‘I picked that up from a high school in Walthamstow,’ George said. ‘They were renovating their library. From the looks of it, this poor little one took a beating.’
Jane turned to the title page. Someone had written Property of Hilary Dawe, 12F across the corner. Jane stared at the detail. ‘Who is this person?’ she asked him. She pointed to the inscription.
‘That’s a student, I suppose. It’s in the syllabus.’
‘The syllabus?’
‘Pride and Prejudice is taught in schools. You did not read it yourself, in secondary college?’
Jane inhaled and gripped the book tighter. She scoured her brain for a suitable reply. ‘Perhaps I read it. I must have forgotten.’
‘Every child in England who completes A-level English reads some Austen, I believe.’
Every child in England. Jane stared at him.
‘I daresay a great many children in the States, too.’
‘The states?’
‘America,’ he replied.
Jane stared at him again until her eyes grew dry from the lack of blinking. Her position in this new world, in the bookshop even, took on a new dimension. Just how many people were aware of her? How many people read her novels?
Jane closed the book and read the cover once more. What was this ‘pride and prejudice’ of the title? She was dying to know what she had written. Had she changed her style? Perhaps now instead of country farces, she wrote about pirates – proud ones. Was this the reason for her new, widespread fame? She turned to a page and read. She worked her way through a paragraph, then a second. She exhaled.
No new story of pirates greeted her. No new style graced those pages, not even new prose. These were not new words written in some future life, should she ever succeed in returning to her own time; she had read these words many times before. The book she held in her hand told the story of a young woman, spirited and clever, but poor, who rejects a marriage offer from one of the richest men in England because of the low opinion she forms of him when they first meet. It was First Impressions, the novel rejected by Thomas Cadell and incinerated by Mama on the hearth. Somehow the words had made their way to a more sympathetic publisher, or one with better taste. They resonated enough that they were now taught in schools. A rush of what she could only describe as fire coursed through her veins.
Lord knew what George made of all this. He was unlikely to deduce the person holding the battered little tome was the time-slipping author of the words inside it. Instead, he likely saw a woman breathing and sighing and stepping backwards and forwards on the carpet. ‘Do you like it? It’s yours,’ he said.
‘I could not possibly,’ Jane replied.
‘I think you must,’ he said. ‘Anyone who has a reaction like that to a book must keep it forever. I insist.’
Jane scanned the other titles on the shelf. A Collected Works of Shakespeare sat next to The Theban Plays by Sophocles; The Canterbury Tales by Chaucer took the position to the other side of her own novel. Jane shook her head. Her books sat beside giants. The time had arrived for more sighing and carpet-pacing.
‘I have others by Austen,’ George said. He selected another title from the shelf: Mansfield Park.
Jane again selected a page and devoured it in a breath. If possible, this novel presented more excitement than the last. She observed at once her own style as she read: her phrasing and quips bounced off the page, so different from the earnest adventures and romances of her contemporaries, whom she tried to emulate, but always found her own stubborn words fighting through. But while she recognised her style, she did not know this story. The tale told of a young woman, Fanny, who was clever but again poor, and lived as some sort of ward with rich relations. Jane read three pages in quick succession. She sat down to see what she would write, settling in to consume the book.
‘Cup of tea?’ George said. ‘I’m so delighted to have such a great reader in the shop.’
Jane smiled in acceptance. What a thrill to read something she had not yet written. She turned back to the first page and began:
About thirty years ago Miss Maria Ward, of Huntingdon, with only seven thousand pounds, had the good luck to captivate Sir Thomas Bertram, of Mansfield Park . . .
As the words entered her mind, she closed the book as quickly as she had opened it. She put the book back on the shelf and stood.
‘Are you all right, Jane?’ George said. Jane stared at the floor. This was a thrill she could do without. How could she be reading something she had not yet written? This was no good. To sit there and congratulate herself on a book she had not yet slaved over was not only hubris, it was dangerous. There was but one way out of this: she needed to find the way back to her own time, so she could write this book. Jane handed George the novel.
‘You don’t want the Austen?’ he said.
She shook her head politely, then sifted a piece of paper from her pocket. ‘Do you know this place, sir?’
George read the address. ‘EC2? I know it.’
‘Is there another way I could arrive there, rather than walking?’
‘Yes. If you’re game.’
Jane beamed. ‘How?’
‘You can take the tube.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Sofia walked onto set. A grip smiled as she walked past, to her delight, and a production assistant nodded hello and showed her to the sound stage. She had to break herself away from their approving smiles, however, when she spotted the man she had loved from almost the first moment she saw him, sitting over on the other side of the room.
Jack’s face wore a look of concentration as he read the day’s rehearsal sides, seated in his director’s chair. She studied him. Five months apart had not tarnished his leading-man bone structure, and his full head of hair remained, even though he was approaching his mid-forties. He looked more like a film star than a director. He should have been reclining in a private jet dressed in a tuxedo rather than sitting on set, wearing a beige utility shirt. Sofia breathed in. This would be the best part of her day, before he saw her. She could watch his beautiful face and pretend for a second they were still together, about to meet up and go for coffee. She was too old to act so childishly, gripped by juvenile longing, but then love never aged. She’d feel the same at eighty.
