“Sorry, again,” he said in a garbled voice.
“I am simply mortified, sir,” she said. “Horrified.”
He shook his head. “Why didn’t you lock the door?”
“Did you not hear the water and deduce the room was occupied?” she protested.
He stood. “Fine, why don’t you see me naked? Then we’ll be even.” He began to unbuckle his belt.
“Certainly not!” Jane cried. “Stop that.”
He fastened his belt. “No? Something else embarrassing? I could make myself fall over. Or you could beat me with a vegetable? I could eat some rubbish?”
Jane tried not to smile; the ill feeling of the other night had returned, but she overcame her embarrassment to recall how much he annoyed her.
“You look different,” he said, studying her.
Jane grabbed her man’s shirt, suddenly self-conscious once more. “These are Sofia’s clothes. Are they inappropriate?”
Fred shook his head. “It’s not the clothes. It’s your hair. You changed it.”
Jane patted her head. The steam of the bathroom waterfall had relaxed it to its natural state. The Grecian curls, which she dutifully set with rags every night, had vanished. Her hair, now loose, reached halfway down her back except for the hair around her face, which she kept short for easier curling. She tucked the pieces behind her ear.
“Your hair was done in period style for the rehearsal,” he stated. “You looked like a character from the nineteenth century.”
Jane nodded. “And what do I look like now?” she asked in a soft voice.
He shrugged. “Like a woman,” he said. He coughed. “You missed one.” He pointed at Jane’s arm.
She looked down to where he was pointing; the button at her cuff lay undone. “Yes. I was unable,” she explained.
“Don’t you know how to dress yourself?” he asked dryly.
“I dress myself every morning!” she protested. He must have thought she was some princess, with a lady’s maid to dress her; she was quick to correct him of that falsehood. “There are a great many buttons on this shirt,” she explained in a huff.
Fred moved toward her.
“What are you doing?” she asked quickly.
He moved close enough that she could feel his breath on her shoulder. She froze; their eyes met, then he looked down. He said nothing but took the pearl-white disc between his thumb and forefinger. Jane watched him. He slipped it through the buttonhole. Jane did not know where to look. She was struck by the tenderness of the gesture, but also that a man she found so annoying could act so gently with her. She commanded her breathing to still, to not appear so riled up. She begged herself to speak calmly, to show no sign of the effect his closeness had on her, but she could think of nothing to say in that moment.
“For what it’s worth, I hardly saw anything. In the shower,” he said softly. He finished with the button and placed Jane’s wrist back by her side. “I saw nothing to be embarrassed about. Quite the opposite, actually.”
Jane nodded without looking at him, too mortified to meet his eye. “Do you have business in London today?” she said, keen to break the mood which scared her.
“I’m going to Paddington,” he replied.
“May I accompany you?”
He gave her a confused look. “You want to come with me?”
“Yes. Is there a problem?” He stared at her. “I assure you I will be no burden.”
“Suit yourself. Fine by me,” Fred said quickly. He shrugged.
The idea of going to London with a man was suspect at best; now to impose upon this obnoxious member of the opposite sex, this horrid specimen, filled her with dread. The day would be awkward, and she did not want to go with him. But she could see no other way to get there. She would have to endure this uncomfortable experience to maximize her chances of returning home.
“How shall we get there?” Jane asked him.
“We’ll take the train,” he said. He excused himself and left the room. Jane waited by the door. He returned a minute later. Something about him looked different. “Ready?” he asked.
Jane studied him. “Did you comb your hair, just now?”
His hair stood neat and tidy off his face, swept to the side, behind his ears. “Some woman harped that it was messy. I wanted to stop her nagging,” he said.
She refused to admit how nice it looked. With the hair off his face, his visage was not as disagreeable as she’d first thought. She mentioned naught of this to him. “Good for you,” she said instead. “You own a comb indeed.”
Fred rolled his eyes and said nothing, then showed her out the front door.
Chapter Nineteen
Sofia sat in the makeup chair and gave a nervous smile. The past two weeks had consisted of wardrobe fittings and dancing. Today, proper rehearsals began. Lights flooded the space. Technicians checked their light meters, gates, gauges. Most importantly, Jack was somewhere on set. He had flown in the previous night from LA, someone said. She had last seen him five months ago; now it might be minutes before he stood next to her again. Sofia commanded herself to remain calm.
For the first time in a decade, production, insultingly, had assigned Sofia the general cast makeup artist, another indignity she swallowed so she could spend time with her husband. The friendly looking man named Derek met her in the makeup truck and introduced himself. “Ms. Wentworth. I’ve worshipped you since I was twelve,” he said.
Sofia scowled; this was a rocky start. “Oh dear, that’s horrible. How old are you, son? How old does that make me?” she said. She touched her throat.
“That’s not what I meant!” Derek replied, quivering and looking panicked.
“It’s all right,” she said, trying to soothe him. She needed him to remain calm. After all, she
