She became aware of the whispers around her; the gaffer and the electricians were staring and pointing. The moment made for a great story—the artist and his muse reunited, for the third act in the fairy tale.
Jack looked up from his pages, then down again. Then he looked back up at her and their eyes met. Sofia told her heart to be still. She smiled, casually, and tried not to inhale too sharply. Jack rose from his chair and walked toward her. Sofia picked up her skirt and did the same. They met in the middle of the sound stage.
“Hey,” said Jack. He did not smile.
Sofia paused, momentarily thrown. “Hey yourself,” she replied quickly, hoping she appeared composed.
“Someone should have told you. We don’t need you yet. I’m not happy with the light on Courtney.” He paused, and then continued. “I didn’t see the 2K come out of the truck this morning. I told you I want lens flare on all shots.”
Sofia winced. These were the words to leave his mouth when they had not spoken in five months—generic greetings and camera stipulations? She told herself to remain calm. This wasn’t about her; this was about work. She focused on the issue at hand. Jack’s usual anxieties had evidently returned. Lens flare flooded a frame with a glowing light, which created beautiful pictures. Northanger Abbey should have a Gothic feel, plenty of shadows, which Jack’s cinematographer knew how to create. Lens flare would render each frame like a hipster soda commercial. Sofia cringed for Jack, but this also made her happy. Had the prospect of seeing her conjured this agitation in him? Should she say something? No. She chose to indulge him, to help. “Okay, lens flare it is,” Sofia said. “I’ll go ask someone.”
“What? No, I was talking to him,” said Jack with a grim chuckle. He pointed to a camera assistant behind Sofia, who fixed a lens to a large black camera.
“Right, of course,” Sofia said, feeling stupid. The cameraman smirked and walked away. “How are you?” she said to Jack in a bright voice, trying to remain upbeat.
“Busy,” Jack said. “They’ve cut two locations. It’s John, the EP in the States, I know it. He’s got it in for me. If this picture ends up looking like a movie of the week, it won’t be my fault.”
Sofia nodded, her mind racing, and waited for him to ask about her. She tried not to let this bother her; this was how he was on all shoots—always abrupt, always businesslike.
THE FIRST TIME Sofia had met Jack Travers, she’d been twenty-five years old. She had been cast as Batgirl in the Batman movie, which made her famous, and Jack had signed on as the film’s director. At the first rehearsal on set, Jack ignored her the entire day. He warmly addressed Peter, the actor playing Batman, chatting with him about baseball and throwing jokey uppercuts and jabs toward his giant frame.
But not a word to Sofia.
When she asked a question about her character, Jack excused himself to go to the bathroom. Rage filled Sofia; she refused to stand for it. After a week of being ignored, she asked around, found his address, and took a cab to his house, perched high in the Hollywood Hills.
She thumped on his front door. “What is your problem?” she spat out when he opened it.
He looked her up and down, genuinely shocked to see her. “What’s my problem?” he asked, laughing grimly. “How long have you got?”
He showed her inside. His home looked like some sort of giant Escher painting, a fantasy house with different levels, different wings. He offered her a drink from a bottle that resembled an ice sculpture, pouring the spirit into a carved crystal glass with a solid gold bottom. Sofia scoffed at the outrageousness of it all. She had grown up in a three-bedroom cottage in Somerset.
“My problem is that I have exactly zero clue what I’m doing,” he said as he poured.
Sofia almost spat her whisky onto the geometric marble countertop. “What do you mean?” she asked with a laugh.
“I mean I have absolutely no idea how to direct a feature film.” She studied his face and saw only anguish. “I’ve only been on a film set twice,” he added. “Once, visiting my dad. The other was directing Short Stack.”
“What’s Short Stack?”
“My short film,” he said. He puffed out his chest.
“Never heard of it.”
“It won a bunch of awards,” he protested. He finished pouring his own drink and clinked her glass. She clinked his back politely and studied him again. The smooth, creamy spirit sank into her throat and made her insides feel like they were glowing. WASPs always had the best booze.
“I’m sorry, how is it possible you’ve only been on two film sets?” she said, laughing again. “I’ve been on”—she counted in her head—“seven this year. It’s only June.”
“Show-off,” he replied. “My dad got me the job.” His father was Donald Travers, Hollywood royalty from the seventies, winner of the Academy Award for Best Director and, from what Sofia had heard, one of the most unpleasant and arrogant people in the business.
Sofia raised an eyebrow. “This film has an eighty-five-million-dollar budget. How did they . . .” She shook her head. “Never mind.”
Sofia watched Jack take another sip of his drink. His hand shook. She could not wipe the amused smile off her face, and yet she needed to help. She refused to have her Hollywood debut ruined by a director having a nervous breakdown. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Mr. Travers,” she told him. “Directing is the easiest job on set.”
He scoffed at her. “What do you mean?”
“I worked on a TV show back in England, a children’s show. The director was a bit of an alcoholic—a lovely guy, but he fell asleep on set once, and we couldn’t wake him. We
