‘Just something I’m trying out.’ She wore a pair of pink cut-off shorts and a T-shirt which may or may not have said Bazooka across the chest. She could not be sure, as she was not wearing her reading glasses. Her eyeballs were instead ensconced behind a large pair of rainbow-framed sunglasses which she was sure afforded little UV protection. Courtney Smith had worn the same ensemble on the cover of last month’s Teen Vogue. The pink shorts chafed Sofia’s inner thighs. She swallowed. ‘I look horrendous, don’t I?’ She bowed her head.
‘No. You look great,’ Dave replied. ‘Fashion-forward. You looked great before too. This way.’
He ushered her towards the central reading room. The ceiling of a recital hall loomed overhead. Rows of brown study carrels lined the great room, each cubicle occupied by a student, many of them sleeping. Dave led Sofia up a steel spiral staircase and onto the open mezzanine. Rows of stacks lined the floor. He took a blue legal volume from a shelf and searched. Sofia observed his eyes as they ran down the pages; his gaze seemed gentle and nervous. He blinked with a twitch.
‘Why are you helping me?’ she asked then, eyes narrowed.
Dave closed the book and looked up at her. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘You can’t be more than twenty. I’m . . . in my thirties. Do you have a fetish for older women?’
‘No?’ said Dave. He laughed and read on. ‘And I’m twenty-nine.’
‘I can’t help you get your screenplay made, if that’s what you’re thinking.’
‘I don’t have a screenplay,’ he replied.
‘I’m not going to sleep with you.’
‘I don’t want to sleep with you.’
‘Yes, you do!’ insisted Sofia. ‘Everyone does.’
Dave said nothing.
‘Don’t tell me you’re a nice person. I hate those.’
Dave put the book down. ‘Do you remember The Warmest Hearth?’
Sofia rolled her eyes. ‘The long-running soap opera in which I played the buxom parson’s daughter, Nanette? I have tried these many years to forget it.’
‘It was my mother’s favourite show.’
‘I pity your mother,’ Sofia said.
‘No need. She’s dead.’ Dave turned back to the book.
Sofia slapped his arm but spoke in a soft voice. ‘Why did you have to ruin it by telling me that? My mother up and died too. It was very rude of her, dying right when she was beginning to grow on me. Quite messed up my year,’ she said.
‘Mine too,’ said Dave. ‘I can’t go one June twelfth without thinking of her, silly woman. Or any other day for that matter.’
‘Our mothers are both thoughtless.’
‘My mum’s favourite storyline on Warmest Hearth was when Father Matthews fell in love with Nanette,’ Dave said.
‘Ah yes, Father Matt, the sexy priest. It was quite the scandal. The Beeb got so many letters. I wonder what Ryan-o is doing these days. That’s the actor who played Father Matt,’ she added. ‘Probably dead in a ditch somewhere. I should give him a call. Anyway, please continue.’
‘Every day I arrived home from school, and me and Mum watched The Warmest Hearth. When Nanette and Father Matthew finally . . . you know . . .’
‘Had a holy union?’ Sofia said.
Dave nodded. ‘Mum was so excited. We watched it and taped it, then watched it again straight away.’
‘Video tape? Stop reminding me how old I am; you’re not doing yourself any favours.’
He shrugged. ‘Anyway, that’s why I’m helping you.’
‘You’re helping me because I was in a soap opera so old you pirated it on VHS?’
‘Because you brought my mother, who was so riddled with cancer that in the X-ray her body looked like a treasure chest of pearls, a bit of joy before she died.’
Sofia stared at him. ‘Fine,’ she sniffed. ‘I give you permission to help me. Wait. Just so we’re clear: I claim Jane Austen lives in my brother’s spare room. You don’t think I’m crazy?’
Dave shrugged. ‘If you say you saw Jane Austen, then you saw Jane Austen. If you’re for real, then, wow. You’ve got one of the greatest writers in the English language in your house. If you’re crazy, then I’ve got a great story to tell down the pub. It’s win-win for me.’ He picked up the book and flipped the pages. Sofia stared at him again. ‘Here we are.’ He paused on a page. ‘Besides. If you’ve made this all up, it’s a sophisticated lie.’ He pointed to a line halfway down, then handed the volume to her.
