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It made her want to ask if he’d known about Vincent Minna, but Bernard was still technically her mentor, and implying that he’d known—and hadn’t done anything—about a predator who was antithetical to every value Bernard held wasn’t going to go over very well.
Instead, Maggie went with a milder response: “I honestly haven’t paid much attention to the footage.” She’d been so focused on the actors themselves, on how they felt about the choreography and the filming, on all the technical bits of costuming and lighting, the results had begun to feel almost theoretical. It wasn’t that she didn’t care if the scenes themselves were hot and realistic, but so much was in her head about filming them in a consensual and healthy way, she hadn’t been able to see the end result.
Missing the forest for the trees? Please, she was missing the forest for the leaves.
After the first Effie-and-Geordie love scene, when Maggie had had that flash of not-jealousy, everything had gone great. She’d kept a firm handle on her emotions and had shoved everything that wasn’t purely professional under the bed where it belonged.
In the Zoom window on Maggie’s laptop, Bernard nodded in agreement. “That’s normal for your first job. Wait until the tenth one.”
Maggie could only hope she’d make it that far.
When Zoya had introduced them and Bernard had agreed to take Maggie on as an apprentice, he’d been clear that not every production needed or used an intimacy coordinator. That while the profile of the field had increased in recent years, there were limitations on how much work was available. “It’s not like getting in to some explosive field on the ground floor,” he’d said.
But as good reports had begun to come in from filming, his tone had grown warmer, more long term.
It felt good—and scary.
Maggie needed this, shewantedit, so badly. Starting over in a brand-new career in her late thirties was worse than climbing that mountain with Cole. One foot in front of the other was well and good, but she had a lot of miles to go before she could feel secure. If she even could still feel secure after the last year and a half.
She was supposed to be over this stage. She was supposed to own a house, be married, and have a firm professional reputation.Nein,nyet,nee: she was striking out where those goals were concerned.
Nailing this wasn’t optional.
“I gotta get throughWaverleybefore projects two through ten.”
“You really should sign with my agent or, if not her, with someone else. You’ll get lots of offers if you send out feelers.”
The idea that Maggie might need an agent—it still seemed absurd. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t put it off too long. Season four ofWaverleywill be a big job.”
She’d heard some whispers about the season after this one, and it had made her head spin. True, they were halfway done with principalphotography for season three, but after filming, there was still so much else to do with editing and music. A PA had spent half an hour explaining the translation and dubbing to Maggie one afternoon, and she’d wanted to cry, it sounded so complicated.
How could they be thinking about the next one? But also ... how could they not?
“For whoever signs up for it, sure.”
“So you wouldn’t be interested?”
Maggie watched herself blink rapidly on Zoom. “Wait, I thought you were being hypothetical.”
“They’re already breaking the next season, scouting locations and the like. As I said, they’re happy with our—or really,your—work. I was nervous when I broke my leg that you wouldn’t be okay on your own, but you’ve handled it like a pro. You don’t need me at all at this point.”
Waverleywas big business. Big, big business. Given what a hit the show was, it had already been renewed for the season after this one. But because each season was based on a different book, there were different characters and conflicts each time. In the next one, there’d be no Tasha or Rhiannon or Leanne or Owen.
No Cole.
Maggie wasn’t going to pretend the highlight of her day hadn’t become the late nights in the pub with the crew, the jokes and the camaraderie, the stories about this set and that starlet. One of her favorite parts of teaching drama had been watching those ties grow between her students. The way that kids who never would’ve hung out in any other context became friends and changed their self-perception in the process. Doing a show together lit relationships and crushes and the entire other rainbow of human connections on fire. When the ingredients were right, a production could forge bonds that would last forever.
Theatre held human nature up to the audience, sure. But in practice, making theatre embodied human nature.
She could feel that happening with and around her asWaverleyfilmed, and the key connection that was building was between her andCole. Somehow, wherever they both started, they’d end up side by side. More nights than not, they left the pub at the same time, often long after everyone else had gone to bed. She wanted to hear about his day. She wanted him to laugh at her jokes. She kept falling more and more in love with him.
It was just a production crush, she knew. It was mostly in her head, she was certain. But if she came back for the next season, he wouldn’t be there.
She couldn’t even evaluate how she felt aboutWaverleyoutside Cole. He colored everything, like a red sock that accidentally ended up in the wash with your towels. And there wasn’t bleach she could use to reverse it.
“I’m really flattered,” Maggie made herself say to Bernard. “I’m definitely interested in helping out with season four, but ... it’s a big commitment.” Doing another season of the show would be another massive chunk of her life. Yes, it would be a substantial accomplishment, but it would be more time away from the States. More time away from anything that felt real.
