by Jane Galaxy
Sophie peered more closely at the tweet. Several pictures, all paired off, featured the actor in an expensive outfit on the left and increasingly fancy old cars on the right. Tristan in a red velvet smoking jacket over his bare chest, next to a glossy Jaguar from the 1960s. Tristan in profile looking moody, wearing blue pinstripes next to a Cadillac with huge fins. Obviously a commentary on the size of his nose. And finally, Tristan in a sleek black tuxedo from last year’s BAFTA awards, one strawberry blond curl springing out from his temple, next to…
Sophie zoomed in on the picture of the last car. A small photo credit at the bottom told her it was a 1938 Phantom Corsair. It looked like a giant bullet, or vibrator.
Jesus. She rolled her eyes and leaned over to take off a sandal, but her finger slipped and opened the comment chain for the post. This one went deep—her mutual hadn’t been kidding about the tweet’s popularity. Some of the replies jumped out at her:
Good God who made this man, the thirst is unquenchable
Why did I ever think I could quit that face? Belongs between my thighs tbh
Uuugggghhhh SO HOT WHYYYYY
Again, Jesus Christ. His fans were… an interesting bunch. Maybe the word rabid could begin to describe their enthusiasm. Their devotion to him, possessiveness of him, was like a bunch of brainwashed groupies and their cult leader. And Tristan Eccleston didn’t shy away from that—instead, he seemed to lean into it, goofing around for the cameras, dancing with some girl who’d brazenly asked him to her prom in a viral video, even a surprise appearance at someone’s college final exam to get her whole class out of taking the test.
His fans were the reason the Pop Culture Expo in Chicago now had a rule against celebrity guests doing extreme poses in photographs—Tristan had taken requests, and it had gone… in a very inappropriate direction. Known as The Wedding Night Disaster online, it had probably turned off more non-fans than it had deepened his connection with existing fans. Tristan’s antics as a celebrity always seemed to clash with the serious nature of the dramatic roles he took on.
Sophie wasn’t impressed with his methods of staying close to the people—women—who worshipped him. There was something oddly desperate about a man who had won awards for his delivery of intense, difficult monologues on the London stage doing silly anime dances at comic book conventions in Southern California for attention. It was… weird. Like the two didn’t belong together, or even in the same vicinity. You couldn’t force-blend two totally opposite things and expect them to work.
She flipped back to look at the editorial photo. Like this, for example. Who the hell wore Gucci and then faved photo posts by fans who made life-sized cardboard cutouts of him and posted pictures of themselves pretending to be asleep next to him for Instagram fame?
Who is this guy, and why does he have to be so embarrassing?
Sophie zoomed in on the V-shaped split where the velvet smoking jacket opened over the expanse of his chest. Comics Twitter claimed that his workout routine was mostly swimming—he hadn’t bulked up like so many of the Card One players who needed to fill out exoskeletons and spandex, but was focused on being lithe and hungry for power. The planes of his face and angle of the shot combined to make him look like he was gazing right at her, about to suggest that she remove her panties and come closer.
God, she kind of hated him.
Handsome, yes. Annoying and constantly mugging for attention, also yes.
They were going to cross paths on set, and it was going to take a lot of effort to not recall the infamous picture of Tristan on one knee pretending to propose to a girl giving an over-exaggerated look of shock and delight. Sophie tossed her phone to the head of the bed and found a robe to change into.
She could be polite, but ultimately distant. That was really all it required. She’d been raised with good manners.
Being polite and professional was no problem.
“OH MY GOD, FUCK EVERYTHING.”
Sophie pounded the heel of one hand into the steering wheel, but it didn’t make her feel much better. It was two days later, and she’d become a permanent resident of the worst traffic accident of all time. Of course she’d heard about LA traffic being bad, and of course she’d seen movies and TV shows, but nothing—nothing—could have possibly prepared her for being literally ensnared by the claws of Satan himself, locked in battle with an entire state’s worth of morons who seemed intent on not just breaking every traffic law, but any rules about decency or fairness.
She’d gotten to her new property-share apartment that Card One had rented, mostly unpacked, gone to bed early, had a good breakfast, and started on the road. The GPS in her phone had told her the Card One studios were only seven miles away.
That had been two hours ago.
Now she was only five miles away, and her phone was giving an estimated arrival time of… three hours from now.
Sophie bent forward and pressed her forehead into the steering wheel. It didn’t help that it was so insistently sunny, like it was never not going to be bright and cloudless here. She was not going to have a breakdown. She was not in the middle of a sneaky hate spiral. This was fine. She just needed to get used to it.
A rude, prolonged horn blast brought her bolt upright, and she sped ahead into the space left by the car ahead of her, just missing by hairs a man in a red truck who’d tried to take advantage of her distraction and edge into her space.
“Oh no you don’t,” she bit off, throwing him a glare. She was not in a goddamn mood to be outmaneuvered by some mediocre pot-bellied man in an Isuzu, of all things. The man rolled down his window and screamed something she could easily guess. Sophie turned up the music through her phone and hunkered down.
