“Everything with Courtney,” he said, “it feels so easy.” She stared at him and scowled. His face turned to a look of worry then, and he seemed to wince, as though bracing for a scolding. “Do you hate me?” he asked.
Sofia sat back in her chair and went quiet. She studied his face, noting how handsome he was, how attractive she still found him. She was about to shout, “Yes, of course I hate you, and who could blame me?” She prepared some words to that effect, recounting a list of all the times he’d disappointed her, all the hurt she felt, all the reasons why he deserved the hate. She opened her mouth to say them, paused, then closed it again.
Finally, she sighed, exhausted, and shook her head. “No, I don’t hate you,” she replied. It was the truth. She stood and left the trailer. She walked across the set, her face bathed in tears. She felt too tired to care who saw.
If they were Mr. and Mrs. Butterworth of Hockessin, Delaware, they might have stuck it out. If she taught kindergarten and he ran a vinyl record store, and they kept bees in their spare time, they might have stood a chance. If their parents had taught them good lessons about the ups and downs of marriage, taught them to muddle through when the going got tough, to push through the lean years when the sex waned, when everyone felt tired all the time, when work sucked the life out of them, they might have survived, emerging out the other side in their fifties, with a marriage bruised but intact. But they weren’t Mr. and Mrs. B of Hockessin, they were Jack Travers, Directors Guild of America member, and Sofia Wentworth, movie star. They were not people, they were gods, above doing the dishes and arguing about whose family to go to for Christmas. And when the going got tough for gods, they didn’t muddle through; they packed it in and moved on and searched for perfection somewhere else. And while she was keen to give it another shot, Jack evidently thought it easier to start afresh with someone new.
Sofia could not blame him. In time, he’d tire of Courtney, too, when sleep deprivation and disappointment took the easiness of now and turned it to dust.
There had been some glory days, especially in the beginning, when fireworks rained down on them. But in truth, she realized now with pain, the passion and ecstasy she felt with him had come from accepting a compliment or a kind touch after days of neither. The marriage had ended years ago.
This realization made nothing easier.
Chapter Forty-Six
Sofia collected Jane from the hospital and brought her home for the night. She relayed the day’s stories to her, and when she’d finished, she sat down on the kitchen floor. “Say something,” Sofia said when Jane remained silent.
Jane shook her head, and instead of speaking, she sat down on the floor next to Sofia. Sofia felt gratified to have the power to render speechless a woman who normally had things to say on a range of topics. Sofia told herself not to give any more tears to him but found she could not prevent their flow any longer and began weeping on the floor like an idiot. Jane touched her shoulder, which made her cry more.
After a time, Jane finally spoke. “Your pocket buzzes once more,” she said.
Sofia sifted her phone from her pocket and squinted at the screen through one teary eye. Dave’s name appeared. Her heart sank. She rejected the call and sighed. “I thought it was Jack,” she said with a bitter scoff. “I hoped he was calling to see if I was all right. I’m an idiot.” She wiped her face.
“You are the furthest thing from that,” Jane said to her.
“I cannot show my face at rehearsal, Jane. I could take it before, when we were only separated. But this?” She shook her head. “I won’t turn up tomorrow. I won’t give them the satisfaction of sacking me. I’ll quit.”
“This man has ruined your marriage,” Jane said. “Must he ruin your career, too?”
Sofia laughed and raised an eyebrow. “What do you propose I do instead? Go out there, and what . . . act?”
“Something like that.”
Sofia laughed ruefully. “Even if I showed up, I look absurd in this role. I fostered a fantasy of looking fabulous in this film, of breaking hearts.”
“That is your goal? To break hearts?”
Sofia shrugged. “It’s all I know how to play. I play sexpots, ingenues, manic pixie dream girls,” she said.
“I don’t know what those are, but they sound horrid,” Jane said.
“Either way, I am too old to play them now. I know I’m still a decent looking woman. I know I’m still a . . . MILF”—she cringed—“but I’m no longer a comic book character, do you see? I can’t pull off the perky young love interest anymore. But it’s all I know how to do, so I keep doing it, and I’m making a fool of myself. There’s nothing more tragic than a woman who tries to pretend she is still young.”
“Stop pretending, then,” Jane replied.
Sofia turned to her. “And do what?” she asked.
“You’ve always played your characters a certain way, yes? You’ve always played the pretty young object of men’s affections.”
“Correct.” Sofia shrugged.
“But this character is different?”
Sofia nodded.
“So, play her differently.”
“I don’t know how. I usually have sweet, cute things to say. Now I have inane, ridiculous words to speak. And I don’t know how to deliver them. I don’t have it in me.”
“Tell me of the happiest moment in your profession,” Jane said.
Sofia went quiet. She thought back through all of the red carpets, the press events, the limousines, and the screaming fans. “Ever been to a town called Barrow?” she asked.
Jane shook her head.
“Horrid place. Up north. It was a tiny theater; I was nineteen. I was Cordelia in a regional production
