At first, she and Jack had dedicated themselves to making their Hollywood relationship an exception to the rule. ‘We’ll do things differently,’ they said, noting in sanctimonious tones the long list of Hollywood unions which ended in divorce, and vowing to do better than them.
Jack’s role as director required him to remain in Los Angeles for months at a time, to oversee post-production, screenings, meetings. Meanwhile people put Sofia on jets and sent her wherever crew labour ran cheap and the US dollar went far, to Eastern Europe mostly, and even Australia in those days.
Sofia returned to LA every chance she got. One time, she found Jack on the floor of an edit suite, in the midst of panic attack – his worst one yet – over the edit of the Batman sequel. The movie had come in at almost five hours long, and Jack was crippled by indecision over which shots to lose. Sofia sat with him in that windowless room, soothed him, and gently suggested to him to let this or that shot go, applauding him whenever he made a decision.
In truth, Jack overthought things. A good director made decisions, even if they were the wrong ones: the act of deciding was the important part. Sofia was not like him; she knew innately what to do. She knew how to tell a story with a look, a shot, a word. She watched him on the floor of the edit room, trembling and close to tears, and shook her head at why he did it to himself, why he had convinced himself that this career was what he wanted. Sofia loved him, so she always helped him. They completed the edit together.
The film succeeded. Sofia and Peter had built on the chemistry they’d had in the first movie, and the scriptwriter added real heart this time, above the usual convoluted comic-book plotting. The trade papers reviewed the film in celebratory tones, declaring it an action masterpiece. The film broke records, earning the highest box office ever for a sequel, and Jack was feted everywhere he went.
It was at about this time that things seemed to change.
They went straight into pre-production on Batman 3. They shot it and wrapped, and the edit loomed once more. Jack struggled, and Sofia sat with him again, night after night in the edit suite. Jack asked her to be at the studio screening, and she gladly attended, but sat up the back of the room so as not to be in the way. She glanced at the back of his head as he watched the cut on the big screen above. He relaxed his shoulders. The movie looked good. She smiled, happy for him. He’d be in a good mood later.
As she turned to leave the theatre, an executive leant over to Jack in his seat and spoke to him. Sofia overheard the words. ‘Does the carpet match the drapes?’ The executive pointed to the screen, where Sofia, as Batgirl, jumped into frame, her flame-red hair dancing across the screen. Sofia stiffened. She turned to Jack and inhaled, waiting for his rebuttal. She wanted to hear how Jack Travers dressed down pissants who insulted his wife.
Jack seemed to pause and look around. Some other executives snickered. He looked to them. ‘No,’ he replied. He chuckled. That was all he said. The darkened room erupted with laughter.
Sofia left the theatre. She spent the morning in the edit suite, tweaking the cut, helping Jack with everything. Then she went home and cried. When Jack arrived home a few hours later, she confronted him. ‘Does the carpet match the drapes?’ she asked.
He looked like a guilty child who had been caught stealing a cookie. Then he grew defiant and angry and waved her away. ‘What could I do? They’re the money.’
‘I’m your wife,’ she said.
He doubled down then. The pressure rested on him to do the job, he explained. She just stood around looking good in that leotard and her task was complete. He made decisions – hundreds of them – and they had to be the right ones.
She swallowed this with horror and she vowed never to help him again. See how he does without me, she thought. The final Batman instalment succeeded and records were broken once more, the highest trilogy takings of all time. More parties were thrown; people inside their LA bubble behaved towards Jack as though he had cured cancer. Sofia went off to shoot another film in Prague, while Jack stayed in LA. Their relationship remained suspended in a frosty holding pattern.
The studio ordered a fourth instalment of Batman in the wake of the trilogy’s success. The trade papers alleged that pay cheques for director and stars would run to eight figures. But Peter was looking quite old by then, maybe too old to play Batman once more. He had reached his late forties; he’d lost weight and his neck skin hung loose. Rumours abounded: the studio would be replacing him; they were already searching for a new Batman.
