by Lisa Walker
‘I’ll drop off your expenses later,’ says Rosco as I leave. ‘I’ve got to go to the bank first. See you soon.’
Not if I see you first, Vader. I shut the door with a bang.
Jacq’s playing with her extensive Lego collection when I get back to Nan’s, but she turns her face up for a kiss.
‘What was Rosco doing in Byron Bay?’ she asks.
‘It wasn’t Rosco.’
‘Yes, it was.’ Jacq turns back to her Lego. She appears to be building a gigantic blue wave with a surfer on it.
Nan sees the yoga lesson cued on my laptop while we’re chopping vegetables for dinner. ‘Are you planning on doing some yoga, Olivia? It is excellent for toning the derriere.’ She eyes my baggy tracksuit pants.
I straighten my back. ‘Yeah, I’ve got a job as a yoga instructor at Ajay’s joint.’
Nan drops her knife. ‘You what?’
I pull my instructor’s certificate out from underneath the laptop and brandish it. ‘See? I am an accomplished yoga instructor.’ I whisk it away before she spots my unusual surname.
Nan snorts. ‘If you’re a yoga instructor, then I’m the cat’s pyjamas,’ she mutters as she dices her carrots.
I ignore her. Jealousy is a curse.
Being Monday, it is chicken curry night, which is appropriate. I put on some Bollywood music on Spotify to help the mood along. ‘Tonight after dinner, I will lead you in a yoga class,’ I say.
‘Knock knock,’ says Jacq in reply.
‘Who’s there?’
‘Yoga.’
‘Yoga who?’
‘Yoga to try this, it feels gooood.’
‘Who told you that one?’ I ask.
‘Kid at soccer.’ Jacq chases her curry around the plate. ‘His mother’s a yoga teacher.’
‘Like your sister.’ Nan smiles brightly. ‘You know there are lots of different types of yoga, don’t you, Olivia? Which type do you teach?’
She’s trying to catch me out. ‘Hatha yoga.’ Ha. I had that one in the test.
‘Well, of course Hatha yoga.’ She clears the dishes. ‘But is it Iyengar, Ashtanga, Bikram, Kundalini, Jivamukti? There are so many types.’
She must be making it up, there can’t be that many types, can there? I glance at my laptop. Underneath Yoga for beginners, it says Iyengar style. ‘Iyengar.’
‘Iyengar?’
I don’t like her tone. ‘Yeah, Iyengar.’
‘There are easier types to master, darling. There are lots of props and so on with Iyengar.’
‘I—am—an—Iyengar—instructor.’
Nan turns the kettle on. ‘You always overreach. Do you want a hot chocolate, Jacq, before Livvy gives you your Iyengar yoga lesson?’
Jacq is already on the floor in perfect lotus pose. Leaning forward, she walks on her knees towards me. ‘Yes please, Nan. Livvy, how many yogis does it take to change a light bulb?’
‘I don’t know. How many yogis does it take to change a light bulb?’
‘Into what?’
‘What?’
‘That’s the answer,’ says Jacq. ‘Into what?’
I laugh. ‘I get it.’ I push her off her knees onto her bottom. ‘Look at you—you don’t need to do yoga, you’re already as bendy as a banana.’
I turn down the Bollywood music and press play on the yoga class. My pupils, Nan, Jacq and Kevin, line up obediently in front of me. We stretch and bend together. Except for Kevin, who rolls over and goes to sleep.
Nan has lots of helpful tips. As we lie and lift our legs into shoulder stand she calls out, ‘Don’t stick your bottom out so much.’ In tree pose it’s, ‘suck in your stomach.’
‘I’m the instructor,’ I say after one tip too many. I try to think of a cutting remark that will demonstrate my superior knowledge. ‘Your alignment’s all wrong.’ Half my class turns surly at that point, but Jacq’s impressed.
It’s Jacq’s bedtime after the first half of the video. Nan takes her off for tooth brushing and doesn’t come back. The West Wing blares from under her door soon after—Nan has the entire series on DVD—so I’m left to study on my own.
I leave the video on pause while I do some extra headstand practice. I can take my legs off the wall for a few moments at a time now without falling over. The smell of success is in my nostrils as I press ‘play’.
