Then, the day after her thirty-seventh birthday, the trade papers announced a plan to film a new instalment of Batman. The news was happy for everyone but Sofia, who learned that the role of Batman’s perky dream girl, his partner in crime, the role Sofia had made her own for a generation of fans, had gone to Courtney Smith, a 23-year-old Los Angeles native who brought ‘energy’ to the role and ‘always knew’ she was the ‘real Batgirl’. Sofia had not landed a starring role since.
‘He won’t care what you’re wearing, Sofia,’ her agent said carefully.
‘He will,’ she replied.
‘Could you not just concentrate on your performance?’
Sofia scowled. ‘Never say that to me again, Max.’
Max sighed down the line. ‘I thought this was a bad idea from the start,’ he said. Sofia felt inclined to agree with him but didn’t verbalise it. She had been the one to insist on the part. ‘Why do you do this to yourself, Sofia?’
‘Working with Jack Travers is an honour,’ she said in a robotic voice, repeating the soundbite she had given to seven separate news agencies when she first signed on to do the film. ‘He is one of the best directors in the world. How could I pass up the opportunity?’
‘It’s an honour for anyone who is not his ex-wife.’
‘Not divorced yet, Max.’ Sofia sat down.
This was the real reason for the panic attacks, the paper-bag blowing, the hiding. She and her husband had signed on to do the Jane Austen picture when they were still together. Jack Travers wanted to do a period film, and he had a family connection to Jane Austen; he was a descendant of one of the author’s brothers. Secretly, Sofia knew the real reason was that Jack wanted to add a statue to his mantelpiece. After years of breaking box office records with his violence-heavy CV, now he wanted cred.
Sofia had joyfully joined the ride, because she loved Jane Austen, and because it gave her the chance to spend time with Jack. Hilariously, she had originally signed on thinking she would be playing the lead. When she quietly discovered she was playing Mrs Allen, the chaperone of the lead (chaperone – was there a frumpier-sounding word in the English language?), she nodded enthusiastically and pretended like she had known this all along. It still allowed her to hang out with her husband, which was the part she wanted.
Then a few months after contracts were signed, as Sofia presented Jack with a three egg-white and spinach omelette she had made herself in their stainless-steel kitchen in the Hollywood Hills, Jack announced he was leaving her. They had grown apart, he said.
Everyone had voiced their kind words and support; the production company had offered to release Sofia from her contract so she wouldn’t have to work with him. But Sofia, quietly heartbroken, vindictive and secretly hopeful, insisted that if anyone was going to leave the film, it should be Jack. Jack stayed on, and Sofia took this as a sign. She hatched a plan.
Film shoots were long: after spending that much time together, he would fall back in love with her. They had fallen in love during the crazy time of a film shoot, and they could do so again. Unfortunately for Sofia, she remained horribly in love with her husband. Nothing she had ever felt compared to that first falling for him, and you got such things once. Everyone has their one, and Jack was hers. And now she planned to use this film to get him back.
She spent the last few months dealing admirably with the potential end of her marriage. She’d learned the unique torment of separating from someone in the public eye. Sofia used to be one of those people characterised by headlines about her basic movements: ‘Sofia Wentworth stuns in black leggings while walking dog’. Recently, the headlines about her had changed. ‘Friends worry for Sofia’s mental health’ was one (she didn’t know who these friends were), ‘Poor Sofia hides out after separation’, another. Strangers approached her on the street, offering her marriage advice as though they knew her – owned her – which, in a way, they did.
Despite all of this, she maintained a dignified silence. She’d avoided drowning her sorrows in those jumbo tubs of ice-cream that caterers buy for weddings, she’d not sobbed on the kitchen floor. She’d gone to the gym, preserved her waist at its pre-break-up measurements, kept her glorious red mane coiffured to its usual perfection. Her husband was an aesthete: he loved beautiful things, and he appreciated talent and confidence.
