“Videotape? Stop reminding me how old I am; you’re not doing yourself any favors.”
He shrugged. “Anyway, that’s why I’m helping you.”
“You’re helping me because I was in a soap opera so old you pirated it on VHS?”
“Because you brought my mother, who was so riddled with cancer that in the X-ray her body looked like a treasure chest of pearls, a bit of joy before she died.”
Sofia stared at him. “Fine,” she sniffed. “I give you permission to help me. Wait. Just so we’re clear: I claim Jane Austen lives in my brother’s spare room. You don’t think I’m crazy?”
Dave shrugged. “If you say you saw Jane Austen, then you saw Jane Austen. If you’re for real, then, wow. You’ve got one of the greatest writers in the English language in your house. If you’re crazy, then I’ve got a great story to tell down the pub. It’s a win-win for me.” He picked up the book and flipped through the pages. Sofia stared at him again. “Here we are.” He paused on a page. “Besides, if you’ve made this all up, it’s a sophisticated lie.” He pointed to a line halfway down, then handed the volume to her.
Sofia turned to the book and read the passage aloud. “Summary notice. February second, 1810. Emmaline J. Sinclair of 8 Russia Row, Cheapside, v. Rex.” Sofia gasped. “That’s Mrs. Sinclair? Jane is telling the truth?”
Dave pointed to the entry. “Is that her address?”
“It’s absolutely the address Jane gave me. My God. I don’t know what to say.” She laughed, astounded. “Okay, explain. What are we looking at?”
Dave held up the book. “We’re looking at a court listing. Your Mrs. Sinclair was charged with a crime.”
Sofia straightened. “A witch trial?”
Dave read the lines below. “No. She was charged with grand larceny.”
Sofia scowled and shook her head. “Which is?”
“Stealing clothes,” Dave replied. “It was a thing back then.”
“Was she found guilty?” Sofia said.
Dave read the passage. “It doesn’t say. We need to check the archive. Ground floor.”
Sofia and Dave descended. Her mind whirred. Jane was telling the truth: Mrs. Sinclair was a real person. She found herself at the beginning of a mystery. Dave showed her to a shelf containing the dusty tomes of the Old Bailey. “This is rather exciting,” Sofia said. “I feel like a treasure hunter. But with books.”
Dave riffled through the pages of one volume, then tossed it to one side and grabbed another.
“You’re enjoying this,” Sofia said with a crooked smile.
“Thoroughly,” said Dave. “Here.” He settled on a page. His face fell.
“What is it?” Sofia asked.
Dave shook his head. “Mrs. Sinclair was found guilty as charged. They sentenced her to transportation.”
“Transportation? To where?”
Dave read on. “Australia. But she died. On the Earl Spencer, the ship that took her to New South Wales.”
“How inconsiderate of her.” Sofia scratched her head. “Well, I’m utterly confused now.”
Dave sat on the floor between the two stacks. “So am I.”
“You’re disappointed,” Sofia said. “I must admit, that was rather an anticlimax.”
“I thought I was onto something there,” said Dave. “I’ll keep looking.”
Sofia checked her watch. “I have to go.”
He looked up. “What if I find something?”
“If you find anything, bring it to set.”
Dave straightened. “You mean the film set?”
Sofia shrugged. “Why not? I’ll put your name on the visitors’ list.”
Dave looked starry-eyed. “Wow. A real-life film set! Where the magic happens.”
“It’s not as glamorous as you might think,” she said, and waved her hand glamorously.
“To you, maybe. But to me . . . so exciting! There will be film stars there.”
Sofia rolled her eyes. “Yes, Courtney Smith will be there.”
“I meant you,” Dave said.
“Oh,” she replied. “Whatever.” She walked off, concealing her smile.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Courtney took Sofia’s arm and leaned in. “I heard a rumor,” she whispered with a smile. They stood on the sound stage once more for afternoon rehearsal. Courtney wore her Grecian goddess gown. Sofia had redonned her lime-green sack. The tension and passive aggression between them fizzed and buzzed in a symphony; they seemed to loom on the verge of an all-out war, but their tones and gestures remained tightly controlled for the moment. They were like a couple of expensively dressed, impossibly glamorous gunslingers from the Old West, waiting in the street for the shoot-out to begin, each daring the other to flinch or fumble their jewel-encrusted gun. “You have a secret admirer.”
“I do?” Sofia said. She kicked the ground and feigned uninterest. “Who?” All she could think of was Jack. Had he said something? Was it obvious? Her heart leapt.
“Pete likes you,” Courtney replied. She raised her eyebrows and nudged Sofia in the ribs.
Sofia scowled. “Who is Pete?” she asked.
“Pete, the unit manager?”
Sofia scanned through names and faces in her head and came up with no one. Finally, Courtney pointed across the set. A tattooed man of seventy exited a portable toilet in a high-visibility vest. An eczema-mortified bottom crack poked out from his trousers.
“That’s him. He won’t kick you out of bed. I think you should go for it.”
Sofia rolled her eyes. “No, thank you.”
“Why not? You’re single. Take a chance, you might find love.” Courtney beamed at her with sinister glee. Sofia looked over at Pete the unit manager as he stacked some chairs. He was probably a lovely person and had no idea Courtney mocked him. Sofia felt sad and embarrassed for the both of them. She hoped Courtney had said nothing to him as some cruel joke; he probably just wanted to do his job in peace. She suddenly felt incredibly mad.
“Can’t, sorry,” Sofia said in a confident voice. “I’m already seeing someone.” She winced at the lie as soon as the words left her mouth.
Courtney blinked and straightened. “Oh! I’m happy for you. What’s his name?”
Sofia inhaled. Oh dear. She had started the falsehood and would now need to continue it. Quick, what were sexy men’s names? Bertie? Reginald? Horatio? No, those were all unsexy. She tried to conjure a person from her imagination, but
