Colder than Ice Page 5

  Tristan sat back in his chair.

  “And they two shall be as the universe itself, the light and the dark, never one without the other, and never without purpose,” he intoned, quoting Mordred from one of Jack Gerhig’s original stories. It was widely thought to be the only decent issue in the original series, but it had come too late to save Imperium from its cancellation in 1978.

  “That’s a lot of dedication, finding the original series for research,” she said slowly, squinting at him a little. “I didn’t know you were into pop culture.”

  “Oh, boy,” Prasad muttered, and Sophie up just in time to catch Tristan, wide-eyed, giving him something like a look of warning and just the slightest shake of his head.

  “Well, he has double degrees in what, literature and theater?” Sophie remarked, turning to her friend at his desk and then back around. “It just seems like you’d be more into Shakespeare, or John Donne or something.”

  Tristan looked at her for a long moment with a curious half-smile that didn’t sit very deeply on his face, and Sophie had the wild thought for a moment that he was going to say something, but instead he looked back down at his phone, and after a moment the smile was gone entirely.

  She found herself regretting that she’d made it leave like that.

  And then she started thinking about what she could do to bring it back.

  Ugh, was her first thought after that. God, he’s like an M20 of niceness with sunshine pouring out of his ass, why would he need encouragement?

  Chapter Four

  It smelled like tomatoes and garam masala when Tristan came through the front door of Prasad’s condominium, setting the bag with six different bottles of wine on the hall floor and calling out his friend’s name.

  “In here!” Prasad hollered from the kitchen. He’d moved recently to this sleek, brand-new place with a dedicated security guard in the gatehouse and individual garages. Came with the territory, he’d said in mock indifference, referring entirely to his new clout with the studio. It looked nice—hardwood floors, stainless steel everything. Still had his artwork on the floor, though.

  “Aren’t you ever going to hang these up?”

  Prasad was bent over a large steaming pot on the glass-top stove, a kitchen towel slung over one shoulder. He glanced up to see what Tristan was pointing at, and scoffed.

  “I’m waiting for when leaving artwork on the floor is stylish,” he said, and bolted into action when the oven timer went off.

  The two of them had weekly hang-outs, dinner and a movie. Usually it was In-And-Out, or Indonesian takeaway, but Prasad had decided that this time, he’d actually cook something, since they had a reason to celebrate. The table read, the first time actors would speak their lines out loud with the whole cast and everybody, was the day after tomorrow.

  Which was why Sophie was joining them.

  Tristan had stood in front of the bathroom mirror at home, trying to decide whether to part his hair on the left or on the right for ten minutes before he finally scrubbed his hands through his curls and just left it.

  “So, how is everything?”

  He didn’t mean the sauce. It was a question Tristan had asked approximately eleventy billion times in the past few days. As he expected, Prasad groaned and seemed to nearly collapse, but held himself up for the sake of the pot bubbling away on the stove.

  “Want me to take over?” His friend did look like he could use a break.

  “No,” he thought Prasad said, though it was certainly more of a moaning sound than an actual word.

  Tristan hmmed in what he hoped was a reassuring way.

  “It’s not that it’s a bad thing to have the actual real-life creator of the series here with us, it’s just that…” A long sigh came from Prasad. Working hard all over again was putting a dent in his normally extravagant and outgoing demeanor. Practically like clockwork—put a deadline in front of the man and he’d wind up laying facedown on his kitchen floor announcing he was retiring from life.

  “Seems like you’re getting on well,” Tristan prompted him mildly.

  “It’s… I hate to sound like a betrayer of Card One, but the problem is Colin,” Prasad finally admitted in a rush.

  Colin Younger was the head of the studio side, the lifelong comics fan who’d convinced the crusty old men who ran the publishing arm of the company that he could breathe new life into their characters and build an empire, a dynasty that would set a new standard for Hollywood. If they trusted him. If they let him do what he wanted.

  Also, it would make everyone involved extremely rich.