But now, in this bejewelled outfit resembling a flightless bird, all her hard work would be ruined. If she presented herself for the first time to her husband since their break-up hidden beneath these comical folds of fabric, making a fool of herself, it might be hard to maintain the irresistible veneer of happiness she carefully fostered, the appearance of being okay. She was not one of those women who could gleefully and gracefully send themselves up; she did not appear on talk shows wearing chicken costumes or dressed up as a man for laughs, allowing herself to be roasted or made fun of. She wore beautiful clothes and people wanted her. Now she was about to destroy all that. Not only would she turn off her fans with this role, she would turn off him.
Her confidence, once unshakable, wobbled. Hiding behind the curtain, she uttered, ‘I don’t know if I can do this, Max.’
Max sighed. ‘I will chat to wardrobe. See what I can do.’
She exhaled into the phone. ‘Thanks, Max.’
‘He’s not there tonight, at least.’
She brightened. ‘I know.’
‘Will you go back to the rehearsal then, please?’
She nodded into the phone. ‘Okay.’
‘Make lemonade, kiddo. You never know. This might be good for you.’ He hung up.
Sofia put down the phone. The giant feather in her headpiece caught on a theatre rope and bored further into her cranium. She wished she could agree with Max. But as she took a final breath of paper-bag air and reminded herself that she was about to betray her audience and prevent the love of her life from ever finding her attractive again, she felt quite sure this Jane Austen film would be the worst mistake of her life.
Of this she felt even more certain when she turned and witnessed, from a pile of theatre curtains in front of her – the same ones she had cowered behind moments earlier – a person materialise out of thin air.
CHAPTER TEN
Jane opened her eyes. She no longer sat in the woodsman’s cottage in the forest; instead, she rested on the floor of a dark, airy space. An ebony sea of fabric seemed to swim around her on all sides. Ropes and more black fabric hung from the ceiling and dangled down towards her. Curtains. Jane sat up. A woman stood in front of Jane, staring at her.
‘Were you a witness to what happened to me?’ Jane asked the woman.
‘You appeared in that pile of curtains’ was the woman’s reply. She wore the same style of gown as Jane’s, à la Grecque, but the fabric sparkled in an unnerving fashion. The material glimmered so brightly Jane squinted to see past it. A giant ostrich feather adorned the woman’s head, and she breathed into a reticule made of brown paper.
Jane raised her eyebrow. ‘Where am I?’
The woman in the shiny dress scrunched her nose. ‘Bath?’
Jane sighed with relief. She must have fallen asleep in the woodsman’s cottage and sleepwalked to this place. It was odd, for Jane did not think herself a sleepwalker, but a first time occurred for everything. Her head throbbed with dull thuds. She rubbed her eyes and took a proper look around. She and the shiny-dress woman sat in the stage wings of some sort of theatre. She felt unnerved, but also glad to have emerged from her escapade alive. She could have sleepwalked into the Avon. ‘I would appreciate assistance. My name is Miss Jane Austen.’
The woman glared at Jane. ‘Is this Candid Camera?’ she asked. She turned her head to the ceiling, then breathed into the bag again. ‘You think you can trick me?’ she announced towards the ceiling. ‘I’m not signing a release for this!’ She stalked off down the darkened corridor.
‘Please come back,’ Jane called. But the woman did not stop. Jane followed her and arrived at the entrance to a large hall, the lights o
f which momentarily blinded her. Inside, a country ball was taking place. Men and women danced in two lines. There was music, but no orchestra performed. An older woman dressed in men’s trousers stood at one end of the space and shouted instructions to the dancers as though they were children.
‘One, two, forward, back two, forward,’ she barked. ‘You in the white, you’ve missed your cue,’ she said. She was looking at Jane.
Jane pointed to her chest to say, Who, me? She jumped when the woman nodded. ‘I do not care to dance, thank you,’ Jane called across the room. She normally delighted in dancing but felt too gripped by confusion at this juncture to seriously entertain the notion.
The trousered woman glared at her. ‘You’re not paid to watch,’ she said.
The other woman, the one from the curtains, joined the line of dancers. She stared at Jane again and raised an eyebrow.
‘Well, then?’ the fierce woman in the trousers asked.
