Jane in Love

by Rachel Givney

  Fred’s eyes darted back and forth across Jane’s face.

  ‘Are there more pages? I could only find half a novel when I – with an ungallantry which haunts me – entered your quarters.’

  ‘I never finished writing it,’ Fred replied.

  ‘You must!’ Jane cried. ‘Why did you stop?’

  Fred shrugged. ‘I didn’t know what to write next. Maybe some of the scenes rang false.’ He leant across and tapped her arm with his fist in a playful way. She shivered and blushed at the affectionate touch. ‘Besides, do you know how hard it is to get a novel published?’

  ‘I have some idea,’ Jane replied.

  ‘Do you know how many people write novels every year, and they go nowhere? There are enough books in the world. We don’t need any more.’

  ‘What a dreadful thought.’

  Fred shrugged. ‘It got too hard. I didn’t know if it was any good. I showed some of the early pages to a friend at work. They offered a few benign, constructive comments, and I shrivelled into a ball of embarrassment and vowed never to try anything creative again.’

  ‘That is the point at which you must persevere,’ Jane declared. ‘The blackest time is before a breakthrough. That moment when all seems lost? That is the moment to keep writing. You must trust your heart, though no end lies in sight. No one can write this story but you. Writing is a lonely profession.’

  ‘And what about when the words don’t come?’ he asked.

  Jane nodded. ‘You grit your teeth and grip the pen and keep going.’

  ‘Sounds like agony.’

  ‘It is,’ she replied. ‘And you fill the page with words, and you read them back and despair.’

  ‘Great,’ he said with a laugh.

  ‘Then the next day, you read it once more, and find two words in the page that were not terrible,’ she said. ‘And your heart will sing in a register to shatter a stone.’ She cleared her throat, aware her voice had risen. ‘Or so I have heard.’

  He raised his head and stared at her. When she could no longer meet his eyes, she looked away. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he said.

  ‘Good. Do,’ Jane said. She coughed again.

  He met her eyes once more and fixed his face in a different look. ‘Thank you, by the way,’ he said. ‘Not for the invading-my-bedroom part, but thank you for the rest. For reading my novel and telling me you enjoyed it. That’s not nothing.’

  ‘You are welcome,’ Jane said.

  He excused himself to attend to a work appointment and she watched him go. She barely understood how this had unfolded. Earlier she had been in a pit of despair, shunned by him as a room-invading criminal, and she had prepared herself to be imminently jettisoned from the house. Now they were friends again. Not only friends, but comrades. The man before her knew the torment and ecstasy of toiling over a page, as she did, of gambling one’s soul to tell a story.

  She began to feel a turmoil inside her, a strange instability that had not been there before. The awkwardness between them remained, but it was softer now, and alongside it there was something deeper and more disarming. The way he had begun to look at her, to regard himself around her, was something altogether new, and her behaviour towards him had altered, too. There was a familiarity to their actions now, as though they had been through something together, which in a way they had. But there was also a new foreignness to the way they interacted, as though each was wary of the other, equipped with new information, or new feeling. Everything had become tenser.

  A part of her wished to never see him again, to no longer be confronted with him. There were more important aims to satisfy, other tasks to complete, like returning home so she could write her books. She needed to stop thinking of him.

  Jane tried to remind herself of the things she disliked about him and spent several minutes attempting to compose a list of his faults in her head. When that did not work, she looked for another distraction. She fetched Fordyce and pleaded with herself to begin the next sermon. She ran her eyes over the lines of text and read nothing but reassured herself that eventually, distraction would come.

  When she greeted Sofia in the kitchen that evening, her eye caught the glimmer of the glass cabinet which held the liquor and her books. She turned towards it to discover only four books now sat in a pile on the little glass shelf.

  A second book had disappeared. Sense and Sensibility.

  ‘Did you move it?’ Jane asked Sofia, pointing to the empty space where her novel once rested.

  Sofia shook her head with a look of horror and picked up another bottle of wine. ‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘We’ve done everything right. You’ve stayed in the house, have you not?’

  ‘I have,’ Jane replied.

  ‘You have not committed any interactions with the twenty-first century that might jeopardise your chances of returning to 1803?’

  ‘I cannot think of anything,’ Jane said. ‘I’ve spoken to Fred and spent the entire day inside.’