  So far, it had been working spectacularly. But sometimes in reviews or news bites, the fan blogs and trade sites seemed to be almost waiting for the studio to stumble, to put out a not-so-great entry. His own casting, along with Joanna Hart’s, had been met with mild praise, but a bit of confusion. Dark Magic was a totally unexpected property to turn into a film—it had been little more than unconnected narratives and excuses for a curvy woman to wear tiny, skintight leotards and thigh-high boots. She’d run around strange planets having sexual experiences that were thinly-veiled behind odd visual metaphors. There was probably a strong drug element to it at the time, and the original creator had cleaned up his act toward the end only to have the whole franchise taken away so he could be reassigned as a colorist on Red Rogue, which was just emerging when the Morganna stories were going out of fashion.

  Tristan knew all of this off the top of his head, including what Jack Gerhig had specifically argued about with Oliver Benton, the father of Card One. He could name which planets Morganna visited in which issues, and the color mistake on the cover when Lucius’s character design shifted.

  I didn’t know you were into pop culture, Sophie’s voice echoed in his mind.

  She didn’t know the half of it.

  If the tabloids ever decided to really dig deep, the headlines would all scream FANBOY. He’d studied everything ever created under the Card One umbrella. Very unlike the wingback-chairs-before-the-library-fireplace image that his handlers so deftly promoted. Hollywood people assumed he didn’t know what was going on and talked freely around him about inner-studio politics, which Tristan rather fancied put him above and beyond mere fanboy status.

  He was a veritable fountain of knowledge, and hardly anyone knew. Certainly no one ever asked. It was what had gotten his edits on Prasad’s script such an enthusiastic green light from Colin and the other executives.

  Prasad sighed and stood up straight again, bringing Tristan back to the present.

  “On one side, I’ve got Sophie telling me that all the motivations are wrong and it’s turned into too much of a family drama,” his friend went on. “And maybe she’s right—it’s a bit overstuffed. But Colin has expressly said, quite firmly, I don’t need to add, that the film shouldn’t follow the Imperium reboot plot exactly. He said, and I quote, it’s more interesting for the hardcore fans when they’re surprised by the ending.”

  “So you’re making the long-time fans happy,” Tristan said.

  “But the general moviegoing public won’t understand who these characters are unless we have storylines about their relationships,” groaned Prasad.“There’s got to be a balance, and I suppose it’s up to me to keep it all going. As long as I don’t strangle somebody at the table read.”

  Table reads were always fun—it was nerve-wracking to try on the character in front of such a large audience for the first time, but the best part was that it felt like a pair of bookends when you saw the movie at the premiere.

  “Not that I’m complaining,” Prasad went on placatingly, putting up both hands. It had become an inside joke between them, something Prasad’s mum did on their FaceTime calls.

  “Not at all,” Tristan agreed easily.

  “Did you bring me wine?” Prasad had pulled a frying pan off the hob with golden hunks of naan on it, and Tristan felt his stomach rumble.

  “Yeah,” he said, shaking off the urge for food, and went back to the foye
r for the wine. “I wasn’t sure what to get.”

  Inspecting the bottles as he pulled them out, Prasad held up one in particular.

  “She likes Riesling,” he said, putting it into the fridge to chill.

  “How do you know?” Tristan was surprised and not a little dismayed—he’d been to all their meetings, when had that ever come up?

  His friend shrugged.

  “Probably mentioned it. I dunno, we talk about a lot of things.”

  They were always running off to some cafe or coffee shop in Prasad’s car, without Tristan, and he felt a stab of self-consciousness, as though he was a third wheel and not a welcome friend.

  Or colleague, at least.

  “I can’t help feeling like I’ve been replaced,” Tristan said, about seventy percent joking, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow ironically when Prasad turned to face him.

  “Jealousy makes your eye color pop, you should try it more often.”

  Tristan rolled his eyes and leaned against the sink, watching his friend stir the sauce in the large pot with a wooden spoon.