Jane shrugged. She felt unsure why the woman demanded she dance. She recognised no one at this assembly and knew of no halls in Bath that looked this way. She searched for an excuse. ‘Madam, I do not know the steps,’ Jane offered, hoping that would suffice as a way to avoid joining in.
‘Don’t you “madam” me. It’s Grimstock,’ the trouser-woman said. ‘We’ve practised this dance for weeks.’
‘My dear lady,’ Jane said with a laugh, ‘I may not be the world’s finest dancer, but I can safely say, that was no Grimstock.’
The music stopped mid-note. A dancer gasped. Both rows of dancers turned their heads in unison. Everyone in the hall stared at Jane. The trouser-woman stormed towards her with deliberate strides and halted in front of Jane’s face. ‘This is the exact Grimstock they dance in P and P ninety-five!’ she declared. ‘Where is your partner?’
‘I have none,’ Jane said.
The trouser-woman turned around. ‘Fred,’ she said, pointing at a man who stood by himself in the corner of the hall. ‘Want to dance in a movie?’
The man jumped at the mention of his first name, then hid behind a pillar. ‘No, thank you,’ he said from behind the column.
‘You could be famous, like your sister!’ the trouser-woman added in a bright voice.
‘I’d rather not, cheers!’ the man said with a laugh.
‘But you are so handsome and statuesque! What bone structure! You should be up at the front here.’
‘Steady on, Cheryl, you’re making me blush,’ he replied.
She chased after him around the pillar. ‘Look. You’re in costume and you’re standing there. Please, Fred. For me?’ The pleading seemed to have little effect on the man; he quickened his gallop around the pillar.
Jane watched the odd exchange and shook her head. She could not make head or tail of what occurred.
‘I’m a terrible dancer.’ He waltzed another ring around the column. ‘Trust me, Cheryl, this will hurt you more than me.’
‘You will be fantastic,’ said Cheryl in a bright, aggressive voice. She caught him by the arm and dragged him towards Jane. ‘This is Fred,’ she said quickly.
Jane blanched at the informality of the introduction. ‘I beg your pardon, madam. May I know his family name?’
‘You may not,’ she replied. ‘Fred, meet . . .’ she studied Jane and scratched her head. ‘Right, I’ve misplaced your name.’ She nodded at Jane.
‘I have not told you it,’ said Jane. ‘Miss Jane Austen.’
The woman glowered at Jane. ‘If I wanted sarcasm, missy, I’d spend time with my daughter.’ She scowled and turned to the man. ‘Fred, dance with . . . this person,’ she said dismissively. She pushed Jane towards the man she branded only ‘Fred’.
Jane stumbled into his chest and blushed. ‘My apologies, sir,’ she said. He helped her to regain her balance. His hands felt strong as he gripped her elbows to lift her up.
‘No worries,’ he said, a strangely confident phrase which Jane comprehended, but had never heard before. Cheryl walked away. The man smiled at her awkwardly, and Jane smiled back.
She scratched her head at the strangeness of finding herself about to dance with a man she’d never met, in a hall she’d never been in before. Still, queer as it was, it would be inconceivably rude to refuse to dance with this ‘Fred’, so she turned towards him and prepared to Grimstock. ‘I suppose we should dance, then,’ she said with a nervous laugh. She put her shoulders back, ready to start.
The man called Fred leant in towards Jane, then shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, I really don’t know how to dance. I’m not even supposed to be here. But if you go see the third AD – that’s the one over there who looks unnervingly like Danny DeVito – he will find someone else for you to dance with, okay? Cheers.’ He nodded and walked away from Jane.
A moment passed before she realised for sure that he was indeed leaving her. She gasped. ‘Have you no decency, sir?’ she called after him on instinct. She did not even want to dance, and the whole event confused her, but still, she would not take such discourtesy so easily. ‘You are despicable!’ she declared, for effect.
