18. Solenne
— ? —
Solenne
By the following March, the series has a name, a poster, and a premiere date I still can’t quite believe.
I’m standing in my bathroom in Los Angeles, trying to decide whether my earrings are too much, when Odette appears in the doorway with a glass of champagne.
“You’re going to be late to your own premiere,” she says.
“I’m going to be early. That’s worse.”
“Put the earrings on. They’re perfect.” She hands me the champagne. “Drink this. It’ll help with the face you’re making.”
“What face?”
“The one that says you’re about to throw up on your very expensive shoes.”
I take a sip of champagne and look at myself in the mirror. The dress is black, simple, the kind of thing that photographs well without trying too hard. The earrings are small diamonds that catch the light when I turn my head. I look like someone who belongs on a red carpet.
Usually, by this point, I can borrow a little confidence from the clothes. Tonight I keep thinking about one line in the opening scene.
“It’s just a screening,” I say. “People watch the episode, they clap politely, they go home.”
“It’s your premiere. Your name is on the poster. You get to be nervous about that.”
The series started as notes in a document, scenes I was probably going to throw away.
Then it became conversations with Rachel about structure, arguments with Marcus about character, late nights in editing rooms trying to figure out why a scene wasn’t working.
Now it’s six episodes and a main character named Elena who asks for what she deserves and doesn’t get it and keeps going anyway.
I remember the day we shot the scene where she takes off her apron.
The director wanted her to slam it on the counter, make a statement.
I asked if we could try it quieter. She just unties it, folds it, sets it down.
Then she walks out. No speech. No dramatic exit.
Just a woman who has decided she’s done working for free.
They used the quiet version.
“Summer’s already at my place,” Odette says. “Maria, the sitter I told you about, brought the ingredients for those little pizzas Summer likes. Apparently Bunny has ordered one without mushrooms.”
“Bunny has very strong opinions about mushrooms.”
“She wanted to come tonight. She asked if she could wear her fancy dress.”
My throat tightens. “She’s five. She’d be bored before the opening credits.”
“I know. I promised we’d watch the arrivals together this weekend. She wants to check whether you wear the earrings she picked.”
“Thank you. For everything.”
Odette waves this away. “You can thank me by not crying and ruining your makeup. The car will be here in twenty minutes.”
She disappears down the hallway. I hear her greeting someone at the front door, her voice shifting into something warmer. Valentin.
I take another sip of champagne and check my reflection one more time.
Last April, I was living in Odette’s guest room with my suitcase tucked beneath the bed. Now I have a house I rent myself, a series with my name on it, and a husband who is downstairs waiting to take me to a premiere.
The husband part is still complicated. We’re not back together, not officially.
The divorce papers are still pending, paused at my request while we figured out what we were doing.
He moved out of the hotel last summer, found a place nearby so he could see Summer without the awkwardness of handoffs at Odette’s door.
We have dinner sometimes, the three of us.
He comes to her school things. He texts me when he has to travel for work and asks if she needs anything before he goes.
In November, his return flight was delayed on the morning of Summer’s school concert. He called before I had to ask where he was. I was furious anyway, standing in the school corridor with two tickets in my hand, suddenly back in Sicily waiting for someone who wasn’t coming.
He didn’t tell me I was being unfair. He told Summer himself that he wouldn’t make it, listened while she cried, and asked her to save him a song. The next evening she made him sit through the entire performance in my living room, including the parts that belonged to other children.
Later, while we put the chairs back, I told him I knew he couldn’t control a canceled flight.
“I know what it reminded you of,” he said.
We didn’t spend the rest of the evening discussing it. He stayed to help with dinner. I stopped waiting for him to be offended.
Other evenings have been easier. Sometimes he comes over after Summer is asleep and I read him a scene that still isn’t working.
Sometimes we go out and manage a whole meal without talking about what happened in Sicily.
I have started calling him with good news before I’ve thought through whether I should.
I finish the champagne and go downstairs.
Valentin is standing in my living room in a tuxedo, looking like he’s about to face a firing squad. Odette is circling him with an expression of deep suspicion.
“If you step on her dress,” Odette says, “I will personally make sure you never wear those shoes again.”
“I’m not going to step on her dress.”