  ‘Well, those two acts hardly warrant the calamity we see before us!’

  Jane nodded. She made no mention of invading Fred’s room, discovering his manuscript and everything else. She doubted they posed any relevance to the present predicament.

  ‘I’m sorry, Jane,’ Sofia said. ‘I have been lax on my quest. I’ve preoccupied myself with getting my husband back and rescuing my career. But I will do something now.’

  ‘No, Sofia, you have been wonderful. It is I who have erred.’ Jane swallowed and felt racked with guilt.

  Sofia shook her head and placed her hands on her hips. ‘It’s time for drastic measures.’

  ‘What will you do?’ Jane asked, concerned.

  ‘I will go back to the library. A bigger one this time.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Sofia entered the atrium of the University of Bristol library. To say she felt out of place was an understatement. The cavernous redbrick building stretched over four storeys. Stacks, computers and men in cardigans filled the floor. This cathedral of literature, for serious book people, did not exactly welcome her inside. The last literature she’d read was by a journalist who was ruminating on the size of her bottom. Sofia worried that someone might ask her to leave.

  It had not always been so. She’d loved reading as a child: she devoured Judy Blume, solved crimes with the Famous Five and went on a trip with Lewis Carroll. She blamed Noel Streatfeild entirely for her consumptive obsession with shoes. She was once rendered so desperate on a dreary holiday in Blackpool that she had picked up the phone book and read half of A–M. Above all, she loved Jane Austen. But she hadn’t read a book in so long, she thought she might’ve forgotten how.

  She reached a line of ancient stacks, picked a row at random and trudged down it with a scowl. She felt lost already. She scanned the titles.

  ‘Can I help you?’ whispered a voice from the next shelf over.

  Sofia peered through the row of books at eye level. The voice came from a librarian, who pushed a cart of plastic-covered books down the opposite stack. ‘No, thank you,’ Sofia lied. She pretended to peruse the shelves some more.

  ‘The Almanac of Ukrainian Poetry,’ he said. He pointed to the book Sofia was pretending to look at. ‘A cracking read. Many verses on potatoes. Can never have too many poems about them, I say. I have the pocket version on my bedside table.’ Sofia glared at him. He wore a black collared shirt and creased black trousers, unfashionable and scruffy. ‘Ah, there. A little smile,’ he said. ‘I knew my Ukrainian jokes weren’t that bad.’

  ‘I’m fine on my own, thank you,’ Sofia said. The librarian held up his arms in a mock surrender and returned to reshelving books. Sofia moved to the next shelf over.

  ‘Bulgarian poetry is also good,’ said the librarian. He peeked through a gap in the books again. ‘They’re more laissez-faire with their potato imagery, but you can’t have everything.’

  Sofia sighed.

  ‘Tell me what you’re looking for,’ he said. ‘I’ll let you in on a se
cret. I’ve been here before. I might even know where it is.’

  ‘No,’ Sofia answered.

  ‘Is it naughty? It’s a naughty book you’re looking for, isn’t it?’

  ‘No,’ Sofia said.

  ‘I know. It’s The Da Vinci Code!’ he shouted.

  ‘Lower your voice! We’re in a library.’

  ‘I’ll keep shouting until you tell me.’

  ‘Fine,’ Sofia said. ‘I’m looking for a book on witchcraft.’ She coughed.

  ‘That wasn’t so hard. Not a problem.’ He parked his book cart. ‘I’m Dave Croft, by the way.’

  ‘Sofia Wentworth.’

  ‘I’m a big fan,’ said Dave. He held out his hand. Sofia rolled her eyes and shook it.

  Dave showed Sofia to the fourth floor. He ushered her into a small room with stacks of dusty shelves. ‘We have a whole witch section,’ he said cheerfully. ‘We burned them like mad in the West Country.’ He offered Sofia a book. It was bound in heavy black leather. ‘The Malleus Maleficarum, 1487. The seminal work on witches from the height of the craze. Written by a priest who was quite angry, it seems. This is your A1 guide to witches. How to spot ’em, how to arrest ’em, how to burn ’em.’ He smiled brightly.

  Sofia picked up the book. ‘Do you have anything more vocational?’ she asked.

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘Vocational?’

  She shrugged and spoke casually. ‘You know, from the witch’s perspective. Like how one might make a spell, for example.’