Sofia called Peter every day in support. He had a fierce team of agents and handlers who put up a fight, and everything came to a head between the studio and Peter’s camp. Words were thrown, endorsements were threatened, and Peter looked set to depart.
Turned out, they did not replace Batman. They replaced Batgirl.
To make Peter look younger, they put him next to a younger woman. As soon as Sofia heard their decision, she nodded with wisdom. Of course they’d replaced her. Not him.
As for Jack, he privately raged to Sofia about unfairness and disloyalty, but he said nothing publicly. When a few journalists asked him his opinion about no longer directing his wife in the films that had made them both famous, he said it wasn’t appropriate to comment when the new film was still in pre-production, like it was a court case and he didn’t want to influence the jury. Sofia took the sting and added it to the list of tiny treacheries they had enacted upon each other. When Sofia returned to LA, they separated.
She had always thought this was the moment when Jack changed. She thought she could change him back, if they could just spend time together again, but it was Sofia who had changed, and actually Jack had been the same all along. Even on that first night, he’d thought of her a certain way.
‘You’re too beautiful to know all this,’ he had said to her when she’d arrived fuming on his doorstep and told him how to direct a movie. She had taken it as a compliment at the time, which it may have been, but now she saw another side to those words. It was as though Jack had accused her of treachery, of misrepresentation, of some cunning trick, that she’d gone to his house pretending to be one thing, then turned out to be something else. She knew Jack thought she was beautiful, but if that were to change, would he value her at all? In the beginning, he had seemed to adore her, to need her so much. Sofia was sure Jack had loved her, at least for a while, but now she suspected there was also a bit of hate mixed up in that love.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
As the time drew near for Jane and Fred’s midnight departure to the secret location, Jane marked the whole endeavour as folly. She sat by the sitting room window and chewed her lip. Sofia had again promised to get Jane back to 1803, assuring her she’d made progress on the mission, before leaving the house with a cheerful wave. Jane had thanked her, racked with guilt. She possessed a singular ally in Sofia, and to sneak from the house and defy her in this way not only invited censure, it abounded in stupidity and took her one step further down the path of not returning to 1803. Leaving the house invited only ruin.
Yet she could not bring herself to decline him. She put on the nicest of the shirts and men’s trousers Sofia had given her and brushed her hair many times, cursing herself as she did so. She clicked a magic candle on and off and worked herself into such a state that she did not notice when Fred entered the room.
‘What are you doing?’ Fred asked her with an amused look. He wore a green shirt with sleeves rolled to the elbows and black trousers, and his eyes shone an agitating shade of emerald.
Jane ceased her abuse of the candle switch. ‘Nothing at all,’ she said with a shrug. ‘I merely admire this desk lamp.’ She ran her finger along the lamp’s arm and pretended to study it.
Fred smirked. ‘You are a fan of desk lamps in general? Or this one in particular?’
‘I am an ardent fan of all lighting contrivances,’ she replied. She looked up from the apparatus. She did not know how to feel at that point: annoyed at his continued teasing or terrified a
t what was about to happen. She settled for a combination of both.
‘Shall we go?’
They walked through dark streets to the centre of Bath. ‘Where are we going?’ Jane said. Fred did not answer.
They arrived at a cast-iron gate. Fred opened a heavy lock and slid back a chain. He swung the gate open and held out his hand. Jane took it and he led her inside a stone building. Jane strained her eyes to see where they were, but darkness enshrouded them. His hand felt warm on hers; she commanded her breath to slow. Her mind darted this way and that; she could focus on no single thought for longer than a moment.
They stepped under an arch and entered a cavernous tunnel, carved from stone. A rocky path of smashed flagstone lay under their feet. Fred pulled her along. Jane tripped on a jagged paver and Fred caught her before she tumbled to the floor. He lifted her up and they continued forward.
‘Are you leading me to my demise?’ she managed to ask him.
‘Almost there,’ he replied. They reached the end of the tunnel and entered a larger space.
‘We are outside again,’ Jane declared. She could see nothing, but the air had changed. Fred let go of Jane’s hand and walked away. ‘Do not leave me here, sir!’ she demanded.
