‘You come out with some whoppers, Sofia, but this takes the cake.’ He placed his hands on his hips. If he intended to look serious, he did not pull it off, dressed as he was in a hospital gown.
‘That whole year, you had perfectly tied shoelaces, double knots, triple knots.’
‘Complete rubbish.’
Sofia raised both eyebrows and rested her chin on her hand, like a professor posing a philosophical question. ‘Where is Jane now?’
Fred bowed his head and gazed at the end of the hospital bed.
‘See! You looked at your feet! Ha. You’re thinking about tying them. You’re not even wearing any shoes. You should get it checked out, your shoe-tying, love-concealing compulsion.’
‘Sofia, shut up.’
‘You also smile more. It’s nice. I don’t blame you, Fred. She’s quite the woman.’
He swallowed.
‘You two had a fight, didn’t you? But now you’ve made up. I’m glad. She must have said something pretty terrible to upset you.’ She raised an eyebrow.
‘She told me she was Jane Austen,’ Fred said, looking down at his hands.
‘She is Jane Austen,’ Sofia replied. She waited for him to react.
Fred snapped his head back up. He moved to cross his arms once more.
‘Don’t cross your arms. The alarms will go off again,’ Sofia said.
Fred rested his arms by his side and shifted in the bed. ‘What do you know about it?’
‘She appeared to me in a pile of curtains.’ Sofia laughed ruefully. ‘It was a big to-do. You missed the whole thing.’
‘You’re crazy’ Fred said.
‘Undeniably,’ Sofia replied. ‘Doesn’t make it any less true.’
‘What curtains?’ Fred said.
‘Jane appeared out of thin air in the wings of the Bath community hall while I was rehearsing for Northanger Abbey. You were there. You danced with her afterwards.’
Fred nodded and paused. ‘How much had you had to drink?’
‘Nothing,’ Sofia answered. ‘Aside from a few puffs of a brown paper bag, I was stone-cold sober. I did not dream it, nor did I hallucinate. I wish I had. I’d prefer not to have to help a time-travelling nineteenth-century author return home. I’ve got enough on my plate already, trying to get my estranged husband back and my brother seducing live electricity.’
‘You realise the absurdity of what you’re saying?’ Fred said.
‘Utterly and completely. But here’s the thing. I believe you’ve thought a great deal more about this whole Jane caper than you’re letting on. And while you’re pretending I’m crazy, you already know she’s Jane Austen. It’s just taken some time to sink in.’
Fred nodded. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ he asked.
‘Not really the type of thing you tell people, is it – “Jane Austen appeared to me from a pile of curtains” – unless you want to be taken away in a straitjacket. I’m only telling you about it now because you’ve clearly gone gaga for her.’ Fred opened his mouth to protest once more, then seemed to think better of it.
‘Let me know when you have made your peace with everything discussed so far,’ Sofia said. ‘For there is more to tell you.’
Fred turned back to her. ‘Okay?’
‘Putting aside the whole Jane Austen thing for a moment. Do you have feelings for her?’
Fred shifted in the bed. ‘Oh, I . . .’ He inhaled but said no more.
‘I know something’s already happened between you two. But what I’m really asking is, how deep do those feelings go?’
‘Um,’ he said. He gazed out the window.
‘I know this is a bit of a thing to lump on you, after you’ve been electrocuted and all, and I don’t want to burst the early romance bubble, but unfortunately, time is short.’
He scowled at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘You don’t have to answer right now. But whether you believe Jane is Jane Austen or not, she is going back. To the year 1803. She is going to fulfil her destiny as a writer, and she will go soon.’
‘What? I don’t . . .? Okay, when?’ he stammered.
‘As soon as she instructs me. I discovered the way to get her home. I had help from a nice young man in a cardigan, but I led the mission. Anyway, bottom line, she will go home. Unless . . .’
‘Unless what?’ Fred said.
‘Unless she is given a reason to stay.’
Fred sighed.