  A whole month in, and it continued to utterly baffle Tristan why the woman ran so hot and cold. Sophie Markes was a mystery. She was a wonderfully dynamic person and loved to talk writing craft. With Prasad, she told stories about being in school, getting into trouble for starting an anarcho-feminist zine, but because it included a stirring analysis of psychosexual tragedy in Wuthering Heights she’d gotten an A in Victorian Literature instead of detention. She was funny, interesting, and engaging, and she and Prasad got on like a house on fire.

  While Sophie and Prasad were working on the script, Tristan had to content himself with listening to them banter about comic books from decades ago. It took all his self-control not to leap over and join them in gushing about how Steel Knight was way better than The Sylph, trying not to get in the way and make her think he was… what? Desperate to talk to her about comic book heroes?

  Dying to show off all those years of collecting fan magazines and comics, accumulating pop culture knowledge in secret, memorizing it so it would be safer in his head than in the back of a closet? God, she already thought he was odd for not being a sophisticated European type, apparently. She’d said as much—Sophie, would you like to hear about every issue of Zing, the Guide to the Stars? Big Fan Omnibus? No thank you, please stick to wearing tweed suits, sitting in a decaying country mansion, and studying Pinter and Samuel Pepys.

  “Open one of these bottles and start pouring, I can’t have guests who stand around brooding like it’s a Taran Pope Halloween Extravaganza or something,” Prasad said, wincing as he half-dropped, half set one of the hot naan back onto the pan.

  Tristan didn’t need to be asked twice, what with memories of long hours spent slogging through “Il Penseroso” churning unpleasantly. He got the cab sauv open, but it tasted sticky and sour in his mouth. She’d be here any moment probably—what would he say to her? What would she say, if anything at all? How could he begin to explain that he’d actually been a big fan of hers, now that it was weeks since she’d arrived?

  Being friendly and sociable was second nature to Tristan, but now he just felt nervous and achy, like it was all going to go horribly awry before it even began.

  “Seriously, what is… what is your face right now?” Prasad set the wooden spoon upright in the bubbling sauce and gestured in a circle around Tristan’s head. “What is going on in this area?”

  “What am I even doing here?” Tristan replied, sounding resigned even to himself. He set the wineglass on the counter. “Sophie can’t stand me, and I can’t figure out why. It’s maddening. She’s so chatty with you, and I just—” He felt himself deflate.

  “Oh, look at you,” said Prasad. “Figures. For once, a girl isn’t completely head over heels in love with you the second you do that stupid thing with your face, and suddenly it’s the end of the world!” Prasad reached up to find another glass for himself. “I would sit back and enjoy watching you struggle, but I think it would just get sad too quickly, like a puppy falling down a set of stairs.”

  Stupid thing with his face? Tristan was sure he didn’t know what Prasad was talking about.

  Prasad took a long sip, and then another, and then he reached for the metal tongs, and clicked them together with a snapping sound, looking very thoughtful.

  “Prasad,” said Tristan in a suspicious voice. The expression that was forming above the rim of the wine glass was worrying. As if he was doing something rash, like thinking. “Don’t you dare. Really, please don’t come up with some foolish—”

  The doorbell rang, Prasad yelled that the door was open, and before Tristan could say anything else, Sophie emerged through the hallway, her soft hair down and pressed straight so it gleamed. That was new; she always defaulted to pulling her dark, messy waves up and out of her face. She was dressed in dark slender jeans that hugged her hips, deep teal flats with gold buckles on the toes, and a striped boatneck shirt, looking… lovely. Tristan had the vague thought that she ought to do that with her hair more often, with the way it moved across her shoulder in an almost liquid wave.

  She did not look surprised to see him standing there. Sometimes, very infrequently, Tristan’s brain would wonder traitorously if the expression that flitted across her face was actually dismay. But surely not, surely no one would be disappointed with him. Not here in America.

  Instead, she smiled, and his chest began to hurt.

  “Hi,” said Sophie.

  “Hi!” said Prasad.

  “Hi,” said Tristan.

