Thank You for Listening(23)

Sewanee sighed. “Mark, you know it’s not just about the money.”

“Handsomely, Swan. Paul Newman/Robert Redford/the-kid-from-Outlander handsomely. This goes way beyond the standard flat session fee.”

She threw up her hands, preparing to be unimpressed. “How far beyond?”

Mark went back to the e-mail. “‘We are prepared to offer Sarah thirty-three percent of the gross revenue. While we don’t know how much this will be, in the interest of full transparency, subscribers will pay ninety-nine cents an episode and we currently have twenty thousand pre-orders and we haven’t even announced the narrators yet. We have a commitment from the male narrator . . .’” At this, Mark glanced up, lips smugly pursed, and said, “‘Brock McNight, who has never done a June French book before, though fans have clamored for it. I know having these two powerhouses doing the project will increase the downloads exponentially. It is a great sadness that June can’t’–yaddyyaddyyahdah–‘please forward this to Sarah and I would also ask that you keep this confidential. Thank you for your time. Jason.’” Mark sat back and laced his fingers across his trim stomach. “Your turn.”

Sewanee sat back down. She stared at Mark across the desk. He waited. Eventually, she said, “I’m not usually motivated by money, but this . . . I have to admit . . .”

“I did some math, just back-of-the-envelope, and my recommendation? Get motivated.”

“I don’t do Romance–”

“Say that one more goddamn time–”

“You didn’t let me finish! I don’t do Romance . . . but I’ll think about it.”

Mark slapped his desk. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Unless you have anything juicy to dish about Vegasland?”

Caught off guard by the topic change, her cheeks flushed traitorously. Mark clocked this, raised his eyebrows. “Ms. Chester!”

Her embarrassment was palpable. “I’m glad I went and I’ll leave it at that.” She stood up.

Mark raised his hands. “You don’t want to tell me about Studman’s prowess in the bedroom, you don’t have to.”

Sewanee’s mouth dropped open in mock-outrage. “I told Alice that in confidence!” He laughed and she stood for one more moment before saying, “Thank you. For everything. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Be a broken, sad mess,” he said buoyantly.

She turned to leave, but then walked back and hugged him.

ON THE DAYS life prevented Sewanee from getting to the gym, she comforted herself knowing she’d at least walked down from her casita to Mark’s house and back up: sixty-four hillside steps each way.

Tonight, she also carried her luggage, so there was that.

She let herself in and flipped on the living room light, set down her suitcase, and ran her sleeve over her brow. She shook off her hoodie and crossed to the sliding door on the opposite side of the room, pulling it open, letting the mild December evening air refresh the tiny space.

She took a moment to step out on the balcony. Mark’s house enjoyed a spectacular view of downtown L.A. and the surrounding vista. The guesthouse shared the view, but those sixty-four gym-skipping steps gave her an even greater sense of the expanse.

Hollywood down in front. To the right, the dam of the reservoir peeking out. Further beyond, the twinkling lights of the city. Occasionally, a searchlight at Grauman’s Chinese Theatre or the Egyptian or an awards ceremony at the Dolby would scan the sky, but not tonight. It was a quiet Sunday evening. Lines of white headlights and red taillights demarcated Highland and Cahuenga and Vine, all running to and from the 101 freeway like parallel stripes in a tartan plaid. In the distance and slightly to the right, the lights simply disappeared, fell off, giving way to the Pacific. The pièce de résistance laid in wait behind her. She walked to the left side of the balcony and turned around, looking up the hill to the Hollywood sign, looming larger than most people ever got to see it. The sight always made her feel at home.

Tonight, there was a marine layer on the west side and a little smog on this side of town, so the sunset was less a bowl of bright sherbet and more a slowly expanding puddle of spilled strawberry milk shake.

Sewanee never took any of this for granted. It was a view people paid millions of dollars to see every night and she got it for the bargain price of running the studio.

She went back inside, into the small galley kitchen–still boasting flamingo-pink tiles from the 1930s–and put the kettle on. She went into the cozy living room, turned on the TV, clicked through to the Golf Channel. She quickly unpacked, came back into the kitchen as the kettle began to whistle, and made herself a cup of ginger tea in the Tea-For-One combination cup and mini teapot her mother had given her when she’d graduated from Julliard. Marilyn had wanted her daughter to remember that being alone, being on her own, didn’t mean she had to be lonely. It was a symbol of independence and she loved it.

Finally, she settled on her love seat, curled her legs under her, and took stock of her life.

How much could possibly change in twenty-four hours?

She’d once known the answer to that: everything. But this time was different. This time wasn’t immediately tangible. This was more like a seed had been planted; the change was in the offing.

She picked up her phone in an effort to change the channel in her brain and noticed she had a WhatsApp message from her mother. She clicked on it.