‘I think you’ve been your charming self, daft boy, and made her grow feelings for you. I have the means to return her home, and if you don’t get your act together, she will go. She won’t wait forever. She can’t. While I loathe the idea of rushing a budding romance in its fragile early stages, I’m afraid in this case, a push may be required.’
‘What kind of a push?’ Fred asked her.
‘You need to give her a reason to stay,’ Sofia replied.
‘But we hardly know each other,’ Fred said.
‘I understand. And in normal circumstances, I’d counsel against large, fast, declarative gestures of affection. They almost always end in disaster, embarrassment and legal paperwork – I should know. But these aren’t normal circumstances. And she is not a normal woman. And so, if your feelings are moving in that direction, towards love, houses, babies, all the happily-ever-after stuff, may I suggest, as soon as humanly possible, that you tell her how you feel.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Sofia returned to set. She felt like she walked on a cloud. Fred had woken up; she had flowers from her director. It could not get any better than this. She’d thank Jack for the roses one day. Let him sweat a little first. She walked to the sound stage and waved hello to Derek. He looked surprised to see her.
‘Back so soon? Why not spend the afternoon at the hospital?’
‘All good – Fred is well and has a friend there. I felt like a third armpit, actually, so I headed back. Are you annoyed to see me?’
‘Of course not,’ Derek said. ‘Let’s go to the truck.’ He tried to move her away from the sound stage. She caught him looking over her shoulder.
‘What is it, Derek? What’s going on?’
‘Nothing,’ he replied. But he glanced past Sofia again as he said it, then quickly looked back to her. Sofia turned to see what he was looking at. Jack and Courtney stood by the coffee machine. Jack had his hand on Courtney’s bottom. Not mistakenly, or to move her out of the path of an oncoming vehicle; he patted her behind for no reason in particular, except his own comfort. Courtney whispered something in his ear, and he smiled. Then they kissed. On the lips. Sofia blinked and fiddled with an earring.
It wasn’t a first kiss between them. Courtney lifted her heels the perfect amount and Jack bowed his neck the requisite balance, so their lips met in an exact, casual point of intersection, practised and known. They had done this before, but they were not tired of it, either. It was one of those kisses that comes right in the middle of things. Sofia blinked three times, bit her lip and hoped no one noticed.
‘I’m so sorry, Ms Wentworth,’ said Derek.
Jack kissed Courtney the same way he used to kiss Sofia. He cupped her bottom with his right hand and tipped his temple to the left. These moves were not reserved for Sofia, she realised. They were generic moves of tendon and bone dictated by his DNA; he performed the same for all women. She paused for a moment to consider the unique vista afforded her – to see the man she had kissed for ten years kissing someone else. Most people never got such a view; she should feel lucky. He looked good when kissing – great, even.
She became aware of many sets of eyes on her – the camera crew, the catering people. They stared with looks she’d never received before: of pity.
‘My makeup is still not right, Derek,’ she stated in a cool voice. She strolled to the truck with a blank expression. Derek followed her.
‘How long have they been seeing each other?’ she asked him once they were inside.
‘I don’t know. A while.’
S
ofia felt like dying. ‘A while is not long. They could still break up,’ she said. Then her blood ran cold.
She recalled a moment six months earlier. Coming home after the film in Prague, she had discovered a message on Jack’s phone from an unknown number. A graphic message, sexual. She left it for three days without bringing it up. When she asked him about it, he accused her of snooping. They rowed horribly, and a week later, he moved out.
‘They’ve been together six months, at least,’ Sofia said. She bowed her head.
‘I’m so sorry,’ Derek said. ‘There’s more. Courtney’s trying to get you fired.’
Sofia snapped her head up. ‘What? Impossible. She can’t fire me.’
Derek shook his head. ‘It’s all over set. Courtney is telling everyone it’s not working, there’s no chemistry between the two of you, you don’t gel.’
‘We don’t gel. It isn’t working. But what can she do about it? That’s how it goes sometimes – your cast mate is a better actor. But she can’t just get rid of me. I’ll get rid of her! I’m the star.’ Sofia’s face fell. ‘Oh.’
‘She’s the star.’
