Isn't She Lovely (Redemption 0.5)(18)
“Stephanie. Some mercy?”
She takes a deep breath. “Right. So … the story of Pygmalion doesn’t stop there. It’s been used in poems and paintings for centuries, but the most notable version is a play written by George Bernard Shaw—”
“Is this really the short version?”
“—which becomes a movie. And then it becomes the inspiration for a bunch of other movies about men falling in love with women that they’ve created.”
I’m not gonna lie. Good student or not, I’m struggling to keep up with the girl. “Okay, so you’re telling me that there are multiple movies about men who build a female statue out of rock—ivory—and fall in love with it?”
She scribbles something else in her notebook. “No, that’s the beauty of film. There have been a bunch of reimaginings. The most classic is My Fair Lady, of course, but there’s also Pretty Woman, She’s All That … all movies in which the guy dresses the woman as someone she’s not in order to fulfill a bet or some sort of social obligation. You know. A charade.”
Finally the pieces kind of fit into place. “Okay, I’m with you so far. All we have to do is transcribe your little monologue there about how the Pygmalion story has permeated Hollywood, and then put our own fresh take on it?”
“Exactly.”
I catch Steven’s eye and gesture for two more beers. “All right, I’m in. What’s our spin on the story going to be?”
Stephanie stuffs a stack of nachos into her face and chews thoughtfully. “Well, it’s like this, partner. Seeing as I’ve done all of the thinking up until now, it’s about time you put that pretty, overgelled head to work. Our screenplay idea? That’s gonna be your contribution.”
Chapter Seven
Stephanie
“Steph, you sure you don’t want to watch the movie?”
I look up from the tiny kitchen table where I’ve been working on Ethan’s and my film project for the last hour. Not that I want to work on the project, or even need to, since it’s not due for a couple of months.
But the alternative is cuddling up on the couch with David and Leah while they watch some sort of indie-drama nonsense. I’m all for independent films, but I hate the ones that wear “indie” like a big middle finger to Hollywood. Small budgets are no excuse for producing garbage, and judging from the number of angsty montages in this one, it’s pure, lazy filmmaking crap.
That, and the couch isn’t that big. Joining them would mean sitting hip to hip with David as he occasionally gropes Leah while making sexy eyes at me.
It’s been like that lately. I don’t think the guy wants me back, but he seems to be grossly turned on by having his current girlfriend and ex-girlfriend in the same space. It’s totally skeeving me out, but I’m trying to be adult about it.
Although if this is adult, it sucks balls.
Back in high school—back before everything happened—I used to imagine what college would be like. I pictured late-night study groups and gossiping with my girlfriends, beer pong and parties, and maybe a few cute boyfriends here and there so that when I finally met the one, I’d know what I was doing.
My vision wasn’t even close to reality.
Instead, my social circle consists of a handful of fellow film nerds, a cheating ex-boyfriend turned roommate, and now a beefcake of a rich boy who probably plays rugby and drinks wine coolers in his spare time.
I frown and push my notebook away. I’ve been thinking about Ethan Price a good deal more than I’d like lately. As a film partner, he’s absolutely wretched. But he hasn’t been half bad company. For a second there in that pub, it almost felt like we were friends. Or at least as close to friends as a punk arts student and a whitewashed business student can be.
Because, charming or not, the guy doesn’t know the first thing about me.
You could go home, he said.
No, Price, that’s the one thing I can’t do.
David and Leah could start having sex on the couch I was supposed to sleep on, and I still wouldn’t go home.
And judging from the way David’s hand is now fully palming Leah’s boob, that scenario isn’t nearly as far-fetched as I might wish.
There’s a knock at the door, and all three of us look at each other in expectation. But apparently nobody is expecting a visitor, because Leah and David merely turn their eyes back to the television.
“I’ve got it,” I mutter. For as little as I’m paying David to stay here, the least I can do is play butler.
I stand on my toes to look through the peephole, as is an automatic reaction for any sane female living in a non-doorman building in New York City.
My heart jolts a little, and I drop back to the flat of my feet. Then I rise again to get a second look, just to be sure.
Yup, still him.
“Who is it?” David asks.
I ignore David and slowly open the door, giving my mind time to recover from the tricks it’s playing on my eyes.
But there are no tricks.
Ethan Price is standing on the other side of my door, looking 100 percent out of place in his unwrinkled khaki shorts and blue-and-white button-down.
“Hey, partner,” he says with an easy grin. “Can I come in?”
I don’t move.