maybe she had some sort of psychic power that picked up when people came with her name on their lips. Natasha had experienced many people sign up for yoga and drop out a couple of weeks later, and so she tells herself that she would just have to accept it.
Natasha goes shopping, and buys a mug. It's not the sort she would usually buy. Usually her interior design influences are part Russian caravan on the silk road, part Oregon fortune teller, and part what she imagines the inside of a whale's mouth to look like. The mug is a pale pastel pink stamped with turquoise palm trees outlined in gold. It feels smooth and clean in her hands. She uses it once and stuffs it to the back of the cupboard.
The following week, Natasha gets a notification to say that the Boston Women's Art Centre account is now being followed by Sawyer's account. She likes a picture that Natasha had taken of the sunset from the roof, and a picture of Tara from the LGBT group in her first destroyer of the universe pose. Natasha tries to snoop on her profile, but it's private.
Natasha thinks of sending her a message asking if she had done anything to drive Sawyer away, but she doesn't want to send anything Gillian might not approve of. She's been trusted with the social media stuff, and she didn't want to do anything that made Gillian think she couldn't handle it.
She works for twenty minutes on a message that sounds appropriately corporate and written by a computer.
Hey Sawyer!
Thanks for liking our photo! We're pretty proud of the view from the centre! If you ever wanted to join us for yoga at the centre, we'd love to have you!
Many thanks,
All at the BWAC.
Natasha felt like a business woman, perhaps selling timeshares in luxury holiday apartments.
Minutes later, a reply.
Hi Natasha. Apologies, I'm a tied up with work right now. Sawyer.
Natasha feels like a jerk. She tries to put it to the back of her mind for the next two weeks, but those stupid exclamation points keep making her cringe. She tries to make sure she is extra-professional at the centre. She instagrams herself in a new pose every day. She uses her notebook to plan every session pose-by-pose. She dodges hugs, avoids the café, speaks no Russian.
CHAPTER FOUR
✤✤✤
Sawyer knows that she looks killer. She's got a meeting after this with the creative team to discuss the shitfest that was the New York residency, and how they can lick things into shape for their Boston residency and the Massachusetts tour. She's mad as hell and has two sheets of notes for things that simply have to change. But first, she has an apology to make.
She's in a skin-tight pleather skirt in a light pastel pink, with a simple white shirt tucked in. It's basic, but effective. She likes the little creases in the pleather where it stretches over her curves. She likes the little gold buttons on her shirt, and the gold collar tips she's clipped on.
Sawyer has made her way to the Boston Women's Art Centre and is waiting on the long, wooden mess table in the café. Around her there are a group of mums with young babies, a few people working on laptops and a group of older ladies waiting to go in to the small art cinema at the centre.
She's asked the sour looking barista if Natasha has arrived yet, and was glad to hear that she hadn't. Sawyer sits facing the sliding glass doors, elbows braced on the table.
Finally, Natasha walks in. Her walk has a sort of strut to it. It's fast and jaunty, but she keeps her arms straight just like a model. She's wearing a loose batik jumpsuit with a leather jacket thrown on top. Sawyer likes her green eyes and her striking cheekbones. She likes her dirty blonde curly hair, and her strong hands. She thinks that it’s probably unlikely that her hot yoga teacher will condescend to fuck her, but Sawyer realizes that the first rung on that ladder is probably being a bit nicer.
"Hi, it's me!" She shouts across the foyer to Natasha.
Natasha cracks up. "Oh, mama, that's..." she screws up her face, wheezing.
Sawyer clasps her hands together and takes a breath, "I want to apologise for disappearing, and for being rude to you when you messaged me."
"Oh, no," says Natasha. "It's yoga, not a fucking probation appointment."
"I felt it was rude. I've not been in Boston, I've been on tour with work. This is a bit weird but when we were in NYC I got you..."
Sawyer brings out a small brown paper bag held shut with a narrow strip of tape. Natasha rips into the paper, takes out a rectangular fridge magnet of a Soviet woman farmer holding a basket of corn while looking dreamily off to the sunset. Natasha holds it in her hands and doesn't say much. Sawyer realizes suddenly that it's not usual to buy