Sofia scratched her face. ‘She’s the star.’ She felt exhausted again. ‘I’ve had enough of this,’ she said. She stormed out of the makeup truck and walked over to Jack’s trailer.
On the way over there, she lined up her speech. She’d dress him down, tell him to pull his mistress up, bring her back into line. She’d lecture him on how unprofessional this all was. But as she stormed into his trailer and saw him sitting there, the grand cries for professionalism and the good of the production went out of her head. Instead, she vomited out words of neediness and scorn. ‘How could you do this, Jack?’ she heard herself say. ‘You’re making a fool of me.’
‘I’m sorry, Sofe, it just happened. You know how it goes. We fell in love.’
She rolled her eyes at the cliché. ‘But what about the flowers?’ she asked then, hating herself instantly for saying it.
‘What flowers? Oh, right. I don’t know.’ He shrugged and gave a little chuckle, triumphant and smug.
Sofia looked him in the face. There it was. She would have missed it if she hadn’t looked up right then. A flash of something that danced across his face as he smiled. What was it? Oh, yes. Victory and contempt. He could still turn any woman’s head, and he knew it. He was required to give nothing of himself for this head-turning, not his time or his affection. He killed some plants and Sofia came running. Why had he sent her the flowers? He probably did not know himself. To get a rise out of her? Ah, she realised then, silly her. Because of the librarian who’d put his arm around her.
She shook her head. ‘And you’re happy to throw away a decade of marriage?’
‘No,’ he replied. ‘Not happy. But it’s serious with Courtney,’ he insisted.
Sofia scoffed. ‘How serious could it be? She’s an adolescent.’
‘She’s pregnant.’
Sofia felt her lunch loosen in her stomach. She stumbled and fell onto his leg a little. He leant down and caught her. His clothes smelled like expensive laundry powder; the maid would have washed them. She found a chair and sat down.
‘Sofe? Say something.’ He touched her shoulder. She flinched and shook his hand off her. A numbness crept over her.
‘How many weeks is she?’ she asked in a friendly tone, like a work colleague inquiring about an acquaintance.
‘What?’ Jack said. He looked confused.
‘How many weeks pregnant.’
‘Oh. I don’t know. Twelve, I think.’ He smiled a little into the distance. She tormented herself with what might have caused the smile. Perhaps he recalled some prenatal moment, attendance at a recent ultrasound, perhaps, or Courtney surprising him with baby clothes.
He had told her, long ago, that he did not want children, though she’d expected him to come around. She’d thought he would see how wonderful she was and realise he’d be a fool to pass up a little family. Every year went by and it became another year gone. It went on for too long to start afresh with someone else; she’d invested too much time.
‘Sofe? Are you okay?’ he said.
She wiped her nose. She looked him in the eye. ‘Is it because she is younger?’ she asked. ‘Because I don’t look like I once did?’
‘Sofe. You’re still gorgeous. Of course not.’
‘I know I am, but that wasn’t the question. Is it because I got older?’
‘Don’t do this to yourself,’ he said.
‘I’d appreciate an honest answer,’ she said. ‘I deserve that.’
He nodded. ‘Okay. You are older. You don’t look like you once did. But that’s not the reason,’ he said.
She bristled at the honesty, both grateful and horrified. ‘Wow, okay. What’s the reason, then?’ She leant forward in her chair, fascinated now.
He sighed. ‘Everything with you became so difficult.’
She had to laugh; while the relationship might have punished her, he seemed to enjoy no end of success. He was more famous, richer and more sought after now than ever. ‘And with her?’ she asked.
‘Everything with Courtney,’ he said, ‘it feels so easy.’ She stared at him and scowled. His face turned to a look of worry then, and he seemed to wince, as though bracing for a scolding. ‘Do you hate me?’ he asked.
Sofia sat back in her chair and went quiet. She studied his face, noting how handsome he was, how attractive she still found him. She was about to shout, ‘Yes, of course I hate you, and who could blame me?’ She prepared some words to that effect, recounting a list of all the times he’d disappointed her, all the hurt she felt, all the reasons why he deserved the hate. She opened her mouth to say them, paused, then closed it again.