It was several centuries later when she actually arrived at the Card One production offices, managed to get through the gate, found a parking space, and headed to the front doors. That part wasn’t so bad—the security officer at the gate had her name on a clipboard, and there was still a parking space in the middle of the lot. The college-age woman named Madison at the front desk turned out to be sweet and reassuring, not at all the snotty model-quality babe she’d been picturing in her head.
See? It’s gonna be fine. It’s all been worth it. You just need to relax, take a few deep breaths, and learn to let the unavoidable shit roll off your back.
A man in early middle age with a face that screamed 1980s sitcom dad came into the open conference area where Sophie had been seated and given a bottle of sparkling water.
“Sophie Markes, right? I’m Ken Stevens, in charge of wrangling the project production here.”
She stood to shake his hand.
“Well! I bet our new script consultant would love to see the latest pages.”
“I’m ready,” Sophie said confidently.
“The screenwriter is in a meeting right now, but I’ve got the most recent draft for you to look over and see what you think.” Ken pulled a thick packet with blue covers from a folder and laid it on the table. He had her sign a legal document and took a few images of her fingerprints with his iPad, which seemed very high-tech, but they were tied directly to the unique code on every script page. Finally, Ken smiled. “You’re all set. Take your time and enjoy the process!”
She waited until Ken had disappeared around the edge of a cubicle before flipping open the first page.
DARK MAGIC
SCREENPLAY BY PRASAD M. RANGARAJAN
BASED ON THE COMICS BY SOPHIE MARKES
A shiver of excitement went down her spine. Dark Magic. Her comic. She was on the front page of an actual Hollywood script.
Sophie flipped the title page back and began to read the script.
She flipped another page.
And another.
Finally, she sat back in the conference chair and stared down at the thick packet of papers.
“This isn’t what I wrote,” she said.
Chapter Two
Tristan awoke to the sound of the pilot’s final announcement for beginning desc
ent into LAX airport. He looked down at himself, fully reclined and covered in a blanket—velvet and silk—in the private pod that was the privilege of going first class. Sleeping most of the eleven-hour trip was really the only way to survive it, let alone tolerate it. In a fine leather portfolio laid on the side table next to him was the customs documentation he would fill out, along with an executive pen.
And a small scrap of paper with a neatly handwritten phone number and the name Genevieve.
The flight attendant who’d been ever so attentive from the moment he’d boarded leaned over him now, blonde, lovely, and utterly unable to disguise her longing for his complete attention. The five gin and tonics and extra pot of caviar had certainly been clues enough.
“Anything to declare, just fill out the card and have your passport ready when you disembark, sir,” she said. And swallowed, just a little, before she gave him what could pass for a conspiratorial and flirtatious wink.
“Thank you, darling.”
Tristan smiled up at her as if he’d never filled out a customs card before. It was more pleasant to let do her job, let her be expansively helpful and come away from her trip with a nice story to tell her friends. That was what pretty much everybody wanted—a good tale to unveil with just the right flourish at the next brunch or cocktail party. The ace in the hole.
Did I ever tell you about the time I gave Tristan Eccleston my phone number?
Likely followed by a battery of questions from those friends about whether he was as handsome in person (obviously!), as nice as everybody said (of course) whether he snored (darling, no!), and if Twitter and three Reddit AMA sessions were anything to go by, the ultimate question of what he smelled like (woodsy, with citrus). Definitely not included in the story was that he never called anyone who left their phone number for him to find, whether in customs forms, beneath a bar tab, or inside an Amazon delivery box.
It just made for a nice story, that was all. People deserved stories, and Tristan liked being part of a good one.
How could he ruin someone’s hopeful glow by not following the narrative? Nobody wanted reality, they wanted fantasy, grand romance, the possibility of it all. It made everyone so happy, which made him happy. Things were just smoother that way all around. He’d learned that from a very early age—don’t burst the bubble of fantasy, but don’t add to it, either. Plus it was nice to be genuinely nice, especially when there could be such a cold gulf between the way famous people really were and the characters they played…
He deplaned first to the smiles and blushes of the flight crew, casually throwing his gray jacket over one shoulder and pushing the aviator sunglasses back up his nose. Tristan always traveled with a leather duffel in a warm brown color—it wasn’t what he would have chosen, but his stylist had insisted it was the only thing worth carrying out of the Dior Homme collection for more than one season. Plus he was under contract. Of course, he had an actual suitcase, but with a celebrity onboard, the airline would unload it first and turn it over to a handler to avoid mob violence at the luggage return carousel.
It was all part of the ritual, the fake luggage and the behind the scenes work that had to be done. Silly, really—he had two hands and one of them didn’t need to be occupied with a jacket.
After customs, there was nothing but the usual gauntlet of flash photographers waiting at the terminal exit, and then a black car with tinted windows. Airport security seemed to enjoy the official business of pushing back the men in safari jackets with the giant cameras who were all shouting his name, intent on blinding him through the glasses.
“Tristan, over here!”
“Tristan, how was England?”
“How does it feel to be back after eight months? Is the heartache over?”
“Still wearing the same shoes, I see!”