She became aware of the whispers around her; the gaffer and the electricians were staring and pointing. The moment made for a great story – the artist and his muse reunited, for the third act in the fairytale.
Jack looked up from his pages, then down again. Then he looked back up at her and their eyes met. Sofia told her heart to be still. She smiled, casually, and tried not to inhale too sharply. Jack rose from his chair and walked towards her. Sofia picked up her skirt and did the same. They met in the middle of the sound stage.
‘Hey,’ said Jack. He did not smile.
Sofia paused, momentarily thrown. ‘Hey yourself,’ she replied quickly, hoping she appeared composed.
‘Someone should have told you. We don’t need you yet. I’m not happy with the light on Courtney.’ He paused, and then continued. ‘I didn’t see the 2K come out of the truck this morning. I told you I want lens flare on all shots.’
Sofia winced. These were the words to leave his mouth when they had not spoken in five months – generic greetings and camera stipulations? She told herself to remain calm. This wasn’t about her; this was about work. She focused on the issue at hand. Jack’s usual anxieties had evidently returned. Lens flare flooded a frame with a glowing light, which created beautiful pictures, but it also suggested a commercial look and it did not suit every film, especially this one. Northanger Abbey should have a Gothic feel, plenty of shadows, which Jack’s cinematographer knew how to create. Lens flare would render each frame like a hipster soda commercial. Sofia cringed for Jack, but this also made her happy: had the prospect of seeing her conjured this agitation in him? Should she say something? No. She chose to indulge him, to help. ‘Okay, lens flare it is,’ Sofia said. ‘I’ll go ask som
eone.’
‘What? No, I was talking to him,’ said Jack with a grim chuckle. He pointed to a camera assistant behind Sofia, who fixed a lens to a large black camera.
‘Right, of course.’ Sofia said, feeling stupid. The cameraman smirked and walked away. ‘How are you?’ she said to Jack in a bright voice, trying to remain upbeat.
‘Busy,’ Jack said. ‘They’ve cut two locations. It’s John, the EP in the States, I know it. He’s got it in for me. If this picture ends up looking like a movie-of-the-week, it won’t be my fault.’
Sofia nodded, mind racing, and waited for him to ask about her. She tried not to let this bother her; this was how he was on all shoots – always abrupt, always businesslike.
The first time Sofia had met Jack Travers, she’d been twenty-five years old. She had been cast as Batgirl in the Batman movie which made her famous, and Jack had signed on as the film’s director. The first day of rehearsals on set, Jack ignored her the entire day. He warmly addressed Peter, the actor playing Batman, chatting with him about baseball and throwing jokey uppercuts and jabs towards his giant frame.
But not a word to Sofia.
When she asked a question about her character, Jack excused himself to go to the bathroom. Rage filled Sofia; she refused to stand for it. After a week of being ignored, she asked around, found his address and took a cab to his house, perched high in the Hollywood Hills.
She thumped on his front door. ‘What is your problem?’ she spat out when he opened it.
He looked her up and down, genuinely shocked to see her. ‘What’s my problem?’ he asked, laughing grimly. ‘How long have you got?’
He showed her inside. His home looked like some sort of giant Escher painting, a fantasy house with different levels, different wings. He offered her a drink from a bottle that resembled an ice sculpture, pouring the spirit into a carved crystal glass with a solid gold bottom. Sofia scoffed at the outrageousness of it all. She had grown up in a three-bedroom cottage in Somerset.
‘My problem is that I have exactly zero clue what I’m doing,’ he said as he poured.
Sofia almost spat her whisky onto the geometric marble bench-top. ‘What do you mean?’ she asked with a laugh.
‘I mean I have absolutely no idea how to direct a feature film.’ She studied his face and saw only anguish. ‘I’ve only been on a film set twice,’ he added. ‘Once, visiting my dad. The other was directing Short Stack.’
‘What’s Short Stack?’
‘My short film,’ he said. He puffed out his chest.
‘Never heard of it.’
‘It won a bunch of awards,’ he protested. He finished pouring his own drink and clinked her glass. She clinked his back politely and studied him again. The smooth, creamy spirit sunk into her throat and made her insides feel like they were glowing. WASPs always had the best booze.
‘I’m sorry, how is it possible you’ve only been on two film sets?’ she said, laughing again. ‘I’ve been on’—she counted in her head—‘seven this year. It’s only June.’
‘Show-off,’ he replied. ‘My dad got me the job.’ His father was Donald Travers, Hollywood royalty from the seventies, Best Director Oscar winner and, from what Sofia had heard, one of the most unpleasant and arrogant people in the business.
Sofia raised an eyebrow. ‘This film has an 85-million-dollar budget. How did they . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Never mind.’
Sofia watched Jack take another sip of his drink. His hand shook. She could not wipe the amused smile off her face, and yet she needed to help. She refused to have her Hollywood debut ruined by a director having a nervous breakdown. ‘I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Mr Travers,’ she told him. ‘Directing is the easiest job on set.’
