Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  The doorknob shook. The bathroom door cracked open. ‘This room is occupied!’ Jane shrieked in a blind panic. She covered herself in horror and turned to the back wall. She tried to reach for the towel Sofia had showed her, but it sat on the rail out of reach. She considered turning and lunging for it but that risked exposure of her front.

  ‘Oh, yikes. Sorry,’ said a man’s voice. Fred! Sofia’s brother backed out of the doorway almost as soon as he opened it, shutting the door. Jane leapt from the shower and inspected the doorknob. A brass dial sat underneath the handle, which she turned, and the lock clicked shut. She tested the door three times. It remained locked. She sat on the floor, mortified. No man had ever seen her shoulder, let alone anything else. Jane caught her breath and began to dress.

  She allowed herself a momentary departure from the horrors of her embarrassment to ogle with confusion at the clothes Sofia had given her to wear: they were a man’s shirt and trousers. She pulled them on; they felt odd on her skin. Women wore trousers now, not for mumming in a play but as everyday garb. Did women act as men now? How would people treat her, dressed this way? She might own three estates by now, earning twenty thousand a year. The thought bewitched her until she heard a chair shift across the floor in the room outside, and the reality of her present, crushing embarrassment returned. Fred. The horrid man had managed to upend her comfort once again. She had hoped he would have absented himself from the house, if not the country, in pre-emptive chivalry, but instead he sat right there.

  She opened the door and located him. He lay with his head slumped on the dining table. Jane crept through the doorway and took her chance, hoping to move past without him seeing. But just as she reached him, he lifted his head from the table and their eyes met. Jane wondered how much those eyes had seen in the bathroom. She could feel her cheeks blooming to a shade of crimson again.

  ‘Sorry, again,’ he said in a garbled voice.

  ‘I am simply mortified, sir,’ she said. ‘Horrified.’

  He shook his head. ‘Why didn’t you lock the door?’

  ‘Did you not hear the water and deduce the room was occupied?’ she protested.

  He stood. ‘Fine, why don’t you see me naked? Then we’ll be even.’ He began to unbuckle his belt.

  ‘Certainly not!’ Jane cried. ‘Stop that.’

  He fastened his belt. ‘No? Something else embarrassing? I could make myself fall over. Or you could beat me with a vegetable? I could eat some rubbish?’

  Jane tried not to smile; the ill feeling of the other night had returned, but she overcame her embarrassment to recall how much he annoyed her.

  ‘You look different,’ he said, studying her.

  Jane grabbed her man’s shirt, suddenly self-conscious once more. ‘These are Sofia’s clothes. Are they inappropriate?’

  Fred shook his head. ‘It’s not the clothes. It’s your hair. You changed it.’

  Jane patted her head. The steam of the bathroom waterfall had relaxed it to its natural state. The Grecian curls, which she dutifully set with rags every night, had vanished. Her hair, now loose, reached halfway down her back except for the hair around her face, which she kept short for easier curling. She tucked the pieces behind her ear.

  ‘Your hair was done in period style for the rehearsal,’ he stated. ‘You looked like a character from the nineteenth century.’

  Jane nodded. ‘And what do I look like now?’ she asked in a soft voice.

  He shrugged. ‘Like a woman,’ he said. He coughed. ‘You missed one.’ He pointed at Jane’s arm.

  She looked down to where he was pointing; the button at her cuff lay undone. ‘Yes. I was unable,’ she explained.

  ‘Don’t you know how to dress yourself?’ he asked dryly.

  ‘I dress myself every morning!’ she protested. He must have thought she was some princess, with a lady’s maid to dress her; she was quick to correct him of that falsehood. ‘There are a great many buttons on this shirt,’ she explained in a huff.

  Fred moved towards her.

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked quickly.

  He moved close enough so she could feel his breath on her shoulder. She froze; their eyes met, then he looked down. He said nothing, but took the pearl-white disc between his thumb and forefinger. Jane watched him. He slipped it through the buttonhole. Jane did not know where to look. She was struck by the tenderness of the gesture, but also that a man she found so annoying could act so gently with her. She commanded her breathing to still, to not appear so riled up. She begged herself to speak calmly, to show no sign of the effect his closeness had on her, but she could think of nothing to say in that moment.