The video is an old one—the instructor’s hair is set in immovable blonde waves around her pretty face—but she knows her stuff. In the second half she brings out the props—belts, blocks, balls, blankets and bolsters. I’ll never admit it to Nan, but this Iyengar yoga is tricky stuff.
I’m getting tired by this stage, but I follow her moves, using stuff from around the house in place of the proper equipment. At ten o’clock I move onto Intermediate Yoga and things get hardcore.
Half an hour later, I’m on my back, knees pressed either side of my ears, looking at a hole in the crutch of my tracksuit pants. I have a dressing gown cord tied around my ankles, Jacq’s soccer ball between my thighs, multiple copies of Nan’s Nancy Drew books tucked under my bum, a pillow off the lounge under my shoulder blades and my head is resting on a picnic blanket.
‘Breathe deeply and enjoy the deep serenity these poses bring,’ says my instructor.
I moan. I don’t feel serene—I feel trapped. I should have released the dressing gown cord before wedging my head between my knees.
‘Let your legs separate from your body,’ croons the video.
I must have misheard—my knees are blocking my ears. I start to panic. What if I can’t get out of the pose? I’ll be stuck here until morning.
‘Relax. Extend your spine. With each breath allow yourself to sink a little deeper.’
I can’t see the video, but an evil note seems to have entered her voice. I try to block the idea that she’s metamorphosing into a vile creature with manky black hair—if only I’d never watched The Grudge. I just want her to leave me alone.
‘Lift your bellybutton away from your navel,’ she says in a sinister tone.
No, no, no, I shriek mentally. Anything but that. It doesn’t even make sense. As I ponder the meaning of her instruction, there’s a knock at the door.
Who on earth knocks on doors at this time of night? I struggle, swaying from side to side, but it’s no good. I can’t escape—the evil yoga teacher has me trapped. I moan louder—I can’t talk, a soccer ball is pressing into my nose.
The knocking gets louder, then stops. Next thing there’s a bang, followed by a crashing sound. I scream, swivel my eyes, see two legs coming towards me and scream again, though not very loudly as I’m still muffled by the soccer ball.
Kevin leaps up from where he’s sleeping. His legs blur as he runs past me—not towards the intruder, but away.
The door to Nan’s room opens and her bare legs run out. Kevin follows—bolder now. There’s a confusion of sounds—growling (Kevin), squealing (Nan) and grunting (me, as I try to free myself).
‘No,’ says a familiar man’s voice.
‘You bastard,’ says Nan. The sound of something hard hitting bone follows.
The man moans.
I give a gigantic heave and roll over onto my side, the soccer ball coming free as I do so.
Nan, in a short lacy negligee, is standing over a man who lies on the ground, his hands over his head. Kevin, in a delirium of excitement, has his teeth locked on his T-shirt. He growls, snarls and slobbers, the hero of the day in his little canine mind.
I focus on the figure on the ground.
‘Are you all right, Olivia? I’ll take care of him.’ Nan raises her baseball bat, panting. She too is starring in an action-packed drama. My family is crazed with blood-lust—only Jacq, bless her, sleeps on.
‘No, Nan,’ I yell. ‘It’s Rosco.’
Nan glances over at me, not releasing the bat, then back at Rosco. She squints at him. She’s clearly taken her contacts out. ‘So it is. Well, why are you tied up like that?’
Rosco moans. ‘Don’t hit
me again.’ He sits up, rubbing his head.
Kevin backs off, barking—he’s only brave when his prey is on the ground.
‘I just wanted to give Olivia her expenses for Byron Bay. I was going to tuck them under the door, but I saw the light was on. When no one answered I looked through the keyhole. It looked like she was in trouble.’
Nan turns to watch me disentangling myself from my pose. ‘Did you get yourself into this state, Olivia?’ She lowers the bat reluctantly, shaking her head. ‘I did warn you about Iyengar yoga.’ A snort of laughter escapes her lips. ‘You look like a trussed-up chicken.’
On my laptop, my yoga instructor is now coming to the end of her routine. Her face has gone back to serenity—but a hint of evil lingers in her doll-like eyes. ‘Relax, rid yourself of negative thoughts. Breathe in the silver, blow out the black.’
Rosco’s hair is tousled and falling over his eyes. He doesn’t look much like Prince Phillip right now. He looks more like Han Solo after he fought the giant otter.
I have an urge to smooth his hair out, but instead I breathe deeply. ‘Thanks for dropping off my expenses. I need to finish up my yoga practice now.’