Sofia turned to the book and read the passage aloud. ‘Summary notice. February second, 1810. Emmaline J Sinclair of 8 Russia Row, Cheapside, v Rex.’ Sofia gasped. ‘That’s Mrs Sinclair? Jane is telling the truth?’
Dave pointed to the entry. ‘Is that her address?’
‘It’s absolutely the address Jane gave me. My God. I don’t know what to say.’ She laughed, astounded. ‘Okay, explain. What are we looking at?’
Dave held up the book. ‘We’re looking at a court listing. Your Mrs Sinclair was charged with a crime.’
Sofia straightened. ‘A witch trial?’
Dave read the lines below. ‘No. She was charged with grand larceny.’
Sofia scowled and shook her head. ‘Which is?’
‘Stealing clothes,’ Dave replied. ‘It was a thing back then.’
‘Was she found guilty?’ Sofia said.
Dave read the passage. ‘It doesn’t say. We need to check the archive. Ground floor.’
Sofia and Dave descended. Her mind whirred. Jane was telling the truth: Mrs Sinclair was a real person. She found herself at the beginning of a mystery. Dave showed her to a shelf containing the dusty tomes of the Old Bailey. ‘This is rather exciting,’ Sofia said. ‘I feel like a treasure hunter. But with books.’
Dave rifled through the pages of one volume, then tossed it to one side and grabbed another.
‘You’re enjoying this,’ Sofia said with a crooked smile.
‘Thoroughly,’ said Dave. ‘Here.’ He settled on a page. His face fell.
‘What is it?’ Sofia asked.
Dave shook his head. ‘Mrs Sinclair was found guilty as charged. They sentenced her to transportation.’
‘Transportation? To where?’
Dave read on. ‘Australia. But she died. On the Earl Spencer, the ship that took her to New South Wales.’
‘How inconsiderate of her.’ Sofia scratched her head. ‘Well, I’m utterly confused now.’
Dave sat on the floor between the two stacks. ‘So am I.’
‘You’re disappointed,’ Sofia said. ‘I must admit, that was rather an anticlimax.’
‘I thought I was onto something there,’ said Dave. ‘I’ll keep looking.’
Sofia checked her watch. ‘I have to go.’
He looked up. ‘What if I find something?’
‘If you find anything, bring it to set.’
Dave straightened. ‘You mean the film set?’
Sofia shrugged. ‘Why not? I’ll put your name on the door.’
Dave looked starry-eyed. ‘Wow. A real-life film set! Where the magic happens.’
‘It’s not as glamorous as you might think,’ she said, and waved her hand glamorously.
‘To you, maybe. But to me . . . so exciting! There will be film stars there.’
Sofia rolled her eyes. ‘Yes, Courtney Smith will be there.’
‘I meant you,’ Dave said.
‘Oh,’ she replied. ‘Whatever.’ She walked off, concealing her smile.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Courtney took Sofia’s arm and leant in. ‘I heard a rumour,’ she whispered with a smile. They stood on the sound stage once more for afternoon rehearsal. Courtney wore her Grecian goddess gown. Sofia had re-donned her lime-green sack. The tension and passive aggression between them fizzed and buzzed in a symphony; they seemed to loom on the verge of an all-out war, but tones and gestures remained tightly controlled for the moment. They were like a couple of expensively dressed, impossibly glamorous gunslingers from the Old W
est, waiting in the street for the shoot-out to begin, each daring the other to flinch or fumble their jewel-encrusted gun. ‘You have a secret admirer.’
‘I do?’ Sofia said. She kicked the ground and feigned uninterest. ‘Who?’ All she could think of was Jack. Had he said something? Was it obvious? Her heart leapt.
‘Pete likes you,’ Courtney replied. She raised her eyebrows and nudged Sofia in the ribs.
Sofia scowled. ‘Who is Pete?’ she asked.
‘Pete, the unit manager?’
Sofia scanned through names and faces in her head and came up with no one. Finally, Courtney pointed across the set. A tattooed man of seventy exited a portable toilet in a high-visibility vest. An eczema-mortified bottom crack poked out from his trousers.
‘That’s him. He won’t kick you out of bed. I think you should go for it.’