  ‘For what it’s worth, I hardly saw anything. In the shower,’ he said softly. He finished with the button and placed Jane’s wrist back by her side.

  ‘I saw nothing to be embarrassed about. Quite the opposite, actually.’

  Jane nodded without looking at him, too embarrassed to meet his eye. ‘Do you have business in London today?’ she said, keen to break the mood which scared her.

  ‘I’m going to Paddington,’ he replied.

  ‘May I accompany you?’

  He gave her a confused look. ‘You want to come with me?’

  ‘Yes. Is there a problem?’ He stared at her. ‘I assure you I will be no burden.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Fine by me,’ Fred said quickly. He shrugged.

  The idea of going to London with a man was suspect at best; now to impose upon this obnoxious member of the opposite sex, this horrid specimen, filled her with dread. The day would be awkward, and she did not want to go with him. But she could see no other way to get there. She would have to endure this uncomfortable experience to maximise her chances of returning home.

  ‘How shall we get there?’ Jane asked him.

  ‘We’ll take the train,’ he said. He excused himself and left the room. Jane waited by the door. He returned a minute later. Something about him looked different. ‘Ready?’ he asked.

  Jane studied him. ‘Did you comb your hair, just now?’

  His hair stood neat and tidy off his face, swept to the side, behind his ears. ‘Some woman harped that it was messy. I wanted to stop her nagging,’ he said.

  She refused to admit how nice it looked. With the hair off his face, his visage was not as disagreeable as she’d first thought. She mentioned naught of this to him. ‘Good for you,’ she said instead. ‘You own a comb indeed.’

  Fred rolled his eyes and said nothing, then showed her out the front door.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Sofia sat in the makeup chair and gave a nervous smile. The past two weeks had consisted of wardrobe fittings and dancing. Today, proper rehearsals began. Lights flooded the space. Technicians checked their light meters, gates, gauges. Most importantly, Jack was somewhere on set. He had flown in the previous night from LA, someone said. She had last seen him five months ago; now it might be minutes before he stood next to her again. Sofia commanded herself to remain calm.

  For the first time in a decade, production, insultingly, had assigned Sofia the general cast makeup artist, another indignity she swallowed so she could spend time with her husband. The friendly looking man named Derek met her in the makeup truck and introduced himself. ‘Ms Wentworth. I’ve worshipped you since I was twelve,’ he said.

  Sofia scowled; this was a rocky start. ‘Oh dear, that’s horrible. How old are you, son? How old does that make me?’ she said. She touched her throat.

  ‘That’s not what I meant!’ Derek replied, quivering and looking panicked.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said, trying to soothe him. She needed him to remain calm. After all, she could not have him shaking while he applied her makeup. ‘No harm done. So, for my makeup I was thinking an English rose look. Something simple, but classic – pink cheeks, big beautiful eyes.’ she asked. ‘Very British, very Austen.’

  ‘That sounds stunning, Ms Wentworth,’ Derek said. ‘Unfortunately, the brief is for powder only. No actual ma
keup.’

  Sofia paused, stiffened. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘I thought I heard you say no makeup.’

  Derek nodded.

  ‘Do you mean to tell me this production is requesting that I, Sofia Wentworth, who once played Batgirl, who was once brand ambassador for a very prestigious soda corporation, walk onto set and appear in a film with no makeup on?’

  Derek nodded again and took a cautious step backwards, away from her.

  She surveyed her face in the mirror. ‘No foundation, no primer, no mascara – everything’s banned?’

  ‘Of course not! Not everything’s banned,’ Derek said quickly with a relieved laugh.

  ‘Thank heavens,’ she said with a sigh. ‘What products are allowed then, Derek?’

  ‘I’m supposed to put on moisturiser and lash gel,’ he replied confidently.

  Sofia scowled. ‘Lash gel? What is that?’

  ‘I’m not sure exactly.’ He held up the bottle and studied it, tipping the bottle sideways; a clear substance moved from one end of the tube to the other.

  ‘Derek, that looks like water to me.’

  ‘I agree with you,’ he said, his voice growing less confident by the second.

  ‘And the moisturiser?’