13
‘Touch marine life wonders and experience a world of exciting rides and attractions including the amazing Shark Bay. Visit our special polar bears …’
My radio alarm goes off early and I jump out of bed, ready for a big day. Not. Thanks to Ms Iyengar—AKA The Grudge—I have a cricked neck, an aching back and I fervently wish my legs would separate from my body and quit giving me hell.
My stomach squirms as I see the broken door, which Rosco has jammed shut. But there’s no point in dwelling on last night. As Ms Iyengar says, breathe in the silver, blow out the black. Today stay positive I must. Not only am I making my debut as a yoga instructor, but I have a hot date with Mr Bouncy back on the Gold Coast in the evening. It’s a high-achieving day. I take a photo of my yoga instructor certificate, making sure ‘Granolo’ is out of frame, and post it—Inhale the future, exhale the past #namaste #yogaislife #yogini.
After a quick trip into Active Sports for some chic yoga wear—psychedelic tights and a black lycra singlet with a picture of a whale on it—I’m on my way to Lighthouse Bliss.
Forty-five minutes later, the familiar streets surround me. The pavement is teeming with the usual frenzied mix: hippies down from the hills, European backpackers, spiky-haired Japanese surfers and gold-sandalled blondes in white linen beach wear.
As I drive through the main street, a familiar face goes past my window. Brooklyn from Brooklyn. What’s she doing in Byron Bay? Her long hair is pulled into a sleek bun and her black business suit would be more at home in Melbourne or New York. She’s holding a mobile phone the size of a book to her mouth and talking animatedly. She looks like she’s in one of those Netflix shows about glamorous lawyers. I follow her with my eyes for a moment, then drive on—my new job beckons.
Lighthouse Bliss is only a couple of minutes out of town. I park among the bangalow palms and make my way past the flowering lily pond to reception.
The usual South American panpipes are playing and lavender wafts from an aromatherapy burner. A pair of pale, slender feet appear to be staffing the reception desk. Peering over, I see a girl in a headstand. Her back is as straight as a ruler. Jealousy stabs me. Will I ever be able to do that?
She isn’t even using her arms to support herself. She is holding a book, which she appears to be reading. Tilting my head, I read the upside-down title—How to Be a Yoga Rock Star. ‘Hello,’ I say.
She brings her legs down slowly, pausing halfway before dropping them to the ground. Getting to her feet, she smiles. ‘Hello, I’m Madeleine. How can I help you?’ It’s the breathy voice I heard on the phone. She’s about my age and striking, with red hair, slanted green eyes and tiny freckles that dot her creamy skin. She’s carefully made-up, with glossy red lipstick, eyeliner and even fake eyelashes. I hope that’s not a pre-requisite for yoga instructors as my own face is au naturel.
‘Hi, I’m here about the yoga teacher position. Olivia Granolo.’
Madeleine nods. ‘Come this way.’ She sets off down the corridor, treading with the precise step of a ballet dancer.
‘Nice headstand.’ I hope I sound like a true connoisseur.
‘Thanks. I try to do an hour a day. How about you?’
‘Same.’ In my dreams.
‘The pose begins when you want to get out of it, right?’
‘Absolutely.’ I have no idea what she’s talking about and I’m worried I’m sounding too sycophantic, but she seems to buy it.
Above her tight iridescent-blue stretch pants Madeleine is wearing a singlet with a cartoon of people eating sushi. As she moves ahead of me I read the caption on the back—Scientific whaling in progress.
‘It totally sucks doesn’t it—eating whale meat?’ I’m mainly trying to bond, but who doesn’t love whales?
Madeleine shakes her head, her silky hair falling around her face. ‘I can’t believe it. It’s like eating people. Worse. Whales are so pure. Their spirits are so innocent.’
Madeleine and I sit down on white armchairs in an all-white room. She crosses her legs and I notice a tattoo of a shark on her ankle. She barely glances at my qualification. ‘So, Olivia, how long have you been practising yoga?’ she asks.
A few days would probably not go down well. ‘Ah, I started when I was thirteen. Five years.’
She nods slowly. ‘I started at eight. It would have been good to start earlier.’
Damn. ‘I mean, obviously I started before thirteen, but that was when I got serious.’
‘Right.’ She looks sceptical. ‘And how long have you been teaching?’