Sofia rolled her eyes. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Why not? You’re single. Take a chance, you might find love.’ Courtney beamed at her with sinister glee. Sofia looked over at Pete the unit manager as he stacked some chairs. He was probably a lovely person and had no idea Courtney mocked him. Sofia felt sad and embarrassed for the both of them. She hoped Courtney had said nothing to him as some cruel joke; he probably just wanted to do his job in peace. She suddenly felt incredibly mad.
‘Can’t, sorry,’ Sofia said in a confident voice. ‘I’m already seeing someone.’ She winced at the lie as soon as the words left her mouth.
Courtney blinked and straightened. ‘Oh! I’m happy for you. What’s his name?’
Sofia inhaled. Oh dear. She had started the falsehood and would now need to continue it. Quick, what were sexy men’s names? Bertie? Reginald? Horatio? No, those were all unsexy. She tried to conjure a person from her imagination, but was saved from having to answer by Jack, who walked over.
‘We’re almost ready,’ he said, pointing to the camera. ‘We’ll go from the top.’
‘Jack, did you know Sofia is seeing someone?’ Courtney asked.
Sofa cringed at the repeated lie. But Jack did a double take and met Sofia’s eyes. It was the smallest of flinches on his part, but it was enough to gratify Sofia for the rest of the day.
‘I am,’ she said, defiant.
‘I’m happy for you,’ said Jack, in a hollow voice.
‘Tell Jack his name,’ said Courtney.
Sofia gritted her teeth, keen to follow through with the adolescent lie because it was making Jack sweat. But now that he was looking at her with what might have been sadness, she found she couldn’t think of a name.
‘Did you make him up?’ asked Courtney, grinning.
‘No . . . I . . .’ She couldn’t think of a name. She didn’t want to think of a name. She was exhausted by the whole thing. She could not compete with a twenty-something Californian.
‘Even imaginary boyfriends have names,’ said Courtney. Her cornflower-blue eyes gleamed with joy. A camera operator chuckled nearby.
Then a figure moved towards them through the crowd. The crew parted. Dave Croft emerged from where he must have been standing for some time. He strode up to Sofia and placed his arm around her shoulder.
‘Hi,’ he said.
Courtney and Jack and the rest of the crew seemed to take in the scene with a general sense of bewilderment. Sofia was as shocked as anyone but had the good sense, and the acting talent, to say nothing.
‘Sorry I’m late. Got held up at the gym,’ said Dave. ‘Lifting loads of weights.’ He wore his librarian clothes and leather shoes. Dave turned to Jack, whose mouth was still wide open. He held out his hand. ‘Dave Croft,’ he said. ‘The boyfriend.’ Sofia stifled a laugh. The whole performance was so ludicrous, but also so endearing, that she found it difficult to imagine anyone would possibly believe it. To her surprise and delight, everyone seemed to.
‘Jack Travers.’ Jack coughed. They shook hands. Courtney stared at them with wide eyes. A vein throbbed in her temple.
‘Of course,’ Dave said to him. ‘Forrest Gump is one of my favourite films.’
‘I didn’t direct that,’ Jack said.
‘I know,’ said Dave. He grinned and turned to Courtney. ‘And you are?’
Courtney’s mouth dropped open. ‘Courtney Smith?’ she said.
Dave smiled and shook her hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’
Courtney stomped off. Dave turned to Sofia. ‘Are you free, babes?’ He croaked when saying ‘babes’, as though he had never said the word before. ‘I want to show you something.’
‘You can’t have her,’ blurted Jack. ‘We’re rehearsing a scene, pal.’
‘I’ll be five minutes, Jack,’ Sofia said. ‘You don’t need me quite yet, anyway.’ She walked away and motioned for Dave to follow her outside. She knew from experience that Jack would be watching her go.
‘So sorry about that,’ Dave said, once they were outside. ‘Putting my arm around you and saying I was your boyfriend. I said that because I overheard them talking. I didn’t mean it. I know I’m not your boyfriend.’
‘Good, I should hope not,’ Sofia said, though she still smiled from it. ‘Thank you, though. Kind of a rock-star move.’
Dave smiled. ‘Oh.’ He shuffled his feet.
‘What did you want to show me?’ she asked him quickly.
He cleared his throat. ‘Right. Check it out,’ he said, and opened his bag. ‘I dug deeper on Mrs Sinclair.’ He pulled out a book and began flipping through its pages. ‘I thought about the records we have of Jane Austen. Biographies of her are patchy. Dickens, Hardy, Tolstoy – we have reams of information on them. But for Jane Austen, we know basically nothing. She is an enigma.’