  They all stood looking at each other for one frozen, awkward moment, Prasad in his WORLD’S OKAYEST COOK apron, Tristan stiff and stunned at not having anything to say and also trying desperately not to do anything with his face, let alone something stupid, and Sophie with wide eyes, looking back and forth between the two of them.

  “Uh, I brought some cheese,” said Sophie, finally breaking the silence and digging into the nylon bag over her arm. “Wensleydale with raspberries, and…” she held up another package to read the label. “Havarti. I have no idea if those go together, or even with…” She stopped again, looking around the kitchen, apparently trying to find the source of the aromatic spices.

  “Murgh Makhani,” Prasad offered helpfully. “Butter chicken.”

  “Oh,” she said, her eyebrows knitting together a little. She’d had them done recently, he realized, and her fingernails were a deep, glossy red, too. “That doesn’t sound like it’ll go together very well. I should have asked before just heading to the store.”

  “No, no,” replied Prasad in his breezy host voice, letting her place the cheeses into his open palms, “We’ll all get so drunk that we won’t even notice. Tristan, get the woman something to drink, would you?”

  “Which kind would you like?” He read off the selection he’d chosen, and Sophie looked a bit surprised.

  “Are we each drinking two bottles?”

  Prasad laughed.

  “Not with that attitude. Joanna will be joining us, she will be here whenever she gets here,” he said. “Late flight from New York. You should meet your leads before it all gets started!”

  Tristan poured her a glass of the Riesling after all, and watched her take the first sip, tilting the glass back and forth in her hand and letting the liquid roll around the sides.

  And then Sophie looked straight up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

  Like she’d caught him staring at her.

  But it wasn’t an accusation there on her face. She colored a little, then looked away.

  The resignation he’d felt earlier lifted like a fog in sunlight, and he had to blink a few times.

  “So you needed me to chaperone before she gets here, is that it?” Sophie said teasingly to Prasad.

  “Me?!” Prasad cried, gesturing at Tristan with the tongs. “It’s him you’ve got to watch out for, those shifty blue eyes, all friendly and generous, that open and giving expression. What’s he hiding? A
right bastard through and through.”

  Tristan said without even thinking, “Half a bottle down and already proving yourself a cheap date.” Sophie snorted a little into her glass and and brushed the back of her knuckles over her curving mouth.

  God, it actually felt gratifying to get a grin out of her. A rush of chemicals straight to the brain. It was amazing how something so small hit this hard. He nearly smiled too, but pulled himself back.

  No, that was a dangerous path to head down. He thought back a few months, and remembered: Gratitude doesn’t make for a solid foundation. A foundation is built on trust and mutuality of understanding.

  “Do you have a girlfriend, Prasad?” Sophie said. “Or, sorry, I shouldn’t assume: do you have a partner?”

  “My one true love in life,” he replied, putting one hand over his chest—Tristan groaned audibly, knowing what was coming next—“Light of my life, my white-hot star of passion, is the Gledhill Cricket Club.”

  Tristan closed his eyes and shook his head tragically.

  “Dear God,” he intoned in a strangled voice.

  “No man,” Prasad went dramatically, “No woman, shall ever take its place in the hallowed chambers of my heart. It’s—” He turned to squint at Tristan. “What is it the kids are calling it these days?”

  “Complete lunacy.”

  “Asexuality,” proclaimed Prasad, gesturing in the air as if to underline the word.

  “And the worst cricket club in England,” Tristan replied. “Sad, really, how you’ve developed dementia so early, only 31 years of age, desperately clinging to some tiny remnant of victory from thirty years ago—”

  Sophie actually laughed, and he felt his pulse surge forward.

  Stop it, Tristan.

  “They’re not that bad,” Prasad directed this to Sophie with a casual air.

  “Literally the lowest ranked club on the island.”

  “Tristan, stop depressing her, come over and stir this sauce,” Prasad said without a trace of ill will. “Now,” he spoke to Sophie as Tristan took up the spoon, “You’ve got a glass of wine, there’s cheese, and stuffed tomatoes in the fridge–”