  He showed her a pot of cream with a shaky hand. ‘Is that supermarket moisturiser?’ she asked, horrified. He checked the pot’s label and nodded cautiously. ‘I’m already wearing moisturiser that costs two hundred pounds a pot. It has crushed-up sea creatures in it, I kid you not.’ She paused. ‘So you’re saying my face will be stripped bare, my eye bags visible, my blemishes and blotches on display. I’m already walking out there in a dress with leg-of-mutton sleeves. What else would they like? My firstborn?’

  This wouldn’t be good for anyone. Parade her bare, wrinkle-mortified face to the whole world? She would be a laughing stock.

  ‘Jack will hate this,’ she said.

  ‘It was his idea,’ Derek replied.

  ‘What?’ She shuddered, struggling to decide which horror to concern herself with first – that her public would be seeing her for the first time since her break-up with no makeup on, or that her husband would.

  Jack. Oh God. He was going to see every blotch and crow’s–foot, every eye bag and burst capillary, every sag and crack. If her chances of getting her husband back were slim before, they were non-existent now.

  ‘Derek. I don’t know if you understand the power of makeup to transform.’

  ‘Believe me, Ms Wentworth, I know,’ he said. He held up a brush, as if to remind her of his profession.

  ‘Right, so you understand what a tragedy this will be for everyone if I walk out there as myself.’

  ‘It won’t be a tragedy,’ he said in a kind voice.

  ‘Don’t sugar-coat this, Derek. You make us both feel cheap. This is catastrophic and you know it. The last time I walked outside without makeup, I was twelve years old. I don’t plan to start up again now at thirty-eight! You don’t understand, Derek. They’re going to laugh at me.’

  Derek bowed his head. ‘I’m so sorry, Ms Wentworth.’

  She looked at the floor. ‘Derek, I’m not sure if you know, but my husband is the director of this film. I have not seen this man in five months, since he walked out the door after a decade of marriage.’

  ‘I know, Ms Wentworth.’ Derek sighed and touched her arm.

  ‘I had this grand fantasy that I’d stroll onto set today with pro hair and makeup. Jack would see me and feel like he’d made the worst mistake of his life.’ She laughed. ‘I thought my husband might want me again. No chance now.’

  Derek touched her arm and looked like he might cry too. She cringed; she did not want pity. But then he brightened. ‘I think eye drops are allowed, too?’

  Sofia smiled, defeated. ‘Thank you, Derek. That will be lovely.’ She leant back and he dropped some liquid into her eyes as she heard the door of the makeup truck open and a pair of feet climb the stairs.

  ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ a woman’s voice said. With her eyes full of saline, Sofia could not see who sat down next to her – just blurry shapes – but her ears pricked up at the Californian accent. She recognised the voice, she thought.

  ‘How long do these drops take to clear, Derek?’ she asked anxiously.

  ‘A few seconds,’ he said. Sofia opened her eyes and turned to the chair next to her. Her eyes still blurred and now also stung as the drops ran down her face, but as she squinted, Sofia could make out a svelte, twenty-something natural blonde.

  ‘We’ve never met, but I am a huge fan,’ said the chair’s occupant with a giant smile. Her teeth were so white they seemed blue.

  ‘I appreciate that,’ Sofia said. She squinted again, feeling like a mad scientist looking into a microscope.

  ‘Courtney Smith,’ said the girl and held out her hand. ‘I came to welcome you to the picture.’

  Sofia’s eyes suddenly cleared into sharp focus. She gripped the hand of the zygote who had replaced her as the female lead in the planet’s most lucrative film franchise. ‘Sofia Wentworth,’ she said. They shook hands. Sofia felt a soft wetness grip her palm in a slimy hold.

  ‘Just washed my hands, sorry,’ Courtney said. ‘It’s so cool to be working together.’ The moment marked itself with auspiciousness: Batgirl and the girl who took her job, meeting for the first time. If the paparazzi knew, they would have camped themselves outside.

  ‘Have you come to have your makeup done too?’ Sofia asked. ‘Considering the brief, I won’t be long.’

  ‘No, this is the reserve truck, for supporting. I have my own truck,’ Courtney said. ‘I came to welcome you to my movie.’

