Colder than Ice

by Jane Galaxy

  “So what did you think?” he said gently, trying to coax Sophie out of her daydream. She blinked a few times and turned toward him. “What’s wrong, you didn’t like it? They’ll add in all the CGI later, and when they lay over the soundtrack, that adds a surprising amount—”

  “That wasn’t the story I wrote,” Sophie said in a quiet but firm voice.

  He didn’t quite understand what she meant at first.

  “You and Prasad worked on it together,” he replied slowly. “I thought you liked the way it turned out.” He could feel something faint stirring in his middle, as though something sharp and cold was trying to burrow its way in or out, Tristan couldn’t tell.

  “But that wasn’t the story I wrote. I just came in and made corrections where I thought they would do the least damage,” she said, and cut herself off with a huge sucking breath in, as though Sophie was stopping herself from going too far.

  Tristan was not sure how to respond to this.

  “Well, but...”

  “It’s not my story.”

  “I don’t understand, of course it’s your story. You wrote Imperium, it’s your name beneath the title.”

  Sophie looked at him, and for the first time he understood that she wasn’t daydreaming or thinking or coming out of the haze that goes along with seeing yourself or your work on a 98-foot-high IMAX screen: she was upset.

  Very angry, in fact.

  The cold and sharp thing creeped up his middle, and Tristan fought back to keep it from getting too far, but now he couldn’t stop it. For some reason, he found himself exasperated. Or… no, that was far too cruel. Just confused. It was one thing to not like the changes to the story, but it was another thing entirely for Sophie to have watched the entire filming process on a paid holiday, wait until the movie was practically done, and then object to it all.

  Maybe he was annoyed after all.

  “I didn’t write Dark Magic. That was your story,” she was saying.

  Tristan stared at her.

  “You wrote that, you changed the arc to focus more on Lucius and the family dynamic, that was your dialogue,” all in a shaking rush, like it was too difficult to say aloud without it all trying to come out at once.

  “No! No, that was—”

  “I know what you’ve been doing,” now quietly, tired, and Tristan felt a wave of exhaustion hit him all at once too. It was far too quiet in this theater, it was like a padded cell, you could practically hear your own blood pounding through your veins, your own existence too noisy and intrusive to bear. “The script doctoring, I figured it out.”

  “What do you mean,” he intoned rather than asked, in a voice that all the wall padding and thick seats around them sucked up and turned into a low, dead-sounding thing.

  “It’s hidden, but it’s not invisible if you’re looking for it,” Sophie answered in a monotone. “Screenwriters want selfies with you, your dad hinted at it in that book.”

  Tristan went short of breath suddenly. His father had written about it? Where on earth did Rufus get off doing a thing like that? The man who’d take one look at Tristan’s Olivier Award and said it was such a shame he’d only gotten it for a Shakespearean history instead of one of the major dramas, like Rufus had?

  “Where did you get a copy of the book?”

  She looked at him like he was insane to worry about a detail as stupid as that.

  “I dug it out of your kitchen trash, alright?” Sophie said in a sharp, loud voice. “I pulled it out and read it because I thought maybe I could understand what was going on, and instead I found myself reading that more writing awards out there needed your name on them.”

  “What does that have to do with this?” He gestured at the screen. “That was all you, that was all vetted and approved by you. You made this.”

  “Oh, so because that’s not enough reason to believe me, I did some research, I called Prasad.” And here she sighed and dragged a hand over her face. “That’s the part I hate the most. Prasad didn’t mean to give you up, and I had to lie to him to get it out, but there it is.”

  Prasad.

  Tristan felt like his heart was going to explode out of his chest.

  “Even if I did, it was to help Prasad,” he shot back. “He begged me, he was desperate, it was a favor, and you got to make all the changes back to what you wanted.”

  Was it pity on her face, or was it disgust?

  It was hard to tell. Maybe it was both.