‘Back in a tick,’ he said cheerfully.
Jane stood on the spot and hoped a ghost did not seize her. She could see less than a foot in front of her, making out stone blocks and perhaps a column. The air felt warm and wet on her shoulders and face. ‘If you do not return in an instant, I shall scream,’ she announced into the space.
‘Ten seconds! Almost there,’ Fred called from somewhere.
Jane counted to ten in her head. Nothing happened. She opened her mouth to scream, then a yellow light beamed above her. Jane looked up into it and it blinded her. ‘Goodness,’ Jane said. ‘I see spots.’
‘Don’t look straight into the light. Maybe I should have mentioned that. Sorry!’
Jane’s eyes recovered. Light bathed the area. She stepped back and gasped. ‘Oh my,’ she said.
A double-storey cloistered courtyard stood before her. Greek columns carved from warm golden stone held up the walkway, and gargoyles looked down on them from above. The middle of the courtyard did not consist of grass or stone, but rather a giant pool of pastel green water.
‘It’s a bath,’ Jane said with astonishment.
Fred laughed. ‘It’s the bath. The greatest of them all.’ Fred angled his giant lamp and the beam hit the surface of the water. Steam whorled across the surface in loops and wisps.
‘This is the Roman Bath?’ Jane asked. ‘Of the Pump Room?’
Fred nodded. ‘This is the bath that Bath was named for. Does it live up to its name?’
Jane looked down at the sacred spring. It stood lovelier than it did in her dreams. ‘I believe it might. How are we permitted to enter at night?’ she asked.
‘We’re not,’ he replied. ‘Shhh, don’t tell anyone.’ She waited for him to explain. ‘See those Roman statues?’ he said.
Jane looked up. She stood corrected: the statues above her formed not gargoyles, but Nero, Claudius and Julius Caesar, rendered in stone. They loomed over the pool, observing the scene. ‘They are marvellous,’ she said.
‘They get covered in acid rain,’ he said. Jane squinted. ‘The restorers come in every so often and clean it off. We’re bringing the students here tomorrow for an excursion, to check out the restoration. One of the caretakers is a friend of mine and he gave me a key,’ Fred said. ‘Do you like it?’ He gestured to the baths.
‘I had no idea it looked this way,’ she said. She could scarcely believe she was standing in a place she had never been permitted to enter before.
Fred beamed. ‘The Romans were master builders,’ he said.
‘They could not have been that masterful,’ Jane said. ‘They built no roof. All the heat escapes.’ She pointed. Steam rose from the water’s surface, then evaporated into thin air.
‘There is a roof,’ Fred said with a nod.
Jane frowned. ‘I do not see one.’
‘You can’t see it from this angle. You have to get in to see it.’ He nodded towards the pool.
Jane scoffed. ‘In the water? Impossible.’
Fred laughed. ‘This is a once-in-a-lifetime chance! The pool is not open to the public to swim in.’
The frigid night air already made her shiver. ‘I will freeze to death,’ she said.
‘You won’t. I promise.’
‘Is it safe?’
‘Sure. The restorers drained it yesterday,’ he said.
‘It looks rather green.’
‘Don’t drink it then,’ he replied with a laugh. ‘Are you scared?’
‘Not at all,’ Jane said, petrified. She scrambled for an excuse. ‘I have no sea-bathing clothes.’
‘I thought you might say that. Here.’ He handed her a ball of fabric.
She unravelled it. ‘What is this?’
‘A swimsuit,’ said Fred.
Jane held up the fabric and gasped. It was a tiny scrap of material in the shape of underclothes. ‘I am to wear this?’ Jane’s eyes bulged. ‘That’s obscene.’
‘Oh,’ he said. He looked concerned. ‘I’m sorry. The woman in the shop said her grandmother has the same one.’ He showed Jane a small card attached to the underclothes. It was a picture of a grey-haired woman holding a large orange ball; she wore the bathing clothes. ‘She’s having fun.’