  ‘Oh, cheers.’ Sofia laughed at the comment. She did not care what role she played, so long as Jack was directing, but she had swallowed a few bags of pride when they announced that Courtney Smith, the woman who had replaced her in the Batman movies, was playing Catherine Morland, the lead.

  ‘What are you putting on her face?’ Courtney asked Derek with another giant smile.

  ‘It’s moisturiser,’ Derek replied.

  ‘Cool. I think that’s allowed. Don’t worry, I’m not checking up on you. You’ve been briefed on the “no makeup” idea, right? It’s so exciting.’ She threw her hands in the air.

  ‘Yes! I’m keeping my excitement on the inside,’ Sofia replied.

  ‘It’s awesome Jack wants to go down this road. It will lift the production value,’ Courtney said.

  ‘Maybe call him Mr Travers – he likes that,’ Sofia said. ‘An affectation, I know’—she rolled her eyes and smiled—‘but trust me, he prefers it. It will put you in his good books.’

  Courtney nodded with a smirk. ‘Jack is pumped for us to wear no makeup. He wants everyone to look their age.’

  Sofia paused, shocked, and nodded. ‘Message received, loud and clear,’ she finally replied.

  ‘Gotta run. See you on set,’ Courtney said in a bright voice. She exited the truck, jumping onto each step as she went down.

  Derek shut the door and sat down next to Sofia. ‘Ms Wentworth, I need to tell you something.’ He leant in close. ‘Courtney Smith is wearing makeup.’

  Sofia laughed and sat up. ‘She said she wasn’t.’

  ‘She’s put primer on there, concealer, foundation, lashes, bronzer, highlighter, the works. All very subtle – perhaps she used a spray gun – but it’s there.’

  Sofia chewed her lip. ‘I’m going to walk out there with no makeup on, while a woman fifteen years my junior will wear a full face?’

  ‘Afraid so,’ he said.

  Sofia’s earlier concern hardened to aggravation. Derek stared at the door for a moment and shook his head, then touched Sofia’s arm and spoke in a casual tone. ‘Ms Wentworth, what Courtney did . . . I could do something similar for you? Nothing outrageous – a little touch-up?’

  ‘That’s against the rules, Derek.’ She shook her head.

  Derek shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t suggest it if Courtney wasn’t doin
g the same.’

  Sofia scratched her head. ‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked him innocently.

  ‘A little “no-makeup” makeup,’ he replied in an equally innocent voice. ‘I’m the master at it,’ he added. He raised an eyebrow.

  Sofia winced. ‘But what if Courtney notices? She will say something for sure.’

  He shook his head and smiled. ‘She will say nothing, Ms Wentworth, because she has done the same thing. If she says something, you will say something. Mutually assured destruction.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, looking at him cautiously.

  ‘Let me do this for you. When I’m done, Jack won’t be able to look away.’

  It was the one thing she couldn’t say no to. She nodded.

  He smiled. ‘Lie back, Ms Wentworth.’ Sofia did so.

  About a month after Jack had left her, Sofia had fled from LA back to London to escape the scrutiny. She needed to feel the green of England. Stupid idea, it had turned out, as every red-top journalist seemed to have set up camp on the front porch of her London terrace. One day the doorbell rang, and Sofia yelled at the journalists to go away, but it wasn’t a reporter. It was a messenger, with a package from her husband’s lawyers. He had served her with divorce papers.

  He’d mentioned nothing of divorce earlier. Sofia had expected a trial separation, but he moved fast. She’d holed up inside her house and read the legal papers in shock. Finally, after three days in hiding with no food in the house, she realised she might actually starve, which would be an even more embarrassing headline – ‘Beleaguered Hollywood darling dies of starvation, alone’. She snuck out to the high street to buy some dinner, but after what happened next, she wished she’d stayed inside.

  Someone must have tipped off the press that Sofia Wentworth, newly served with divorce papers, was attempting to purchase a microwave dinner from the local Marks & Spencer, like a sad person. All she’d wanted was their lovely shepherd’s pie, which she’d planned to eat in peace with a bottle of red and a slasher movie box set, preferably one where everyone died, when the camera vultures swooped. When she arrived at the store, an honour guard of paparazzi lined the entrance.