Colder than Ice

by Jane Galaxy

  Sophie was busily rubbing the thick cream into her calves when she realized it was probably something that Gabriella Zahn had left behind.

  She stood up straight and looked at the bottle, artfully designed. It wasn’t last summer’s Jergens found on a clearance shelf at Baker’s, that was for sure. This was expensive, and probably something Gabriella had been comped, maybe as the brand’s ambassador or some kind of influencer.

  Or maybe Tristan had bought it for her.

  He’d talked about her, and maybe in a movie that was supposed to dispel her ghost from the current relationship, but it still felt like Gabriella Zahn was hovering over everything. Even the house. Something lingered.

  Sophie smoothed the lotion she’d taken on the backs of each hand and set the bottle back into the cabinet where it had been half-hidden by a stack of neatly folded hand towels.

  What was it that had brought Tristan and Gabriella together in the first place? They seemed like such complete opposites. Sophie knew that the woman was well-connected, had a list of awards and accolades after her name that weren’t hindered by her sponsorship deals, and was considered a fashion icon. It was somehow highbrow for a margarita mix company to hire someone who’d played Lady Macbeth and who wore Coco Fennell as easily as she wore Coco Chanel.

  In all likelihood Tristan had been miserable with Gabriella Zahn. Sure, he was the face of Dior Homme on a five-year contract, and he had been on the cover of Vogue, and his red carpet outfits were always on best-dressed lists, and he was known for having an Instagram feed that was equal parts Architectural Digest and Tom Munro outtakes, and he had a degree in the classics from Oxford and had gone to the Royal Academy of Dramatic Arts, and he had won an Olivier Award at nineteen, and—

  Sophie shivered and pulled the damp towel closer around herself. She couldn’t remember what she’d been thinking.

  Heading in to set on the Tube, Sophie felt better just knowing that something was ahead of her—that she had a particular purpose, a job waiting for her.

  On a side street just off the Tottenham Court Road where they’d blocked off traffic for the afternoon and evening for filming, Sophie sat in a director’s chair waiting while Joanna was suspended in a rig near the second floor (or first floor, in this country) of an apartment building that was doubling as the Protectorate’s London headquarters. The lighting rigs kept shifting, and Poppy Ryan was working through the steps to get it right with the cinematographers and lighting crew.

  There was no one to talk to—Joanna needed to do this particular stunt herself for the sake of the closeup and dolly to a wide shot, and Prasad was off dealing with the second unit director Matt over the phone.

  She did the only thing that she could think of, and pulled out her own phone, flicking open Twitter to see what was in the news, and moving quickly to her curated list of hashtags when she saw the usual shitshow of tweets and responses to something happening in American politics.

  Her carefully-selected group of tags (#imperiummovie, #sophiemarkes, #morgannalives, #haillucius #tristaneccleston) were a nice little treat, an oasis in the midst of whatever drama was going on with the world, or with Comics Twitter. Most of the time, anyway.

  Today a group of guys had tried to bum rush the tag #morgannalives to protest Sophie’s story being turned into a movie. They were already angry about the set photos coming out and were judging it sight-unseen.

  “No way Markes’s story does this justice—it’s not true to the original spirit of the comics. I’ve been looking forward to an opening night for Imperium my whole life, and teenage me would be so disappointed right now.”

  “I’ll still go, but only once, and probably the day after it opens, I dunno,” the original poster said in reply to his original tweet.

  It had four likes and 432 replies, which made Sophie feel a little glow of vindication in the face of absurdity—these guys had gotten hit hard by the Ratio, the magical Twitter effect that happened when people didn’t like what you had to say, and let you know it. She shoved down the urge to engage the guy (asking him if he’d seen any of the dailies yet would be so thrilling, but ultimately unproductive, she had to remind herself), avoided tapping on the link to the Card One subreddit (which was usually an echo chamber of men all praising Dirk Masterson and by extension Jax Butler as the second coming of Christ), and blocked the Twitter user as well as the guy in the comments who kept referring to Sophie as “just a horny Lucius stan who got her fan fiction published.”