  Dave smiled. ‘You mean a spell book? You want to cast a spell?’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said with a laugh. She paused. ‘Actually, I want to reverse one. A real spell. Made by a real witch.’

  ‘Does this witch have a name?’ Dave said.

  ‘She did, in fact. Her name was Mrs Sinclair,’ Sofia said. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, gosh, sorry,’ Dave replied with a laugh. ‘I thought you were joking.’

  ‘I know you think me a fool. That I’m just some beautiful actress, chased into insanity by tragedy and scandal.’ She adjusted her sunglasses.

  ‘I don’t think you’re a fool. What’s the spell for?’

  ‘If you must know, Jane Austen is living in my house.’ She cleared her throat.

  He stared at her and seemed to stifle a smile. ‘Jane Austen.’

  Sofia nodded. ‘Witty writer lady. She’s living here, in my house – my brother’s house, actually; I don’t buy ones that small. She cast a spell and was magicked through time and ended up here. Now she needs to reverse said spell to travel back to her own time. Yes, I understand how loopy I sound. No, I don’t expect you to believe me. See, I told you, book-man. It’s better if you leave me in peace. Thank you for your help, but now I have work to do.’ She gathered up her carpet bag and shawl.

  ‘Hey. Don’t go,’ said Dave. ‘I’m sorry.’ She ignored him and made her way to the door. ‘At least leave a number where I can reach you,’ he called after her.

  She paused and turned. ‘What for?’

  He shrugged. ‘In case I find anything.’

  She scoffed. ‘You won’t.’ But she walked back to him and wrote a number on the back of some paper. ‘Here. Happy? Can I go now?’ She handed him the paper, cursed herself for coming there and proceeded to the exit.

  ‘Wait, stay,’ Dave called after her. But she had already reached the door.

  That afternoon, Sofia rejoiced in her first dress rehearsal with Courtney Smith. Derek once again fashioned her face to flawless perfection with his ‘no-makeup’ makeup, but his finest efforts were rendered pointless when Courtney again stepped into the truck.

  ‘Rise and shine, m’lady,’ she said in a reasonably decent Yorkshire accent. Sofia ran her mind back over the inflection and was disappointed to find it accurate for someone from the North Country, difficult to do. She bristled with jealousy.

  ‘Sorry about that. I’ve been chatting with Mick the grip? He’s from a town up north. Thought I’d try some British, to get me into the mood. Show me your costume, then,’ Courtney said.

  Sofia turned around and smiled. This at least she could be proud of. Her agent had spoken to the producers. Sofia now wore a very pretty, slim, cream silk gown, demure and elegant. She resembled a lovely, sparkly Greek column. Her fans – and Jack – would love her in this gown.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Courtney said, pointing to the dress.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Sofia said with a laugh. ‘What is the matter?’

  Courtney shrugged. ‘I could be wrong, but maybe that dress isn’t right for this picture?’

  ‘How? It’s exactly the style of the period.’

  ‘I know, but it’s wrong for your character. Mrs Allen is a humorous person, not a sex symbol. She’s supposed to make people laugh.’

  Sofia grimaced. Even if Courtney was right, who was she, an actress, to be commenting on another actress’s costume?

  ‘I’ll be back,’ Courtney said. Sofia and Derek looked at each other and shrugged. Courtney soon returned with a wardrobe person who looked worried. The woman carried another dress on a hanger. ‘Try this on,’ Courtney said, and offered the dress to Sofia.

  She studied the dress and gasped. ‘I will not.’

  ‘It’s just a rehearsal. Try it on. If it doesn’t work, we can take it off again.’

  Sofia rolled her eyes and ducked behind the curtain to change. She re-emerged and stood in front of them. Derek snickered.

  ‘What is it, Derek?’

  ‘It’s hysterical,’ he said, his face falling as he saw Sofia’s expression. ‘Oh. Is it not meant to be?’ Sofia ran to the mirror and surveyed her reflection. Lime-green velvet composed the dress’s main features. A giant purple bow, also in velvet, festooned the bosoms. The accompanying headpiece had actual fruit in it. If she had looked like a peacock before, she resembled a frog now.

  ‘It’s perfect,’ Courtney declared.

  ‘What? No, you must be joking,’ Sofia said.

  ‘You look hilarious,’ Courtney said with a nod. ‘It’s a brilliant costume. The audience will howl with laughter.’