‘Why? She is a huge writer.’
Dave shrugged. ‘No one thought to keep them. I don’t know.’
Sofia scowled. ‘Can we not ask her about the facts of her life herself? She does live with me.’
‘I know she does,’ he replied.
Sofia smiled. Any normal person was within their right to call her crazy when she claimed she lived with a nineteenth-century author. But he did not. Which perhaps made him not normal, but it was still nice.
‘But here’s the thing,’ he added. ‘The Jane Austen in your house is still a young woman. She’s had no books published, no achievements. In the time she’s come from, she’s not famous yet. The information we need she doesn’t yet know herself.’ Sofia nodded. ‘But there was one source of information I hadn’t considered. In her lifetime, Jane Austen wrote three thousand letters. One hundred and sixty of those survive today.’
Sofia raised an eyebrow. ‘Did Jane write Mrs Sinclair a letter?’
‘No,’ he replied. Sofia scowled. ‘But Mrs Sinclair wrote one to Jane.’
‘What?’ Sofia said. She inhaled. ‘Show me.’
He handed Sofia the large blue book. The cover read Sotheby’s Annual. The opened page contained auction-house listings.
‘This is like the sports pages for antiques geeks,’ Dave said. Each line contained names and dates. ‘These are the details of known letters written to or from Jane Austen.’
Sofia scanned the page and gasped. ‘Here!’ She pointed to an entry on the page and read it aloud. ‘Mrs Emmaline Sinclair to Jane Austen. She wrote Jane a letter in 1810!’
Dave nodded. ‘Before she went to Australia.’
‘What do we do, then?’ Sofia asked.
‘We find that letter.’
‘How exciting! We are intrepid book hunters!’ Sofia said. She smiled at him.
He blinked and smiled back. He gazed down and flipped through the book again.
Sofia escorted Dave over to catering. ‘Grab yourself a coffee before you return to the library.’ She walked back to Jack and Courtney to rehearse. Neither of them said anything unrelated to camera angles and script coverage for the rest of the scene.
At one point during the rehearsal, Sofia looked over to the catering table where Dave was attempting to make himself a coffee at the espresso machine. He loaded the beans into the mach
ine, but when he pressed the button only scalding water emerged. He swore and jumped on the spot. He glanced around to see if anyone noticed. Eventually he shrugged and seemed to give up. He threw a tea bag into the cup of hot water and sipped it instead. Sofia watched him and smiled. In her beauteous youth on the stage, Sofia had been romanced by Lancelot, rescued by Robin and his bow, proposed to by Romeo and seduced by Tristan. But as far as acts of chivalry went, Dave Croft, with his soft stomach and scuffed shoes, standing beside her before and doing what he did, maybe trumped them all.
A few hours passed in happy uneventfulness. Rehearsal wrapped for the day and she returned to the truck to change and go home. When she stepped inside, she gasped. ‘When did these arrive?’ she asked Derek, who was washing makeup brushes in the sink.
‘About twenty minutes ago. Ms Wentworth, they’re so beautiful.’
Derek told the truth. Three dozen long-stemmed roses were arranged in a crystal glass. Dew covered the cherry-red blooms and glistened in the afternoon light.
‘Who are they from?’ he asked. ‘There’s no card.’
Sofia did not need a card to know who’d sent them. ‘They’re from Jack,’ she said.
‘Such a beautiful colour,’ Derek said. ‘Such a glorious shade of red. I can’t put my finger on where I’ve seen it before. It’s the same shade—’
‘As my hair,’ Sofia whispered. She tucked a strand of her red tresses behind her ear and stared at the flowers on the table. Her heart raced. Jack always used to give her red roses like this, the same colour as her hair, when they first started seeing each other. She could not catch her breath.
Sofia’s phone rang. Dave Croft’s name appeared on screen. Dave! She thought of answering – it might be something important, something to do with Jane, but she let it go to voicemail. Dave would understand. If he had news, he’d leave a message. She watched the screen and waited. No voicemail popped up. She shrugged; he’d call back. She glanced at the roses again. This was going to be a great shoot.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
If Sofia had been asked to locate the turning point in her marriage, the moment when things changed, an event from four years prior would have come to mind.
Jane in Love Page 23