Finally, she sighed, exhausted, and shook her head. ‘No, I don’t hate you,’ she replied. It was the truth. She stood and left the trailer. She walked across the set, her face bathed in tears. She felt too tired to care who saw.
If they were Mr and Mrs Butterworth of Hockessin, Delaware, they might have stuck it out. If she taught kindergarten and he ran a vinyl record store, and they kept bees in their spare time, they might have stood a chance. If their parents had taught them good lessons about the ups and downs of marriage, taught them to muddle through when the going got tough, to push through the lean years when the sex waned, when everyone felt tired all the time, when work sucked the life out of them, they might have survived, emerging out the other side in their fifties, with a marriage bruised but intact. But they weren’t Mr and Mrs B of Hockessin, DE, they were Jack Travers, DGA, and Sofia Wentworth, movie star. They were not people, they were gods, above doing the dishes and arguing about whose family to go to for Christmas. And when the going got tough for gods, they didn’t muddle through; they packed it in and moved on and searched for perfection somewhere else. And while she was keen to give it another shot, Jack evidently thought it easier to start afresh with someone new.
Sofia could not blame him. In time, he’d tire of Courtney, too, when sleep deprivation and disappointment took the easiness of now and turned it to dust.
There had been some glory days, especially in the beginning, when fireworks rained down on them. But in truth, she realised now with pain, the passion and ecstasy she felt with him had come from accepting a compliment or a kind touch after days of neither. The marriage had ended years ago.
This realisation made nothing easier.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Sofia collected Jane from the hospital and brought her home for the night. She relayed the day’s stories to her, and when she’d finished, she sat down on the kitchen floor. ‘Say something,’ Sofia said when Jane remained silent.
Jane shook her head, and instead of speaking, she sat down on the floor next to Sofia. Sofia felt gratified to have the power to render speechless a woman who normally had things to say on a range of topics. Sofia told herself not to give any more tears to him, but found she could not prevent their flow any longer and began weeping on the f
loor like an idiot. Jane touched her shoulder, which made her cry more.
After a time, Jane finally spoke. ‘Your pocket buzzes once more,’ she said.
Sofia sifted her phone from her pocket and squinted at the screen through one teary eye. Dave’s name appeared. Her heart sank. She rejected the call and sighed. ‘I thought it was Jack,’ she said with a bitter scoff. ‘I hoped he was calling to see if I was all right. I’m an idiot.’ She wiped her face.
‘You are the furthest thing from that,’ Jane said to her.
‘I cannot show my face at rehearsal, Jane. I could take it before, when we were only separated. But this?’ She shook her head. ‘I won’t turn up tomorrow. I won’t give them the satisfaction of sacking me. I’ll quit.’
‘This man has ruined your marriage,’ Jane said. ‘Must he ruin your career, too?’
Sofia laughed and raised an eyebrow. ‘What do you propose I do instead? Go out there, and what . . . act?’
‘Something like that.’
Sofia laughed ruefully. ‘Even if I showed up, I look absurd in this role. I fostered a fantasy of looking fabulous in this film, of breaking hearts.’
‘That is your goal? To break hearts?’
Sofia shrugged. ‘It’s all I know how to play. I play sexpots, ingenues, manic pixie dream girls,’ she said.
‘I don’t know what those are, but they sound horrid,’ Jane said.
‘Either way, I am too old to play them now. I know I’m still a decent-looking woman. I know I’m still a . . . MILF’—she cringed—‘but I’m no longer a comic book character, do you see? I can’t pull off the perky young love interest any more. But it’s all I know how to do, so I keep doing it, and I’m making a fool of myself. There’s nothing more tragic than a woman who tries to pretend she is still young.’
‘Stop pretending, then,’ Jane replied.
Sofia turned to her. ‘And do what?’ she asked.
‘You’ve always played your characters a certain way, yes? You’ve always played the pretty young object of men’s affections.’
Jane in Love Page 28