  “You had so many opportunities to come clean and tell me,” Sophie said. “But you just… let it go, and let it go some more, and then we got into this thing,” she gestured between them, “And I don’t know, maybe it would’ve been easier to understand why if you’d told me before all this. But now it’s like the lie has gotten bigger than everything, and it’s all tainted.”

  Now it was as if something hard and unforgiving was cinching shut, cutting him off, a rope slowly strangling him that he hadn’t seen in enough time. Tristan set his hand on Sophie’s shoulder. She didn’t move.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry about it, I wanted to tell you, but you put so much work into making it the way you wanted that I thought… I thought you were alright with it, I thought it was all… settled.” He gestured with both hands, not even knowing what it was supposed to mean. “The studio gave notes back on Prasad’s first draft, said they wanted something with higher drama, more… theatrical atmosphere. I was only doing my best to try to help.”

  Wasn’t that what was best for everyone? To make everything nice, run smoothly, make everyone feel like they’d gotten what they’d wanted? It was so much easier than arguing and shouting and confused, looping discussions that always went nowhere, the way it had always been with his father and then with Gabriella—

  Sophie closed her eyes and took a huge breath before letting it out slowly, her shoulders sinking dramatically. She opened them again, and when she did, the dim lighting almost made him thinking there were tears starting to pool there.

  “Oh, Tristan,” she said in an achingly small voice, “I don’t think I’m going to get you to understand.”

  She stood, and he felt himself reel back slightly.

  “Where are you going?”

  Sophie began moving toward the aisle, and paused when she got there.

  “I’m going home,” she replied, and gestured back to the blank screen. “I think this is past the point that I can do anything.”

  And then Sophie walked up the stairs and out the door.

  The sounds of Waghalter’s Violin Sonata in F Minor came out of the study, and Tristan nearly groaned as he lifted the short glass to sip. It was mostly ice now, though, and all it did was rattle at him, the Scotch long gone. The music was Rufus’s staid, collected triumph—a more open and naturally feeling person might have tap danced on top of the dining room table.

  But no, his father merely put on the loudest possible record, with its soaring string section sounding more like laughter at Tristan’s expense the more he drank.

  The younger Eccleston rolled his eyes and wondered if he even wanted to get up and cross the room for another go at the decanter.

  He’d left Dark Magic and gone back to Battenmire.

  In the moment it had felt cathartic. Things couldn’t possibly feel worse, so what was there to be gained by sticking around the set? He was done filming, contract fulfilled in spirit if not to the exact letter. There would be no insurance payout for walking off the project this late in the game. Card One had what they wanted. Now his father did too. Everyone would be happy. Even the cleaners who came to take care of the townhouse would be able to get back to work.

  All the evidence that he’d been in town would be wiped away, tucked back into place, and made perfectly spotless, maintainable with a minimum of effort and fuss. No Sophie, no anything. A house like a museum, cold and perfect. He certainly couldn’t ruin that by going back to London.

  Now all that was left was to lie on the sofa and not think about anyt
hing.

  So far, that had gone off without a hitch. His parents hadn’t consoled or hugged or even really greeted him. It was like he had the flu, or temporary madness. They’d simply looked at one another before correcting their collective expressions to a knowing neutrality, the kind he hated. The one that said See, didn’t I tell you? Did you have fun on your little adventure? Well, you’re ready to come home now and behave like a grown-up, like a proper Eccleston. Fix yourself some tea, there’s biscuits on the tray. I’ll be on the other side of the house while you deal with whatever emotions are currently afflicting you.

  And yes, he could get all that, he thought bitterly, from just one look.

  Tristan heard someone come into the sitting room and looked up to find his mother holding a glass of her own tightly across her body, drumming her fingers against it. While Rufus was practically gleeful over Tristan’s decision, Madeleine had spent the past week carefully watching her son, and he knew her silence was building to something he wouldn’t like.

  Indeed, she perched on a chair behind his head, forcing him to sit up and turn to look at her.