He stopped walking and turned. ‘I’m sorry?’ She expected him to react with anger, but instead he smiled at her. ‘Did you just call me despicable? I don’t think I’ve ever been called that before, and I’ve been called a great many things.’ He smiled at her again, which infuriated her. She suddenly found herself indecently angry at his rebuttal. She did not understand what she was even doing here but since she was, she would not let a rogue whose trousers were too short for his legs refuse to dance with her.
‘You heard me perfectly well. How dare you agree to dance with a woman and then renege on the deal.’ He walked slowly back towards her as she spoke. She tried not to let this distract her. ‘Don’t flatter yourself that I even wanted to dance with you. My feelings extend merely from the fact that an agreement was struck, and now you back out. The terms of the contract were ideal to neither party, I assure you, but nevertheless, here we are. You have ridiculed not me, but everyone, by refusing.’ He kept walking towards her and had almost reached her. Jane ignored him, cleared her throat and kept talking, in a faster and higher-pitched voice. ‘Indeed, will the first thing to crumble be not society itself, when people no longer dance with each other!’ She raised a fist to indicate her outrage, then, realising she may have ruined the effect with overstatement, put it down again. She coughed and gazed at the floor.
‘I don’t care if you find me the most hideous woman in Christendom. You said you would dance with me,’ she added, in a softer voice. She swallowed. She said none of this for herself, of course – she did not even want to dance – but for spurned women in general. It was the height of rudeness to withdraw an invitation to dance, and this man deserved to be educated.
‘I don’t find you hideous,’ he said. He looked at her and their eyes met.
Jane exhaled and hoped he did not see. ‘So what is the problem, then?’ Jane said, coughing and looking away.
He shrugged. ‘I don’t like dancing.’
Jane scoffed. ‘Too bad.’
‘I don’t dance well. I don’t do anything well, really, and you’ll be thankful in the end this didn’t happen.’
‘You do not dance well? So, here is an opportunity to practise.’
He smiled at her. ‘You’re scarier than Cheryl,’ he said. ‘Do you dress down all your dance partners?’
‘Only the ones who annoy me,’ Jane replied.
‘So all of them, then?’
Jane felt the corner of her mouth twitch, like she might smile, but she forced it back down to an even line. She bristled at the exchange, at how quickly she had entwined herself in an argument with a stranger.
He opened his mouth and laughed, and she stifled a gasp at the sight of the whitest teeth she had ever beheld. A perfectly straight row of ivory pegs shone back at her from his mouth, with no stain of tobacco or food, nor any incisors or canines missing.
‘Your britches are too short,’ she said in an accusatory
voice. She pointed to his knees and looked away.
‘Britches? Is that what they are called? It’s all they had. I’m just an extra, sort of. I’m tagging along with my delinquent sister – she’s the famous one up the front somewhere,’ he said. ‘I’m not supposed to dance. I was told to stand and mouth “rhubarb” multiple times. Apparently, the shape that your mouth makes when you say it looks good in the shot.’
‘Shot? Who was shot?’ Jane demanded, looking around the room with concern.
‘No one,’ he told her, shaking his head with a confused look. ‘The film shot.’
This was the strangest conversation she’d ever had with a dance partner.
‘Well?’ he said then.
‘Well what?’ Jane replied.
‘Are we going to dance or not?’ he said.
‘I thought you did not want to,’ Jane replied.
He smiled and crossed his arms. ‘I don’t, but I’m afraid you’ll beat me up if I refuse now. Besides, if we don’t dance together, society will crumble,’ he said dryly.
She did not approve – only she was allowed to speak dryly. He smirked at her.
‘Are you smirking at me?’ she said, incensed.
‘Smirking? I don’t know how to smirk,’ he replied.
‘You do indeed. You’re doing it now. You appear quite good at it, like you do it often. You’d best stop before you get yourself into trouble.’
Jane found two emotions competing for supremacy inside her: one, utter confusion, and two, utter annoyance at the person standing next to her, who seemed bent on infuriating her at every juncture.
‘Music!’ barked Cheryl. The music began once more, a slow march with a delicate tune. The two lines of dancers snapped to attention and arranged themselves in order. Fred turned to Jane and shrugged. He held out his hands.
Jane in Love Page 6
