BROCK:
Deepest apologies, that was truly horrid Dad humor.
SEWANEE:
So, not judging, but what do we think of this hero?
BROCK:
. . . ?
SEWANEE:
I’m having trouble deciding if Alessandro’s complicated. Or just an asshole.
BROCK:
He’s an alpha.
SEWANEE:
riiiiight but
BROCK:
He only cares about his art. Relationships are transactional for him.
SEWANEE:
Yes, most. With all the others, but not with her. When she gets what she came for （no pun intended） she’s prepared to honor their agreement. He then treats her terribly （which, okay, typical Romance Hero having his Feels）， but why?
BROCK:
IDK
SEWANEE:
Well, how are you going to play it?
BROCK:
What do you mean?
SEWANEE:
Is he really that oblivious to what he wants or is he protecting himself from going after what he wants in case he can’t have it?
BROCK:
What do you mean?
SEWANEE:
I meeeaaan, why is he?
BROCK:
*who?
SEWANEE:
No, why. You can’t just look at who someone is. You have to look at WHY someone is. Surface versus substance. That’s the difference between caricature and character.
BROCK:
I just figured out why you’re a better narrator than me. You’re an actress, aren’t you?
SEWANEE:
Was.
BROCK:
Why’d you stop?
SEWANEE:
Mmmmm story for another time.
BROCK:
I’ll hold you to that.
What do YOU think Alessandro’s “why” is?
SEWANEE:
off the top of my head . . .
I think he’s tired of being seen as this sex god. I think he’s desperate to end the performance, but who is he without it? Who would want him, the real Alessandro, when all the women he has ever known only seem to want the fantasy? All except her. She wanted something no one else saw in him: the person, not the commodity （represented by how she falls in love with his art, i.e. his soul, i.e. his truth）。
So I err on the side of he’s not oblivious, he’s scared. Because he’s falling in love with her. So: attraction = fear = self-protection = assholery.
BROCK:
Yeah that’s totally what I was going to say.
That’s good.
That’s Really Good.
Mind if I steal it?
SEWANEE:
It’s you.
*yours
SEWANEE WAS NAMED after her grandmother’s hometown. Everyone who’d been involved in the decision had liked it. It was possibly the only thing they agreed on, if for completely different reasons. Elegant, her grandmother had said. Magical, her mother had said. Allegorical, her father had said.
Sewanee had wanted to live up to all of it.
But her name did not endear her to her grandmother. Not at first.
It wasn’t personal. Barbara Chester had never shown much interest in children, and she’d had no use for Sewanee until she was old enough to have a conversation and not run mindlessly back to Henry and repeat it. But by the time Sewanee was eight or nine, they’d discovered what was missing from both of their lives: each other.
On school holidays or weekends or summer workdays, Marilyn would drive up Beverly Glen and pull over on Mulholland, where Sewanee would get into Blah’s waiting car and they’d drive down the other side of the hill to Bitsy’s house. They’d watch old movies in the shagged living room and Sewanee soaked it all up, knew every line from The Philadelphia Story, every step of “Make ’Em Laugh” from Singin’ in the Rain, every head tilt from Lauren Bacall.
At the height of the day, they’d go out to the green-tinged pool and Blah would teach her how to swim, telling her the combination of swimming and dancing would give her everything she’d need to maintain her yet-to-appear figure. At some point, Blah would say, “I suppose your parents expect me to feed you,” and they’d glide into the kitchen and Blah would forage for something, anything, that constituted food. Usually Ritz crackers or apple slices. Always Mallomars. Sometimes Bitsy would stop by between her lunch and dinner shift at Du-pars and bring them pancakes, which Sewanee loved, but her real appetite was elsewhere.
One more dance step; rewatch a Hepburn/Tracy film and talk about “chemistry”; go through Bette Davis’s entire oeuvre.
By the time Sewanee was in middle school, they would drive around the Valley in Blah’s Oldsmobile convertible and go consignment shopping on Ventura Boulevard. They’d sweep down the racks, pulling anything remotely intriguing. When Sewanee would say, “I like this, what do you think?” Blah would respond, “I think you’re a knockout, Doll.”