He nearly stopped walking at that one, but was long accustomed to much harsher press treatment in London and didn’t break stride. Was he wearing the same shoes? What did that even mean? They were his shoes, he liked them. Comfortable and stylish. Went with practically everything.
But if the paparazzi were being rude about what shoes he was wearing, that was a clear indication of unfavorable mutterings already in the press, which meant Ivan the stylist would need to hear about it from Tristan and not through one of the gossip sites, which meant there’d be an all-hands conference about which shoes Tristan would henceforth be expected to wear on long-haul flights or casual trips to the coffee shop.
All in the image and the story. The image was the story, and the story was everything.
The door to his waiting car opened, then shut him inside the silence, leather seats, air conditioning, and—
“Prasad,” said Tristan in surprise. His best friend grinned at him with pearly white teeth in the darkness. He broke out laughing, and the two reached for each other in a back-slapping hug. “I wasn’t expecting any friendly faces!”
“Oh, those blokes out there aren’t your friends?” His friend shrugged. “You’ve been gone so long I thought I’d remind you where you live, what it’s like with electricity and running water.”
“I had all the amenities!” cried Tristan, and he thought he detected a bit of sadness in his friend, but Prasad went on.
“I was bored anyway, figured I could get into bad traffic, make the day more exciting.”
Tristan elbowed him. “Finally got the office and you’re immediately slacking off, you tosser.”
“Job perk!”
Tristan tucked away the sunglasses as the driver pulled into the highway onramp and squinted.
“Nice beard,” he remarked. Prasad usually kept his facial hair trimmed pretty tightly, but he seemed to have gone full Hollywood hipster. With his black hair and dark eyes, Prasad always felt like he needed to stand out to fit in—something to scream that he wasn’t an engineer or studio accountant the way (white) executives tended to assume.
“Thanks,” said Prasad, and pretended to flip nonexistent long hair back over his shoulder as they both laughed.
Prasad had come from London by way of India, and although the two of them couldn’t have grown up in more different circumstances—Prasad’s dad was a programmer for British Telecom, for one—their best in-joke was that they’d gone to boarding school together.
They hadn’t, but people were more than willing to believe whichever version of it Prasad spun, from Hogwarts-lite to over-the-top abuse and outdoorsmanship in some kind of Gordonstoun parody that only they ever got as a joke.
Either way, they’d actually met at a friend’s house party and had naturally gravitated to friendship based on the strongest bond possible in Los Angeles: a shared foreign accent.
“How is the new job, by the way?”
Again, Prasad shrugged. “Ehh,” he said. The one word pretty well summed up his entire life: Ehh. Not ho-hum or so-so, just laid back. Chill. No worries. It was just the way he was—screenwriters only had their manuscripts to concern them, not whether their shoes were too many seasons out of style or if their hair indicated that they were still getting over a nasty breakup.
“You did finish it, didn’t you?”
“Of course,” Prasad remarked breezily, “That’s why I’ve got an office now.” He paused as the driver slowed to a complete stop, the morning’s gridlock already well in progress. “Maybe they’ll give you one too.”
Tristan rolled his eyes and chuckled. He really was glad to see Prasad again—a friendly face after endless nature and self-reflection was exactly what he’d need to come back to a place like Los Angeles. They’d kept in touch while he’d been away, and Tristan had been glad for the distraction when Prasad had asked him a few months ago to go over the new Card One script he’d been assigned.
It was driving him mad, he’d said, and even though Internet access was essentially nonexistent in Bali, Tristan had felt a profound sense of reassurance while reading and re-reading it. Like coming home, even though home was a pair of apartments in huge and anonymous cities he didn’t
feel quite connected to in any real sense. He’d been immediately drawn back into a familiar world, one he’d soon be living.
That had been better therapy than anything else in Bali: helping Prasad rewrite Dark Magic.
Prasad was the only friend who knew about Tristan’s secret, the one only revealed after several shots of tequila.
The secret was the double life where screenwriters would call him in complete and utter panic, mere hours away from deadlines. He never had to ask where they’d gotten his number—a few trusted directors and producers knew what he’d say yes to.
Conversations with these people always started the same way.
Well, you see, I’ve gotten to this point in the plot—
Embarrassment at being stuck, trapped, or just out of steam. Humiliation at the prospect of losing their clout in Hollywood. Screenwriters were supposed to know better, and yet they were on the phone with him, nervous and ashamed. Tristan didn’t have any writing credits. That was the rule.
His life’s work was interpretation. Figuring out motivation, tone, thinking to the past and future at the same time. Filtering it through his body, his voice. Acting. He was an actor, not a writer.
But when the writers came calling, he was good at building a scene, and exceptional at creating the line. The one thing that would draw it all together, tighten the emotional journey at once. A character would speak the words Tristan came up with and the audience in a darkened movie theater would draw a collective breath, or release the one they’d been holding all along.
You are more held than you can possibly imagine.
I’d know you in any universe, in any life.
His best ones were romantic, to be delivered just before ravishing someone. Or perhaps on a dawn-lit stroll, a lover’s slow and quiet declaration of love among the birds just beginning to stir in a field.
I would endure it all a thousandfold as long as it still led to you.