  The production crew was still in the corner arguing or discussing, it was hard to tell which, but now it involved Poppy Ryan yelling into a bullhorn up at Joanna. Something about whether the brace was too tight and they’d be finished soon, darling, she promised.

  Sophie opened Tumblr. It was a more reliable source of gifs and set images than Twitter, especially with how creative some of the users could get. Photo manipulation skills were ripe here, and the colors that people chose to enhance the actors’—

  Sophie paused in her feed-scrolling and went back to a post. It was a reblog of a picture of Tristan on stage in his street clothes, holding a microphone and giving some sort of speech, but the massive block of text underneath began:

  “This man is so intelligent and gorgeous, he deserves to be with someone on his level.”

  Then someone had reblogged it with the comment: “Wow, jealous of Sophie Markes. Jesus, let people live their lives.”

  And someone else had written: “Eccleston stans will always shit themselves about anything this man does. He’s not even that hot. His ears are weird.”

  “Says the person who has fifteen pictures of him in Lucius costume in her favorites list.”

  “I just think it’s funny how low he’s fallen, hanging out with a comic book writer after someone like Gabriella Zahn. What’s next, he’s gonna move to Nebraska and join the theater department at Omaha State?”

  “Wow, worst hot take on this entire site.”

  “She’s just a rebound from Gabby—he’s probably just hanging out with her to give her tips on how to write these characters better. I mean, she’s okay, but Helen Hoang did a much better job on Red Rogue, which was actually important for representation.”

  “Yeah, has Sophie Markes even addressed the fact that she could’ve made Morganna a WOC?”

  “How would Morganna be a WOC when the original character is a white blonde lady? She’s based on Celtic mythology, you ass.”

  “UH WOW OKAY so a woman warrior from outer space has to be white and blonde because of accuracy, got it.”

  That comment was followed by five full paragraphs giving a description of how Sophie had failed to take into consideration the modern expectations of comic book diversity and whether or not it was even worth it for a series led by a white woman to be given first preference for film production over Red Rogue, a Vietnamese character.

  Sophie could feel her blood pounding in her ears, and her chest growing tight.

  So this was what the Internet had been up to while she’d been daydreaming about having sex with Tristan in his shower. How long had it actually been since she’d checked social media, anyway? Usually Tumblr was the kind of place that defended her, or at least didn’t outright attack her. She could feel a mixture rising of panic and knee-jerk responses to defend the choices she’d made when writing.

  She closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. This was what it was like to be challenged on her ideas. This was a good thing—to have the status quo questioned so that everyone could be on a level playing field.

  No denying that it didn’t feel great, though.

  “Well, I still think he’s been giving her writing tips,” said one of the comments. The last two words had a link, and Sophie tapped through. It took her to a badly-designed blog called GLITTER AND GLASS. Sophie had never seen the site before, but could guess pretty quickly that it was a gossip blog run by an anonymous Hollywood denizen who called himself Indy, short for Insider. Or Independent, maybe?

  The e
ntry read: “BLIND ITEM OF KINDNESS. This A+ foreign-born actor has been getting passed around from director to director—but not for Hollywood’s usual disgusting reasons. Apparently the kid’s a whiz at coming up with clincher lines that save scripts and practically come with an awards guarantee. Hopefully he won’t get frozen out of any parties from this reveal, but I wanted to give him a boost. He’s been needing it lately.”

  The comments were all a series of names being tossed out as to who it could be about, and the commenters had gotten into a catty back-and-forth over whether it was Dominic Thompson, Harris Pitcher, or Tristan Eccleston.

  “Eccleston’s got a degree in classical literature—he ought to be writing his own scripts, but someone told me that he likes saving the day at the last minute.”

