Anna North - The Life and Death of Sophie Stark

“Sophie’s so jazzed about Isabella ,” I said. “Jazzed” was another word Steven liked. “She can’t wait to get started.”

“Neither can I,” he said. “I think this is such an amazing fit. Sophie, your sensibility is so raw and honest, and I’m so psyched to have you bring that to Isabella .”

Sophie just nodded. I wondered how she’d gotten this far without learning even basic politeness. I assumed she’d been terrible in school. I, on the other hand, had always known how to kiss ass.

“Great,” I said. “I knew you were the right person to come to with this. Not everyone would understand what we have with this project, but I think you know it has the potential to be a really big deal, not just critically but commercially. And I think we can do it for thirty million.”

Steven’s smile got a little tighter.

“Remind me who you have attached for Isabella?”

This was the question I’d hoped he wouldn’t ask. I knew he’d want a big name to play her, and I’d sent the script out to five young actresses who were hot right then and who I thought would be interested in something period and highbrow. But nobody had committed yet, and I didn’t think anyone would until I could promise them real money. I’d been hoping to lock Steven down and then get the cast in place; now I was going to have to bluff him.

“Marisa Teal basically said yes,” I told him.

She hadn’t, but of the five she seemed the most likely. She’d done a couple of romantic comedies lately, and I knew she was looking for something that would make people take her seriously. Plus, I’d produced her breakout film; she’d played a young woman who moves to West Texas to escape an abusive husband and ends up managing a rodeo.

“‘Basically’?” asked Steven.

I felt stupid for assuming this would be easy. I’d just figured Steven would be as excited about Sophie as I was, but he’d gotten where he was by making lots of money for the studio. And it was true that Sophie had never worked with a significant budget, never had to make real money for anyone. I looked over at her; I could tell she was anxious. Even though she was acting like she didn’t give a shit, I knew she wanted this. I tried again.

“She’s this close to committing,” I said. “I’m sure once we can tell her we’ve got funding, she’ll sign on right away.”

Steven nodded, but not encouragingly. He looked like he was humoring a little kid. I remembered one bad night in our twenties, getting kicked out of a club when Steven vomited on the wall. He was drunk and high and crying, and he kept saying, “I’m a shit. I’m a terrible person. I need to change my life.” And I’d held him up until we found a cab, held him while he shook and cried and talked about hating himself. Now he looked so smug, like he’d always been better than me, like he’d never been humbled.

“You just get Marisa on board,” he said, “and we’re good to go.”

Meaning that without Marisa we were nowhere.

“WHAT DO WE DO NOW?” Sophie asked.

We were driving down the 10, L.A.’s ugliest freeway, the city lying low and gray on both sides, but Sophie still had her face glued to the window like we were on safari.

“We get lunch with Marisa,” I said. “She’s my friend. We should be able to convince her.”

Again I was exaggerating — Marisa and I had a good professional relationship, but we weren’t friends. I hoped she felt like she owed me.

“I don’t want Marisa Teal,” Sophie said.

I’d been afraid of this — that she’d insist on Mieskowski or some other hyper-indie actress and cause a lot of trouble. I sighed.

“In order to get the funding we need to make the best movie—” I started.

But she interrupted me. “I want to talk to Veronica Dias.”

Veronica Dias wasn’t the name I’d been expecting. She was just coming off Aero-Man , and she’d been Dude magazine’s hottest woman of the year. She was definitely bankable; I just didn’t know if she could act.

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I asked.

“No,” Sophie said. “That’s why I want to talk to her. Do you know her?”

I knew Veronica a little — I’d met her at a couple of parties, and her agent was sort of a friend of mine. I found her anxious and fragile and full of herself.

“A little bit,” I said, “but—”

“Can we meet her?”

“I just don’t know if she’s right,” I said. “She’s never done a project like this before. And I don’t think she’s very easy to work with.”

“I need to see her to decide if she’s right.”

She was so certain all of a sudden, like she was snapping back into focus. It both reassured and bothered me; I wondered who was in charge.

“We can try to have lunch with her,” I said, “if you really want to.”

Sophie nodded like she was satisfied. I waited for her to say something, but she didn’t. She looked out the window for a long time. We came up on the 405 and the traffic slowed way down. I wanted her to talk to me — every time she got quiet and distant, I felt like I was missing my chance to get to know her.

“Where’d your name come from?” I asked finally.

She didn’t answer right away, and I was worried I’d overstepped; I’d heard she wasn’t born Sophie Stark, but she’d never explained it in interviews. Maybe it was something she didn’t explain.

Then she yawned and pulled her knees up to her chest, her feet on the seat.

“When I was a kid, I used to go all over,” she said. “I’d sneak out of the house and go someplace, anyplace.”

“Me too,” I said, even though the only place I went was my friend Eddie’s, because he had comic books and sometimes, if we begged, his mom would take us to the movie theater and leave us there all day long.

“One time I took the bus to Chicago and went to the art museum. They had an exhibit of photos, and I’d never seen good photos before, like ones that weren’t just of someone’s birthday.”

I imagined her as a kid wandering through a big museum, except in my mind the kid Sophie looked just like Sophie now.

“There was one of this woman. It’s hard to describe. She was wearing a man’s suit and a hat, and she was looking right at the camera with this kind of half smile like she knew exactly how the photo was going to turn out and it was going to be great. I remember I just looked at the photo and I thought, Yes, this is how I’m going to be . And the card next to it said ‘ Self-Portrait , by Sophie Stark.’”

“That’s amazing,” I said. “So there’s a single photograph out there that completely inspired you? Have you met the artist? You two should do a project together.”

I was already imagining a joint show, a retrospective of Sophie’s films with the other Sophie’s photos in the lobby.

“I tried to find her last year,” Sophie said. “I just wanted to see what her life was like. But I couldn’t even find the photo again. When I search for the name, I just get me.”

I was disappointed. I wanted to know where Sophie came from. Still, I told her, “Maybe you don’t need her anymore. What you do, it’s a lot harder than taking a great photo. I know you’ve had a rough time recently, but to me it looks like you’re doing great.”

She turned to look at me, and for a second I saw a new expression on her face, just for a second, open and hopeful, like a kid excited to be praised. I could’ve thrown my arms around her, I was so happy to be getting through. Then she turned away. When I looked at her again, she seemed to be concentrating, like she was doing math.

“Why do you live by yourself?” Sophie asked.

I could’ve been offended, but she’d asked the question in her flat voice, with no judgment and no pity. It was strange to hear my life questioned so coolly. And I wanted to keep her talking; I wanted to see her face open up again.