Thank You for Listening(84)

“No. But now I’m thinking I should.”

“Yeah, maybe you’d work more,” she deadpanned, and Nick chuckled. She pushed her hair back from her face, banded it into a high pony.

Nick rolled up his sleeves. “Okay, so, I think I’m up first. To remind ourselves: it’s after the gondola ride–”

“Ah yes, the heavy petting–”

“And Alessandro opened up a little, told her about his uncle, the Casanova line, the responsibility–”

“And then Claire said she was ready. Finally. And they were heading back to his palazzo.”

Nick nodded once, put his hands on his hips. “Right.”

Sewanee mirrored him. “Right.”

They stared at each other, the reality of what they were about to record inserting itself between them. Now that they would be reading with the other person present, watching, it was awkward, and clearly not only for her.

“So,” Nick said, “Alessandro’s point of view.”

“Alessandro’s point of view.” She inclined her head at Cosmo, waiting at the open studio door. “In you go.”

Nick looked at her for one more beat then walked into the room.

Cosmo stood Nick behind one of the microphones, began adjusting the height of the mic, the angle, the distance from the music stand and Nick’s distance, in turn, from that.

Sewanee settled in behind the control panel on one end, leaving most of the area clear for Cosmo, who, he’d told them, would be engineering the session. There was a tablet waiting for her and the episode’s text was already queued up. She scrolled through.

Cosmo came back in, closing the double doors to the studio behind him. Sewanee liked the air-locking sound of closing studio doors. There was something safe about it. As if she were being sealed off, protected from the punishments of the outside world. Cosmo smiled sweetly at her and she smiled serenely back thinking, you have no idea what you’re about to hear, do you? He hurriedly sat himself in front of the board, nudged the mouse, brought his monitors to life, and went from a tiny Italian man to Captain Kirk navigating the Starship Enterprise. He caught her eye and pointed at a large red button on the desk. The God Mic. He pressed it and spoke. “Signore, you can hear?”

“I can,” Nick replied, voice booming through the entire studio, shooting right through Sewanee’s ribs like an electrified cow prod. Cosmo cut her an apologetic glance and made adjustments. In a moment, he nodded toward the set of headphones next to her and she put them on. “Scusate,” he said, “once more.”

“Test, test. This is only a test to test my voice. This is me, me testing the test of me . . .”

The nonsensical ramble was spoken as Brock, and Cosmo jerked his head up as if expecting to see someone else had snuck in front of the microphone. Sewanee stifled a laugh, going back to her tablet, scrolling the text, plotting, charting, quick-gaming her performance the way an architect might scan blueprints.

Eventually, Cosmo said, “Bene, is good.”

Sewanee pressed the button to talk to Nick. “So let’s get your flashback section done and then I’ll come in for their dialogue.”

She watched Nick nod through the glass, never taking his eyes from the text. “Yes, ma’am.”

Cosmo hit his keyboard, and said, “Rolling,” trilling the R delightfully.

Nick launched in.

Sewanee read along while she listened to him set the scene: Claire and Alessandro walk back to the palazzo, tension buzzing away between them; he pours her a glass of wine, which she refuses at first, then gulps down; he finds himself nervous, which never happens, this is his job, where has his professionalism gone, why was this woman affecting him unlike any other? Then he began the flashback: what, exactly, had happened that had blown them apart five years ago.

She lifted her head from the tablet and watched Nick through the glass.

He stood straight, shoulders stiff, one hand on one side of the headphones, as if he were getting ready to sing instead of talk. Which made sense, she supposed. He played nicely into the mic, straight on, never moving his head lest the movement change the sound. His Brock voice was hypnotic. That hushed whisper, fog trawling over a rocky riverbed, whiskey tumbling over ice, velvet-draped steel . . . however it was his fans described his voice.

But that wasn’t what held her attention. She was watching his eyes as they moved over the tablet in front of him.

Nothing.

Vacant.

It was the simple act of taking in information and sending it back out.

He could get away with it because That Voice, but she couldn’t help thinking how much better it would be if there were more . . . Nick in it. How the superficial would become substantial.

Twenty minutes later, he stepped back from the mic. “You want to come in now?”

Sewanee held down the button. “Sure.” Cosmo jumped up to open the soundproofed doors. She grabbed her tablet and walked into the room, stopping at the music stand across from Nick’s. While Cosmo flitted around her, she stayed in the text. Then he left them, closing the double doors again.

She read a paragraph while Cosmo made his adjustments at the board and then said, into her headphones, “Is good.”

“Great, thanks,” Sewanee murmured.

“Si. Rolling.” He trilled the R again and she smiled.

She glanced up, hoping to catch Nick’s eye before he began, hoping for a moment of connection. But he started reading.