  “Indy always gives you enough on these blind items to figure it out. ‘Frozen’ is a reference to that new Card One role he’s doing, a villain with ice powers. And Tristan’s been needing a boost more than anyone after that Gabriella Zahn debacle.”

  “If that rumor about Indy secretly being Jax Butler is true, he’d definitely have the inside track on this.”

  “Tired of that stupid rumor. And Indy’s a fucking liar who just likes to stir up shit. Read the motto at the top of the site: FIFTY PERCENT FAKE, ONE HUNDRED PERCENT DELICIOUS.”

  Sophie closed all the apps on her phone and set it facedown on the empty director’s chair next to her, the one marked TRISTAN ECCLESTON - LUCIUS on the back.

  It seemed like her brain wasn’t sure which part to focus on first: the Tweetstorm brewing up a caustic poison of hatred for the film itself just based on her association, or the usually-relaxing wander through Tumblr that had turned into a series of reflexive pile-ons. If it wasn’t Sophie stealing Tristan away from his hundreds of would-be lovers, it was that he was slumming it with someone who wasn’t Hollywood-approved.

  All she wanted right now was the flood of relief that came with seeing his face again, and all she was getting was a damp chill through this jacket and the start of a headache.

  As for the rumors about Tristan’s screenwriting—that was the least of her worries. Who gossiped about whether or not someone was a script doctor? Everyone in Hollywood probably had a hand in something at some point. Hadn’t Prasad said that all screenwriters are frustrated actors, and all actors are unfulfilled directors? It all circled back in on itself.

  One of the lighting rigs near the generator clicked on, and Sophie realized how dark it had gotten. The director shouted something excitedly up at Joanna, and Sophie could guess that they’d finally gotten what they wanted. Joanna nodded back down at Poppy briskly, looking all business, while Sophie herself covered a yawn with her hand. How actors spent so much of their lives waiting, only to do one thing over and over and at the whims of someone else, Sophie would never understand. The level of commitment it took to be great was admirable, though—if nothing else, this whole experience had taught her that much.

  Tristan as a script doctor. That was actually funny, in that it kind of made perfect sense. All of Tristan’s quirks—the way he made you feel like the only person worth talking to, the sheer force of his attention softened by his half-smile and the way he’d tilt his head when he thought something was funny—distilled down into a handful of words, or maybe a few lines. If he was, he was definitely smarter than someone who’d just steal your work and take all the credit.

  Right? He was more professional than that.

  She’d have to ask Tristan whether the rumors were true—if they had more in common than she first thought. When she’d asked Prasad about the Ecclestons, he’d reassured her that there was no reason for her to jump feet-first into that kind of drama unless she was planning to adapt a Faulkner play and reset it in England.

  “And even then, you’d probably just wind up flattering Rufus and Madeleine,” he’d said.

  Sophie sighed. She didn’t feel any better now that she had while in the shower earlier in the day. There was nothing left to do but sit and wait for the production to go on.

  And try not to wonder if Tristan really was slumming it with someone like her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “I wasn’t expecting a welcome like this,” Tristan said, laughing and tripping a bit into the foyer. Sophie was laughing too, bundled against his front with her arms wrapped around his middle, blazing warm compared to the autumn chill outside. “Maybe I should leave and come back more often.”

  It was the perfect way to return home from Battenmire, though—the total opposite. Here there was someone who’d not only fling back the front door and come out to meet him with a fierce embrace, but have a cup of tea waiting in the warm kitchen and something in the oven that he wasn’t allowed to look at or know about, as evidenced by the way she slapped the tea towel against his arm when he tried.

  “Fine, just poison me to death,” he said with a dramatic eyeroll, and got another burst of laughter from her as a reward. He wound his scarf around a coat hanger in the hall cupboard and passed the living room, which for once looked lived-in. Sophie was clearly enjoying a good London autumn in all its damp glory—piles of blankets and cushions covered his severe and overly-modern sofas, turning them into comfortable nests instead of weird Swedish pieces of black and chrome architecture, and she’d begun stacking the traditional columns of empty tea mugs on all the side tables. It was the best it had ever looked, in his opinion.