“You say that now. But red carpets are chaos. People are pushing, cameras are flashing, someone always trips.”
“I’ve been to events before.”
“Then you know how much I’m trusting you with these shoes.” Odette points at my feet as I reach the stairs.
“Are we talking about her shoes or mine?”
“Both. Keep them apart.”
He looks relieved when she steps back. “That I can do.”
Valentin catches my eye. He looks genuinely terrified. He has fastened one cufflink sideways. I cross the room and turn it for him. His hand stays still in mine.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
“Thank you.” I grab my clutch from the table. “You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“I might be.”
“Don’t do it on the carpet. The photographers hate that.”
The car is waiting outside. Black, sleek, the kind of car that looks like it costs more per hour than my first apartment cost per month. Valentin opens the door for me, and I slide in, careful not to wrinkle the dress.
The drive to the theater takes twenty minutes. We don’t talk much. He fidgets with his cufflinks. I check my phone for messages from Rachel, who is probably already at the venue making sure everything is running smoothly.
“I’m glad you asked me to come,” he says finally.
“I wanted you there when the lights come up.”
He stops turning his cufflink.
“Whether everyone loves it or no one does,” I add. “I don’t want to look at an empty seat.”
“You won’t.”
He doesn’t push for more. That’s one of the things that’s changed over the past year. He’s learned when to wait.
***
The red carpet is exactly as overwhelming as I remember.
Photographers line both sides, their cameras flashing in a continuous strobe. Publicists herd talent from one spot to the next. Someone is shouting names, trying to get people to turn, to smile, to give them something they can use.
I’ve walked carpets as an actress, answered questions about difficult scenes and favorite costumes. People have called my name across these barriers before. Tonight the unfamiliar part is waiting behind the theater doors, a story I helped build before there was a cast to bring it to life.
“Solenne! Over here! This way!”
I pose where they tell me to, smile when they want me to, turn when they shout. The muscle memory kicks in. Chin slightly down. Shoulders back. Find a camera and hold it.
Rachel appears beside me, looking professional and slightly frazzled. “The episode looks great. Sound check went fine. We’re starting in forty minutes.”
“Thank you for everything.”
“Thank me when we see the reviews.” She squeezes my arm and moves on to greet someone else.
Marcus is a few feet away, talking to one of the network executives. He catches my eye and gives me a thumbs up. I nod back. We’ve come a long way from arguing about first acts in rented conference rooms.
Valentin hangs back while I work the carpet, staying visible but not intrusive. He understands that this is my territory, not his. When a photographer asks us to pose together, he steps forward, puts his hand on my back, smiles for exactly three shots, then steps away again.
“Solenne!” A reporter with a microphone appears at my elbow. “Can we get a quick word about the series?”
“Of course.”
“Tell us about Elena. What made you want to tell this story?”
I’ve answered this question a dozen times in press interviews, but it still feels new every time.
“Elena is a woman who realizes that the life she built doesn’t actually belong to her.
She’s been doing what everyone expected, and when she finally asks for what she deserves, she doesn’t get it. The story is about what she does next.”
“It sounds personal.”
“All good stories are personal in some way.”
The reporter turns to Valentin. “And Valentin Caruso, you’ve been seen with Solenne quite a bit lately. Can you tell us about the reconciliation?”
Valentin glances at me. I give a small nod. We talked about this question in my kitchen yesterday. He can speak for what he did; neither of us is announcing a resolution we haven’t reached.
“I nearly destroyed our marriage,” he says, looking directly at the camera. “Through blindness and cowardice. She would have been completely justified if she never forgave me.” He pauses, and his voice softens. “Tonight is about her work. I’m lucky to be standing beside her.”
The reporter blinks, clearly not expecting that level of honesty. “So you’re back together?”
“We’re keeping that between us. Tonight I’m here to celebrate her.”
The reporter turns back to me, slightly off-balance. “The series. Yes. What do you hope audiences take away from it?”
“That asking doesn’t guarantee a yes,” I say. “And being told no doesn’t have to end the story. I hope they want to stay with her long enough to see what she does next.”
The reporter thanks us. Valentin waits while I unclip the microphone caught against my dress. I hand it back, and we keep moving.