Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
June 1985
Nantucket Island
W hen Sophia turned the corner back to the hotel, she first spotted the paparazzi. They were strewn like vultures across the sidewalk, their cameras flashing at the hotel, several with hands on their hips, talking to one another beneath the sweltering sun, probably asking about their newspapers and magazines and how much they were paid for a good photograph. Sophia wasn’t sure what to think. On the one hand, she was thrilled that The Brutal Horizon was getting so much press. But on the other, she wasn’t accustomed to being photographed. The idea that so many people across the world knew her as Francis Bianchi’s wife—as his third wife, in fact—both thrilled and annoyed her. She couldn’t very well sit down with each one of them and show them who she really was. She couldn’t tell them what she really wanted to say. Francis didn’t really love his second wife, and he felt forced to marry his first wife because of the time they were living in. After all, it was another era with different morals, and… Well, basically, he married Sophia because he loved her, and it was really the first time that’d happened. So what did they want to say to that? Would they print that in their magazine? Would they tell the truth for once?
She couldn’t say all that. So she had to let them think whatever they wanted.
She couldn’t even tell them she was pregnant.
She couldn’t tell Francis, either.
That was the worst of all—the lack of control.
But time was ticking, and Sophia needed to return to the hotel and get ready for the gala. And in order to do that, she had to wade through the paparazzi proudly but without arrogance. Queen-like was maybe the word for it. She raised her chin and put her shoulders back, then paraded down the sidewalk. At first, she thought the paparazzi didn’t recognize her. Maybe they thought she was just another Nantucket tourist. I tricked them! she thought, hating that she was slightly disappointed about it, too.
But then her name rang out.
Well, it was sort of her name. It was a Mrs. attached to her husband’s last.
“Mrs. Bianchi!” A guy with a camera leaped onto the sidewalk and flashed his camera at her.
It gave Sophia such a fright that she let out a cry of alarm and put her hand over her chest. Already, she could imagine that image in tomorrow’s paper with a headline like “Bianchi Wife Terrified Her Husband is Cheating.” Oh no! She didn’t want that.
But why was that the first thing she thought of? He’s not cheating on you! Stop it! she scolded herself.
Sophia forced a smile, then found that the smile grew more and more natural as the camera flashes continued. They couldn’t see her baby bump. There isn’t one! she reminded herself, feeling foolish.
But the paparazzi would be all over her when the baby bump showed itself.
She’d handle it when it happened. Maybe she’d even enjoy it a little bit. Perhaps she’d be even more famous than Francis.
“This way, Mrs. Bianchi!” they called. “Look at me, Mrs. Bianchi!”
And then they started to ask more pointed questions.
“Tell us, Mrs. Bianchi! How does your husband get his wonderful ideas?”
“Would you say that you’re his muse?”
“Do you think The Brutal Horizon will get enough funding to start production?”
“Will you go with your husband to Europe for filming?”
“Do you think your husband plans to have a baby with you, Mrs. Bianchi?”
“Why do you think your husband hasn’t had any children with his previous wives? It’s highly unusual, isn’t it, Mrs. Bianchi?”
“Is it possible your husband is unable to have children?”
“What do you think of your husband’s portrayal of women in his films? Do you think, like others, that he has a feminist eye? Do you think that’s harmful for women like yourself—women who don’t work? Do you think your husband looks down on you because you don’t work?”
This last question felt like a slap. Sophia stopped walking and looked at the cameraman who’d asked it, marveling that he or anyone else could say something so cruel. But he grinned at her evilly and took a close-up photograph of her face. It was like he wanted to capture a piece of her soul.
Tell him you’re the one who wrote those scripts. Tell him that Francis can’t string more than a few sentences together without getting bored. Tell him you’re the true genius.