  “Have fun without me, did you?” Tristan said as he came back into the kitchen. She was putting the tea tin back into the cupboard, and he could see a bright orange canister of Bisto that hadn’t been there before. The thing in the oven required chicken gravy, and now he was hungry.

  “Prasad said Mouse Trap is awful because it’s such an institution, but I liked the story structure,” she replied with her head in the cupboard, sifting through for something. She held up a pink box with gold lettering on the outside. “Making the criminal be the person the others thought they were supposed to trust was a good twist. And I got these. They’re weird, but I can’t stop eating them.”

  They sat in the living room with their tea and the chocolate-covered rose Turkish delights, and Tristan watched the street outside grow dimmer until the streetlights flickered on at the corner. Sophie wandered back into the kitchen to get the mysterious chicken dish out of the oven and leave it to cool on the stove, and he sat thinking about his grandmother’s ring in its burgundy velvet box, still in his luggage sitting in the hall. He could see the edge of it in the archway, and it almost felt as though it was glowing, or vibrating, or doing something that would alert Sophie to its presence.

  He was surprised how much time had passed when she appeared again with two plates in hand, chicken pie, and she hadn’t skimped on the filling, which pretty much made Sophie the most perfect person in the world. She was sitting with her legs swung over the arm of another chair, watching the rain against the old bay window, and Tristan thought how Gabriella had never done anything like this for him: either cooked food for the two of them, or made the furniture look not only like something a human could actually rest on, but look as though she belonged there.

  Tristan took their finished plates into the kitchen and loaded the dishwasher before rejoining her.

  “We could go see a play,” Sophie murmured, but he could tell from something in the tone of her voice that she was more interested in staying right where they were. He squeezed gently into the sofa beside her and held her on his lap, brushing his fingers through the strands that were always coming loose from her ponytail.

  “We should,” he agreed, “But I’ve only just got back, and I’d rather have all this without interruption.”

  Sophie looked up at him and worried her bottom lip between her teeth.

  “Did you… enjoy it?”

  It took him a moment to remember what she was talking about. Right, Battenmire, and facing his parents over a cold, tense dinner of clear soup and lamb. Enjoy it, if such a thing was actually possible, and then it
occurred to Tristan that she was asking him if he was all right without overstepping any unspoken boundaries into the strange world of his family’s drama.

  The look on his face must have been something to behold, because Sophie was already stirring as if she meant to get up.

  “There’s something called a Viennetta in the freezer, I think it might be ice cream, hang on—”

  “It was… as expected,” he said, and she sank back into his lap. “My family isn’t close, but I suppose I should say at least I saw my parents, so I’ve fulfilled my obligations for a little while.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Got into an argument and had dinner.”

  “An argument about what?”

  He didn’t answer, just brushed the backs of his fingers around the contours of her face, and felt a muscle in Sophie’s back tense—but she didn’t speak, waited for him to go on.

  “Rufus always wanted me to date someone like Gabriella,” he found himself saying, and then it was too late, nothing about any of this could be kept back or held pristine or pure, he couldn’t keep a truth like that from Sophie forever. “Someone on the rise in theater, a guaranteed star in prestige films—my sisters are well-known in England, but I’m the one who’s supposed to inherit the house and carry on the family name, and so it’s my job to do right by us all.” He paused and went on wryly: “It’s all very Austenian, unfortunately.”

  Sophie was laying very still and listening, giving him room to think and say whatever came into his head. That in itself was a revelation—usually when he spent time with people in the industry, they chattered incessantly. If they were quiet, it was either to listen in for juicy gossip of his private life or punish him with a cold silence.

  “And—” he sighed, because this part never made sense when he tried to pick it apart, “I suppose it made sense, in a way. Two people in the same career path.”