  “Have you thought about how this is going to affect your professional relationship with your management?”

  No How are you feeling, Tristan? Or Are you alright, my only son? Do you want anything? A hug, even, perhaps for the first time since the dog died when you were eight?

  Tristan squinted at his mother.

  “What?”

  She drummed her fingers over the glass again before setting it on the side table.

  “You quit a major movie project in the midst of filming,” Madeleine said crisply. “Are you expecting your management team to simply accept that? Are you trying to be labeled as difficult, or be dropped as a client, perhaps?”

  “My part is finished anyway,” Tristan said slowly, so as not to be misunderstood. He suddenly loathed being here and wished he’d had the good sense to go home to the flat in Islington, regardless of how much it reminded him of Sophie. “The studio has already accepted it, and it’ll actually lessen the workload.” The glass rattled in his hand as she shifted on the sofa. “I would’ve thought this would make you as happy as it did him,” Tristan said, jerking his chin in the direction of the music.

  Madeleine tilted her own chin in what critics had frequently described as a “rather tart” way and sized her son up.

  “My happiness has nothing to do with your reputation as an actor. Make absolutely certain that you’ve got everything tied up, because the press is already making a meal of you.”

  And with that, she sailed briskly from the room. He sighed and sank back down into the cushions.

  He really should have gone back to the flat in London. Or back to Bali.

  Another pair of footsteps, these ones heavier and definitely belonging to his father. Tristan shared a look with the ceiling and tried to prepare himself, futilely.

  “Your mother has reported that you’re finished filming,” the older man began without preamble. They hadn’t spoken in the week since Tristan had shown up on the doorstep outside, and this was what could break the silence between father and son. “Well?”

  “She’s not wrong,” Tristan replied, and tried to envision himself actually getting up to just drink straight out of the decanter—to no avail. His limbs felt like lead pipes, and Rufus lingering over him like a vulture ready for a sky burial didn’t exactly help, either.

  Rufus tapped his chin, thinking.

  “We’ll get you into something small at first,” he murmured, “To get you back in the proper mindset. Coriolanus or a Beckett or something, I can certainly manage corrections with the publisher—”

  “What are you talking about?” Tristan demanded, sitting up.

  “Getting your career back on track,” replied Rufus. “It’ll make the biography much better if we can forget this superheroes nonsense. I’m sure Julia could find you a really meaty role in one of those abstract features she’s been doing about terrorists and refugees.” He’d paced the length of the room and was back in front of the couch. “Your mother’s worried about your agency, but that’s all a wash anyway,” he said, waving a dismissive hand. “Get somebody new, rework the image. No more dancing around at those ridiculous conventions, or whatever silliness you think constitutes a public image. The fashion stuff we can keep, at least that’s dignified.”

  Rufus paused in his monologue—and it was definitely a monologuing from the way he had both hands akimbo, pacing energetically like he was auditioning—and looked bluntly at Tristan.

  “It’ll be a challenge, but I think we can pull it off,” he said. “And all before the Daily Mail gets hold of some exclusive the American will be eager to sell.”

  “She’s not going to sell anything,” Tristan said hotly. “At least related to the two of us.”

  His father hmmed, happy for a chance to dispense smug wisdom at his son.

  “You never know,” he replied. “With women, it’s best to know exactly what you’re getting, negotiate upfront and you won’t be disappointed.”

  There was a noise from the front hall, and both men turned to listen.

  “Speaking of which,” said Rufus, looking more excited than Tristan had ever seen him in his adult life. The older man strode out into the hallway and exclaimed a greeting at whoever was out there. Tristan rose slowly from the couch, feeling sluggish and strangely like he was dreaming. He hadn’t even had three glasses of Scotch. Then again, he hadn’t eaten anything in… a while.