  ‘Too bad,’ Sofia said with an outraged laugh. ‘I already had a dress. I’m going to change back into it.’

  ‘What’s wrong? Leave it on,’ Courtney said. ‘It’s what Jack wants.’

  Jack. Oh God. ‘It most certainly is not.’

  ‘Let’s ask him. Go get Jack,’ Courtney said to the wardrobe person, who scurried away with a look of fear.

  ‘Don’t bring Jack into this! Oh, hi,’ Sofia said as Jack appeared.

  ‘Whoa,’ he said as he stepped into the truck. He stared at Sofia.

  ‘Exactly,’ Sofia said. ‘Thank you.’ She felt a mixture of two things: relief that he did not like the dress, and embarrassment that he was seeing her in it. ‘I’ll take it off. I have a lovely cream dress which I’ll slip into. Excuse me,’ she said and moved to change.

  Courtney touched his arm. ‘No, Jack, you’re missing the point.’ Sofia blinked at the way Courtney spoke to him. He wouldn’t stand for it.

  ‘What is the point, young lady?’ he said to Courtney with a smile. Sofia’s heart sank a little. He seemed to be standing for it.

  ‘The point is, Sofia’s character is meant to be humorous. Jane Austen wrote comedies, remember? This will honour that.’

  Sofia bristled. She found herself in a battle of two warring parts. On the one hand, she wanted to look devastatingly glamorous on screen in a beautiful gown, break hearts and show Courtney up. On the other hand, she worshipped Jane Austen, and doing right by the little woman now living in her brother’s house would involve honouring this infernal child’s suggestion. She cursed Jane for the dilemma.

  Jack looked at them both. ‘It’s a good idea,’ Jack said. ‘You don’t mind, do you, Sofe?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Sofia said. She didn’t mind most things when he called her ‘Sofe’. He used to call her that all the time.

  ‘Cool,’ he said.

  ‘Co
ol,’ Courtney repeated. She winked at him and followed him out of the makeup truck.

  Sofia stood there and watched them go.

  Once upon a time, Sofia’s beauty had disarmed. When she was fourteen years old, a man had walked up to her on a darkened train platform, drunk. ‘You’re the hottest piece of arse I’ve ever seen,’ he declared. He was at least thirty-five. She was terrified. Then she learned to use it. She studied herself in the mirror each day until she had shaped a set of looks, walks and laughs. By the time she was fifteen, tales of her beauty swept the length of her village.

  The body matched the face in perfection. Sofia was not just thin, she was curved, like the bonnet of a race car. If you wanted to get all scientific about it, as some of the movie nutritionists did in awed voices, she maintained a fat percentage homeostasis known as bikini, hovering around 18 per cent, never wavering, and most of that was bosom and bottom. She never counted calories, anguished or starved. If she indulged over Christmas, she would eat carefully for three days and be back to her best. Nothing else was required; she was born that way.

  She had made her way to London as soon as she could, one of the youngest students ever accepted into RADA’s hallowed halls. The other students pointed and whispered; they said she didn’t get in on talent, she wouldn’t graduate. Eight months out from finishing, when the Royal Shakespeare called looking for an Ophelia, Sofia auditioned, was offered, and accepted the role. So the students were right.

  She did TV and theatre for a few years, good British stuff, always playing the same role whether she was a policewoman, a lawyer or a medical intern. She was the harlot with the heart of gold, the damaged love interest. Too beautiful to play anyone serious. She eked out a good living, but she wanted more. As soon as she had enough money saved, she bought a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. Three months later, she was Batgirl.

  When Sofia first slipped into that bat-suit, the black oily skin hugging her hips and breasts like a glove, no straight man in the audience (nor quite a few of the women) was the same again. It was only a comic book movie, but desire transcended even the silliest of settings. Bronwyn, the hair and makeup designer, dyed Sofia’s hair red to go with the slinky black leotard, old-Hollywood style, like Rita Hayworth. It turned out to be a masterstroke: Sofia already looked like no one else, but with the crimson hair, she was truly in a league of her own. Sofia was only playing a supporting character, but she romped and whipped her way through the film. Under lights, her hair bouncing on her shoulders in voluptuous flaming curls, Sofia stole the show. History was made, records were broken, and a star was born.