He scoffed at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I worked on a TV show back in England, a children’s show. The director was a bit of an alcoholic – a lovely guy, but he fell asleep on set once, and we couldn’t wake him. We were hours behind in the schedule, and the producer told us to keep going. So we did. The assistant director ticked off the shots we needed, the cameraman filmed, the actors acted. We shot everything for the day without a director. We even went home early. That episode won a children’s BAFTA. The screenwriter has done well with this script – it’s much better than the usual dross I’m given. And the casting is good, obviously. So you don’t need to do much at all. A killer cinematographer and a great AD are all you need to shoot a film. If you have those, the only words you’ll have to speak on set all day will be your coffee order.’
He stared at her for a long time.
‘Are you well?’ she said to him when he still said nothing.
‘Who are you?’ he finally asked, searching her face with a look of wonder. ‘How do you know all of this? You’re too beautiful to know all this.’
Because I live and breathe this, she replied, but not out loud.
In truth, she loved it all, the battles on the film set, the sweat and the tears. One prepared for it like one went to war. When she was young, she would walk to the video shop and hire an armful of films at a time. She’d watch them from Friday night to Monday morning, blinds drawn, devouring all the old classics, films from the New Wave, works by the Russian masters, titles from the Italian giants. She laughed at how her shell did not mirror the inside, how that exterior of hers did not match her brain. But then, thinking back over people she knew, when did it ever?
She looked up at his face then to find him still staring at her, with an expression she knew to be desire. She met his eye and swallowed. He was damn handsome. For a second, Sofia felt a little intimidated, but then she reminded herself she was damn handsome too. She looked into his soft blue eyes and smiling face. She bit her lip.
The next day on set, Jack fired his cinematographer, a sarcastic older man who had been undermining him, and replaced him with a young German cameraman who had just won an award in Europe, recommended by Sofia’s agent. He also replaced his first AD for good measure, with a businesslike woman recommended by Sofia. Both crew members were still shooting his films for him today, and Sofia became his sounding board, and his friend.
That first night at Jack’s house, they did not kiss – they barely touched the whole night – but they talked about movies for hours, and when she finally called a cab and wished her director goodnight, she knew something much larger than a film was beginning. Over the next few months, Sofia fell in mortifying, terrifying love. She possessed no memories of that time except the ones spent in his company. She must have brushed her hair, washed her clothes – breathed – during that time, but it was as if the hard drive of her brain had decided these moments were insignificant, inconsequential to the operating system, and deleted them all. All that remained of that time for her was him smiling at her, laughing with her, finally kissing her.
Her recall of this first meeting was interrupted by the sound of crunching, as Jack deposited the last bite of a protein bar into his mouth on set. It was an American brand he liked – perhaps the production had shipped a crate in for him. Jack chewed, then exhaled a little burp which he covered with his fist. The little emission both disgusted and comforted her; she had never seen him burp in front of a stranger. In this repulsive but intimate action, he at least treated her like they remained together.
She tried to think of something to make him feel better, to distract him from his work woes. ‘How’s the Aston Martin? Does he miss me?’ she asked. His eyes lit up and he put down his phone.
‘I got it detailed at this auto shop in Los Feliz. You should see the rims.’ He spoke at length about the new exhaust, how the car purred now. Sofia sighed, gratified she still knew his passions. She nodded and smiled as he talked, buzzing inside with little leaps of ecstasy at having Jack all to herself for a few minutes.
Then Courtney walked over. ‘Hey, guys,’ she said, before performing a double take. She squinted and seemed to study Sofia’s face from several angles. Sofia swallowed, recalling the extensive se
cret restoration work Derek had performed on her face. Courtney opened her mouth, and Sofia prepared herself to be called out – her no-makeup makeup exposed to everyone – but then Courtney closed her mouth and said no more, possibly, thankfully, thinking better of it. Sofia breathed a sigh of relief and made a note to thank Derek later, not only for his makeup wizardry but also his cunning grasp of inter-actress politics.
Courtney smiled at her instead and seemed to take a different tack. ‘Sofia, sorry, you don’t mind, do you?’ She pointed to the floor. ‘You’re on my mark. We’re behind?’
‘Oh goodness, sorry. Yes, of course,’ Sofia replied.
‘You understand, Sofe? We’re busy,’ Jack said. ‘We’ve got work to do.’
‘Sure! We’ll talk later,’ Sofia replied quickly. She suddenly felt stupid, like a 38-year-old child. She felt like reminding everyone she had been working on film sets for fifteen years. A runner showed her off the sound stage.
She sat down on a chair and watched the rehearsal. After a minute, Courtney seemed to look over.
The runner returned. ‘Sorry, that’s Ms Smith’s chair,’ he said to Sofia.
‘Oh, no problem,’ Sofia replied. She stood up. ‘Show me where my chair is – I’ll sit on that.’
He stared at her, then looked around. ‘There isn’t one.’ He looked terrified.
She looked around and saw he told the truth. Four directors’ chairs sat near the monitors, each with a name printed on the back in white letters. One read Courtney Smith, another Jack Travers and another two had the names of the producers. None of them read Sofia Wentworth.
Jane in Love Page 14