‘Two years.’ Clearly she didn’t notice that my certificate was dated yesterday, or she wouldn’t have asked. ‘How about you?’
‘I left school when I was fifteen to train as an instructor, four years ago. So, in the time you’ve been teaching, what are some of the challenges you’ve faced?’
I don’t think getting trapped in my yoga equipment is a job-winning answer. ‘Ah, I love yoga so much, my main challenge is having enough hours in the day to do all the yoga I want to do.’
Madeleine nods, she isn’t giving much away. ‘Who was your teacher?’
I rack my brain for a place she won’t know. ‘Oh, I trained in Iceland when I was there on a student exchange, under Lars Vindendigger.’
Now, her face lights up. ‘Wow.’ Her whale earrings dance with excitement. ‘Iceland; I’d love to go there. You’ll have to tell me all about it. Hey,’ she eyes the whale on my lycra singlet, ‘you weren’t involved in demonstrations against whaling in Iceland, were you?’
I nod modestly.
‘That is so cool.’ My whale activism has tipped the balance in my favour as she hands me the key to the studio. ‘Your first class is at twelve. The studio space is free now if you want to warm up.’
‘Oh, great. I’ll do that. Is Ajay around today?’ I ask.
‘Why, do you want an autograph?’ Madeleine’s voice has a cool undertone.
‘No, just wondering. I guess you get a lot of that. You know, groupies.’
‘You have no idea.’ Madeleine rolls her eyes. ‘He’s got over a million followers on Instagram, so …’
‘I don’t know how his wife puts up with it.’
Madeleine looks at me intently. ‘You know Rochelle?’
I shake my head quickly. ‘No. She was in Woman’s Weekly. I read it at the doctor’s.’
Madeleine grimaces. ‘I don’t think Rochelle cares too much. She’s got her life on the Gold Coast, he’s got his here. As long as the money rolls in.’ She stands up and points out through the door. ‘That’s your studio over there. It’s got everything you need.’ She glides down the corridor away from me.
There’s half an hour until my lesson and my stomach is rumbling so I head over to the health food bar. Eying the selection, I grab the most edible looking thing in s
ight: a bran, oatmeal, craisin and chia muffin. I gobble it down and it sinks like a rock to the bottom of my stomach.
My yoga class starts filing in at about five to twelve. Most of them look alarmingly fit. Breathe in the silver, blow out the black. I am cool, calm, relaxed, I tell myself. I am a yoga guru.
‘What sort of class is this?’ asks one of the women.
I’m ready for that. ‘Iyengar.’
‘Oh good; I like Iyengar, it’s more painful,’ she murmurs to her companion.
It doesn’t go too badly at first. I repeat lots of salutes to the sun. That fills in some time. Then I make an on-the-spot decision to get stuck into all the props that line the walls. Soon I have them all on their backs, balls squeezed between their legs doing backbends. This is much easier to say, than to do, so it’s lucky I’m saying not doing.
The main difficulty is, my body appears to be rejecting the bran muffin. Loud gurgles and rumblings emanate from beneath my psychedelic tights. I’d have been all right, though, if not for the woman with the sinewy arms and legs in the front row.
‘Can you demonstrate a handstand?’ she asks.
A handstand? I’ve never done one of those in my life. But maybe they’re easier than they look. The class waits expectantly. There doesn’t seem to be any alternative, so I put my hands on the ground, fling my legs up and … topple over sideways, emitting a loud muffin-fuelled burp as I do so. As I land on the mat, I hear screams. Rolling over, I see my students stampeding for the door. Wow. I know it wasn’t a great handstand, and the burp was kind of gross, but—
A small black shape runs after them. I blink. Another one runs past. And another. I sit up and focus. Rats! They’re everywhere—nestled among the fluffy blankets, chewing at the imported Indian belts, climbing the Ajay brand blocks. It’s like Nancy Drew’s Mystery of the Brass-bound Trunk.
Two of the biggest rats I’ve ever seen run towards me, their front teeth bared. I jump to my feet. Code red, code red. Espionage. It must be. There’s no way all these rats could just appear in a posh place like Lighthouse Bliss. I run to the corner of the studio, pull my phone out of my gym bag and snap off some shots of the furry invaders. Where did they come from? One minute I’ve got a pile of top quality props, the next they’re swarming with rodents.
