It was comfy, built more for music than voiceover, with a large control room boasting a full soundboard and couches, and a live room with oriental rugs, amps, a drum kit, and half a dozen mics spread about. In broken English, Cosmo explained he’d set up two mics face to face, given Jason’s specs, and stood panels behind them to cage the sound.
Sewanee peeled off her coat and did some vocal warm-ups. Trills, buzzes, scales, lip flaps. She noticed Nick watching her. “What?”
“Do you always do those?”
“Not always, but I had a little milk in my coffee this morning and then we had the liqueur sampler and there was a lot of cheese in that pasta on the train . . .” They’d carbo-loaded as if preparing for a marathon instead of just trying to prevent stomach grumbles while recording. At the bafflement on his face, she said, “You don’t, I take it?”
“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.