‘She looks drunk,’ Jane said. Perhaps that was the only possible mind-state in which to contemplate the scenario: inebriation. ‘You promise me this is no trick, that this is what women wear? For bathing. In public.’
Fred laughed. ‘I promise.’
Since arriving in this time, Jane had seen enough women in their drawers with exposed ankles and bosoms to know this bore truth, but the idea of wearing such a miniature outfit herself mortified every creed and protocol of her existence. ‘I am sorry. I cannot.’
‘I promise I won’t look,’ he said. ‘Is that what you’re worried about?’
‘No,’ she lied. She turned towards the pool. The water sparkled. The surface seemed opaque.
Jane’s brother Frank had written to her once of swimming in the Praia da Luz in Portugal with his fleet. He described the water as warm and golden, and the experience as heavenly. He even claimed to have seen a mermaid. It was a rare line of poetry from Frank. The Austens had a soft spot for a body of water; they were all seduced by its mystery and immersion. Jane shared the attraction, but her experiences were theoretical up to this point.
‘Go on, take a chance,’ Fred said.
Jane held the bathing suit and winced. The vicar preached the message from every pulpit: exposing one’s flesh to a man was to place one’s soul in mortal danger. A woman’s body was meant for singular consumption. Once a man’s eyes looked upon the flesh, his gaze spoiled her for all others.
She was aware that her thoughts on this score were outdated compared to the social mores of this time. She imagined standing before him, wearing this item. Fred placed his eyes on her, smiled politely, then averted them once more.
Jane fidgeted and scratched her head. Fred spoke to her then in a soft voice. ‘This is not meant to be torture, Jane. I thought you might enjoy it. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want. We can leave.’
Jane had longed to go bathing all her life. ‘I am not upset,’ she said. She recalled his accurate pronouncement of her character the night before, of her wanting to see and try everything. She looked at the pool once more. The green water held only opaqueness; she could see nothing of under the surface. She had an idea.
‘If you agree not to look until I am in the pool?’
‘I shall stand over there behind the column,’ Fred said with a nod. ‘I won’t look at all.’
Jane inhaled. She took the sea-bathing suit from him and moved into a cave behind the cloisters.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Jane removed her clothes, then stepped into the le
g holes of the suit and pulled it upwards. She shuddered. It felt even smaller than she had first thought, and barely covered anything. She cursed herself for agreeing to this mad scheme.
‘I am coming out,’ Jane called.
‘I will be here,’ Fred called back. ‘I’m behind a column. I can’t see anything.’
Jane inhaled and walked out of the cave, looking around. She could not see him. She hurried over to the edge of the pool and placed a toe in the water. ‘It’s warm,’ she whispered, and jettisoned her fear of freezing. As her foot touched the water, it rippled and radiated small waves to the middle of the pool. She pulled it back and stepped her other foot into the water; it fizzed on her skin. She had never felt anything like it. She inhaled and plunged into the pool. The hot green liquid reached her waist.
In her dreams she had imagined this place, but the reality fared a thousand times better. The dreams did not include how the limey water felt on her skin. It never mentioned the smell in her nostrils, salty and sweet. It omitted the cracks in the Roman statues, the moss on the stones, the sand and mud under her toes. The fantasy never spoke of the flesh-and-blood man, somewhere behind her.
‘Are you in?’ Fred’s voice called to her from somewhere at the far end of the cloisters.
‘I am in,’ Jane called back. She looked around but saw only shadows and columns.
‘Lie on your back,’ Fred’s voice shouted.
Jane scowled and wondered how to manage it. ‘That does not sound feasible,’ she announced to the shadows.
‘Swing your shoulders behind you,’ he called out. ‘Use your hands and feet to paddle.’
She tipped her head back. The water bubbled on the back of her hair. She lifted her hips and sighed with delight. ‘I float!’ she exclaimed.
‘Look up,’ he called to her.
Jane looked up and gasped. ‘Good God,’ she whispered. The night sky hung above her. A thousand – no, a million – white stars reigned over head, puncturing the blanket of black with twinkling diamonds.
Jane in Love Page 24