But Sophia couldn’t. She bit her tongue and forced a smile. “My husband believes women should have the same rights as everyone else, as do I. And I wouldn’t say that I don’t work. I have plenty to do on set and otherwise. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
Sophia scampered up the path to the hotel, feeling the flashing lights behind her. They wanted every bit of her until she disappeared. When she entered the foyer, the woman behind the desk hurried up to apologize.
“We haven’t been able to get them off the sidewalk,” she said. “But we called the police when they entered the hotel and went by the pool. Our guests deserve privacy! Even the famous ones. Or especially the famous ones!”
Sophia tried on a smile that felt false. She suddenly felt exhausted, weak, and on the verge of throwing up—everything that had forced her to the doctor’s office yesterday to learn about the baby. The baby! She had to rest! She had to take care of the baby!
Upstairs, Francis wore his black trousers and nothing else. He was recently showered, and he’d dried his hair so that it was sleek and black and shining. Sophia felt bowled over with love for him.
“Francis!” she cried, hurrying across the suite to hug him.
But a split-second later, something struck her. It was a smell she’d never experienced before in her life.
What was it?
She stalled and touched the tip of her nose. Lilac? Rose? A shiver went down her spine.
“Darling, are you feeling all right?” Francis closed the distance between them and put his hands around her waist.
Ask him , Sophia begged herself. Ask him what that smell is! But she couldn’t. It was impossible. He was in such a beautiful mood, and he was so handsome, and she was pregnant and so happy. Why would she mess that up? Suddenly, Francis’s lips were on hers, and he carried her to the bed and laid her gently on the cloud-like mattress. I’m just imagining the smell , she told herself, then gave herself over to him.
Her husband. Her loyal, handsome, talented, brilliant husband.
Her husband, who’d read her scripts and said they were remarkable and intellectual, and there was nothing else like them in the world. “You’re a genius, Sophia. If only the world could handle it. If only we could tell them it’s you.”
He’d said that. He’d actually said that.
But that was years ago when they’d first met.
That was before Francis had left his second wife.
Now, Francis fell asleep for twenty minutes. Sophia watched him, feeling gooey with love. Maybe when he woke up, she’d find a way to tell him about the baby. According to her friends back in LA, you weren’t supposed to tell anyone until three months had passed or so. But you were supposed to tell your husband immediately. That was clear.
But suddenly, Francis erupted from the bed and said, “We’re running late!”
Sophia leaped to her feet to check the time. It was true; in only a few minutes, her hair and makeup crew planned to arrive, and she needed to jump in the shower. Francis hurried to put on his shirt and pocket his cigarettes. Before she could catch him, he was gone.
Sophia was in awe of her makeup and hair team. Just as they’d done at the premiers for A Cataclysm and A Sacred Fig , they made her look glossy and regal and mystical, like a woman in an antique painting. More than that, they actually spoke to Sophia as though she were one of them. In a way, she sort of was. She’d come from nothing. For whatever reason, she’d married this famous director. But in her mind, she was still a girl from a nowhere town. She was still just a smidge up from the status of nobody.
If only they knew she wrote the scripts.
Francis came to the suite to pick her up. It reminded Sophia of being in high school and waiting at the front door for her prom date to come up the stairs. The makeup and hair ladies said ohh and aah until she put her arm through Francis’s and went downstairs. Sophia’s blush made her look sun-kissed.
“You look incredible, Soph,” Francis breathed, looking proud of himself and of her.
“So do you.”
“We’re a power couple,” Francis announced.
They left the hotel and were immediately accosted with flashing cameras. This time, Sophia felt armed and ready with Francis beside her. She smiled in a way that was meant to show just how confident she was. They were Hollywood elite.
A limousine waited to take them to The Hutton Hotel. The driver opened the back door for them, and Francis helped Sophia in first before he slid in after.
“Look at them,” Francis said, shaking his head. “They’re so hungry for us!”
He gave them a final wave and turned to look at Sophia. His eyes glowed with love.
Sophia thought, Tell him about the baby right now! Tell him now!
But her lips felt frozen with a smile.