  Going out into the front entrance, it took him several moments of blinking to realize that the woman allowing a stylish peacock blue coat to be removed from her person was indeed Gabriella Zahn. Released from her coat, she presented a poreless cheek to Rufus for a kiss, which the man gladly took.

  “Well!” His father cried to the woman, “Isn’t this a fine turn up? Lovely to see you again, my dear.” He looked her up and down. “You won’t even have to do any convincing.”

  Tristan watched as Gabriella turned and smiled at him warmly, warmer than she ever had the entire time they’d been together. Her eyebrows moved together sympathetically, and she came forward to set both hands on his forearms.

  “How are you, Tristan?” said Gabriella to him in a kind voice.

  Chapter Twenty

  The best thing about Ashley was that she knew when not to ask questions—not when Sophie called her from the airport, not when they were loading Sophie’s suitcases into the back of her truck, and not even when they pulled onto the highway and started toward Ashley’s house. That was just how she was in moments like this, and in her jet-lagged state Sophie’s mind couldn’t even be bothered to have some nasty little thought about whether it was because Ashley didn’t care about the whole situation anyway.

  She knew that wasn’t true like she knew that facts were real.

  Ashley cared about her. There would be time later for a post-mortem of the biggest breakup she’d had since college. For right now, Ashley cared about her enough to swoop in like her own personal Morganna. That was something broad and beautiful to focus on, like the sun setting in a pinkish-bluish kind of way out the side of the pickup.

  The hay bales were rolled up in the fields outside of Omaha, and the trees were blowing all their leaves. Los Angeles never changed seasons, and London was in a long state of being wet and gray. Nebraska was golden and frosty at the same time, not quite to winter snows but in that late-year state of nostalgia.

  Sophie leaned against the passenger window and let it cool her temple. She’d been awake for way too long—the awful thing about traveling west overseas was that it was high noon the whole way and she’d spent it wide awake while everyone around her had been somehow, somehow asleep.

  There had been a lot to think about, and just as much to not think about.

  Mostly there was the question of what to do once she got to Omaha. Going back to live with her parents was a dealbreaker—she might as well move to a different state before she’d go that f
ar. It wasn’t that she hated her parents, but this was all still fresh, and Sophie wanted some time to process it and actually come up with a plan before she resorted to seeing her old boy band posters, pink unicorn wallpaper border, and the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling every night.

  So Ashley’s guest bedroom it was.

  As they pulled into the broad driveway, she could see the triplets playing with their plastic tricycles and wagon, and Greg keeping a watchful eye over everything. He held up one hand in greeting as they got out, and set down his tumbler drink to come over and lift Sophie’s suitcase out of the back for her.

  “Hey there, Soph,” he said in his even, mild way. He was wearing a red flannel-patterned puffy jacket and looked ready to head to the pumpkin patch—somehow Instagrammable even though Ash swore he barely knew how to use any of the apps on his phone, let alone be cool. He rolled the case up to the house, and Cayden, Heath, and Eva gathered around, jumping up and down to get hugs from Sophie.

  “Did you see anything cool when you were in London?”

  “What kind of cars do they have there? Are there ducks?”

  “Did you see the Queen?! Does she ride one of those buses?!”

  Ash squatted down to eye level with them.

  “Okay, we’re gonna go inside, and you guys are going to have baths and head to bed, okay? Sophie’s been awake for a long time and she needs to sleep first, but you can talk in the morning.”

  Heath turned back as they were being herded through the front door.

  “Sophie, is it cold in England? You look like you got sick or something.”

  “I’m not sick, I’m just tired,” Sophie said.

  “They just figured out that other countries are real and you can travel there, so they’re really curious,” Ash said when the two of them were alone, Greg off rounding up his children for bath time. Ash opened a cupboard and pulled out a bottle of pinkish wine. Sophie recognized the label—something they’d shared on weekends in college. “We had to spend a long time looking at the red double-decker buses online.” She took a sip from the plastic cup she’d poured herself and rolled her eyes, smiling affectionately.