Thank You for Listening(86)

Nick looked down at his. “Ah. ‘Reaction.’”

Sewanee fell back into a pile of laughter.

With all the mature dignity of a tuxedoed man-of-distinction fixing his bow tie before a night at the opera, Nick settled the headphones back on his ears. He stared down at the laugh-puddle in mocking reprimand, the imperious duke of a thousand Romance novels. “Would you care to take a break, Ms. Chester?”

“No,” Sewanee wheezed.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound sure.”

“Just give me a . . .” She stood up unsteadily, a newborn foal in an uneven pile of hay. She reached over to the table between them and cracked a fresh water bottle. Drank. Breathed. Blew her nose. Had more to drink. Pulled some lip balm out of her pocket, applied it. Cleared her throat. Inhaled. Exhaled.

She didn’t dare look at Nick during her recovery. Only when she was sure she was ready did she glance over at him. He was staring at her, a mien of pleasure and puzzlement on his face. She simply nodded and said, calmly, “I’m good.”

“Good.” Grinning, Nick centered himself back at the mic. He pointed to Cosmo, and they heard “rrrrrolling,” and then the pre-roll, and then Nick said, “My reaction was immediate.” And Sewanee pressed her lips together so tightly, they retreated into her mouth. “I could envision it all and I wanted it. I ached for it. And she’d said, ‘when you take me the first time.’ Implying . . . well. My fingers went to the buttons on her blouse as I said, ‘There’s nothing more attractive than a woman who knows what she wants.’”

This was the sort of section where Brock McNight shone, all by his lonesome, setting the scene. The undressing, the worship, the interiority of a hero’s desire. Sewanee kept her interjected dialogue as unobtrusive as possible (“yes,” “there,” “just like that”) within his ruminations about the perfection of her body, her response, how wild she was driving him.

He performed well. As Alessandro performed well, she supposed. It worked for him here, in these sections. But when the character required connection, struggle, relationship, that’s when she saw his limitations. When she got past that smoke screen of a voice, there was nothing behind it. Like the buildings on a movie set: a beautiful facade, but in reality, nothing but 2x4s propping it up. Was he holding something back on purpose?

When his section was over, right at the moment Alessandro entered Claire, and Sewanee was about to take over the narration, Nick drank some water and flicked a finger at the tablet.

“Why’d she change point of view here? It was just getting good.”

Sewanee saw an opportunity and decided to take it, hoping it might connect him more to the text. “Because June knew how to take formula and elevate it.”

“In what way?”

“She knew the point of view should belong to the person–the character–who has the most to lose. The foreplay is from his perspective because he wants this so badly and she may not give it to him and, worse, she may not come apart in his hands, may prove him a fraud. But once he enters her, once he is inside her, he’s won. The rest is from her perspective because this is her moment of transformation. From this point on, she will never be the same.”

Nick stared at her. “Oh.”

Sewanee went back to her tablet. Took a breath. And began. “I was so full. I’d been so empty, for so long, even before my husband died, and now?”

She read, as she often did, without a mistake, entering the near fugue state that happened when she was fully invested. This scene–these scenes–were entire books in miniature: rising action, climax, denouement. As such, she let her voice rise, crescendo, fall.

Slowly, she brought it home, the aftermath:

“He braced himself on his elbows over me, so as not to crush me. He kissed the side of my neck, gave me one last, long stroke, and pulled out. He stood and walked, like David come to life, into the bathroom. Shut the door. I floated nicely for a few minutes, waiting for him to come back. When he did, when I heard the bathroom door open, I expected him to crawl back into bed with me. He didn’t. His footsteps stopped and I opened my eyes. He was fully dressed. Collecting our wineglasses. Moving to the bar. Turning on the faucet. I came up on an elbow.”

Nick murmured, “It’s later than I thought. I have a meeting.”

“I looked at the ornate rococo clock above the mantel. ‘It’s ten,’ I said.”

“Time got away from me.”

“You have a meeting at ten o’clock at night?”

“It’s the only time she had.”

“She? I said it aloud: ‘She?’ He dried the glasses now.”

“Prospective client.”

“You have a client right here.”

“Clients pay.”

“My anger flared. ‘Fine. How much to not be an asshole?’ He set the wineglasses down and walked over to the bed. Stood above it. Stood above me.”

“Trust me, this is what you need right now: distance. I’ll be back by midnight. You’re welcome to stay until then.”

“With that, he turned heel, picked up his jacket, walked to the door. And left. He left. Left. I couldn’t stay here a moment longer. Shaking, I clambered out of the bed, got dressed, tried to gather my wits so I didn’t leave anything–dear God, please don’t let me leave anything–hastily ran my fingers through my hair, fumbled with the straps of my shoes, and staggered to the door. I turned back once more, looking at the bed. The site of my humiliation. I knew what I had to do. I opened my purse and pulled out my wallet. Seven hundred fifty euro. A fraction of his value, an insulting amount. And yet: all I had to my name. I walked back to the bed and left it there, right in the middle, in the divot my shoulders had created, still warm. He would never be able to say he did me a favor. This was a transaction. Services paid, services rendered. Quality product, timely delivery. Five stars. Choking back sobs, I left the palazzo, leaving the door unlocked behind me.”