Chapter 8 INT. MAGGIE’S HOTEL ROOM
Chapter 8
INT. MAGGIE’S HOTEL ROOM
Maggie carefully arranged her checklist, script, pens, and sticky tabs on the hotel desk. She wasn’t nervous; her mind was too busy to be nervous. She did want to get through filming this first scene; then maybe she’d be able to find a quarter of calm, just a sliver, where she could catch her breath.
She picked up her phone and dialed. “Hey, Rhiannon. I’m calling to check in.”
Over the last three weeks, Maggie had worked every day. Every moment of intimacy or nudity was fully choreographed and rehearsed—except for Tasha Russell’s scenes. On that front, there had been absolutely no movement. Even Tasha’s assistant, an impossibly chic and stoic young woman ironically named Merrit, seemed to feel sorry for Maggie at this point.
But never mind that. Maggie had worked with Zoya and the other episode directors, with Alexa in wardrobe. She’d talked to the director of photography, to the show’s composer, and even to the catering staff and security crews.
As Ryan had encouraged her to do, she’d faked it until she almost—almost—felt comfortable with the language of moviemaking. Until she was only dazzled by the famous people about 10 percent of the time. Then she’d packed her London hotel room, and this morning, they’d arrived in Edinburgh. The first scene of the show was filming tonight—the much-debated love scene with Rhiannon and Cole.
“Hiya, Maggie.” Rhiannon sounded cheerful, which was hugely relieving. “You caught me at the gym. Yup, we’re all set.”
“Do you have any last-minute questions or concerns?”
“No, actually. I feel ... good about it. Which I sort of can’t believe.”
Warmth unfurled in Maggie’s chest. “We’ve all done our jobs, then. And I’ll be there the entire time if anything comes up.”
“I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Don’t hesitate to call if you need me sooner.”
The cast had a few more hours of downtime before they had to drive up into the hills around Edinburgh to the outdoor set for the Jacobite camp—and then Madge and Geordie were going to get steamy beside a campfire.
Maggie had no idea why they were kicking off principal photography for season three of Waverley with this particular scene, but she had a very clear place in the production’s pecking order: at the bottom.
Maybe next season—if they asked her back—she’d have enough power to say something about this, to insist that they didn’t need to start with something so emotionally charged. And also that maybe asking actors to take off most of their clothing and get frisky in the Scottish Highlands was cruel.
Zoya was right: Maggie did seem to have a knack for this job. If only she could crack the nut that was Tasha Russell, she’d feel as if she’d earned an A in Intimacy Coordination: The Rehearsal Period.
But the actual filming posed an entirely new set of challenges.
She crossed Check in with Rhiannon off her list. Then with trembling fingers, she dialed the next number.
“This is Cole.” His tone was friendly but with a heaping of professional distance—because he didn’t know who was on the other end.
“Hi, it’s Maggie.” For all that they’d worked together for weeks, they’d arranged all the logistics over email. Calling or texting him had seemed too ... intimate.
Even now, if she closed her eyes, she could conjure the sensation of Cole’s arms banded around her back. In her defense, they were some arms. She’d seen those biceps, directed them, actually, and she could testify that they were aesthetically perfect.
But what had her weak kneed wasn’t his musculature, but how Cole hadn’t hesitated to hold her. The warmth of him. The certain heft.
It was infatuation. Puppy love, really. Maggie had been through a major life upheaval, and now she was surrounded by literal movie stars. Of course she’d gotten all gooey about the nicest one.
That didn’t mean she had to indulge it in any way.
Over the line, she could hear Cole breathing. His intake and exhale were rapid and even. Maybe she’d caught him at the gym too.
“I hope it’s okay I’m calling. I wanted to do a quick check-in.” Maggie was going to have to work on her chipper voice. She sounded like a Chipmunk.
“Yeah, of course. I’m feeling solid.”
He was solid in absolutely every way.
“I caught up with Esme and David in the lobby. They’re going to have warm-up stations. They estimated that it’ll take about two hours to film.”
She’d checked about this several times now. She hated being cold, and the idea of being cold, nearly naked, and having to act—it was basically a hell dimension, as far as she was concerned.
Maggie liked Zoya, but it was possible the woman was a bit of a masochist.
Silence over the phone. Then, “I’ve made a few TV shows.” But there wasn’t any annoyance in Cole’s voice. More amusement that she’d brought this up several times.
“Sorry, I know. I’m feeling anxious.” Which was why she was babbling.
“You shouldn’t be.”
Of course not: she wasn’t the one taking her clothes off. But also, he shouldn’t be reassuring her. That was her job.
“Ha, too late for that.” Trying to get this conversation back on track, she asked, “Do you have any questions? Worries?”
“Not about the scene.”
Maggie reminded herself that whatever the rest of Cole’s issues were about, it wasn’t any of her business. “If I can help, let me know. I’m here for whatever you need.” She hoped her tone conveyed that she meant it in a friendly yet detached way.
This was just like when he’d offered to commute to rehearsal with her. There’d been the storm and the lightning, and Cole was a kind and thoughtful person who’d made an offhand suggestion. Certainly he hadn’t spent any time since, dissecting that moment into each discrete, clinical detail, before shuffling them and reexamining from a different perspective. He probably didn’t even remember that he’d said it or that she’d declined.
She was being ridiculous. Right there in the Oxford English Dictionary under ninny , there was probably a picture of Maggie. Sample sentence: The high school drama teacher reinventing herself in Hollywood who develops a pointless crush on the polite but disinterested movie star is a ninny of the highest order.
“I appreciate that.”
Because he was perfect—and not for her. So completely not for her.
“I’ll see you on set?”
“I’ll be the big guy in the robe.”
And that ... she wasn’t going to think about. Nope.
It took another half hour to complete the rest of her calls. Then Maggie kicked off her shoes—she always put them on for work calls for some reason—and sprawled out on the bed. It was softer than the bed in London had been, broken in, more like her mattress at home.
She’d been ignoring an email from her parents—which was par for the course—and a series of texts from her best friend, Savannah Harris. That was less normal.
Savannah was the choir director at Maggie’s old school. Music and drama had occupied a building connected to the main building by a breezeway, and it had felt like mutual exile. As the tone had changed in the school and the history curriculum and the library’s collection had come under scrutiny, Maggie and Savannah had worried. But it had been easy to pretend those problems were happening in some distant land not directly connected to theirs.
Until Maggie’s world had been torn open.
All through the trial and everything that followed, Savannah had been there for Maggie—been there even as people in the community had made that difficult and painful.
Woman, I need details , Savannah’s most recent text read. Every. Single. Detail.
It’s currently 21 degrees Celsius , Maggie replied. The barometric pressure is 1011mb. Visibility 9 km. And there’s 82% humidity.
After a minute, Maggie’s phone dinged. I deserved that.
Maggie glanced at the clock. It was midmorning in Oregon. “You did, actually,” she said when Savannah answered her phone.
“I can’t help it. You’re living the dream and making my favorite show—and you can’t say anything ? I’ll have you know, I’m very discreet.”
Which was true. Maggie couldn’t have imagined a better friend or support system than Savannah.
Even still: “I don’t think so. The NDA I had to sign to get the scripts was incredibly scary. It was gold and glowing, and I inked it with a fish bone. It’s possible Ursula is their lawyer. They may take my voice if I break the rules.”
Savannah laughed. “Fair enough. But the first scene shoots tonight?”
Maggie had felt safe sharing that. Someone would probably post pictures of the production vans on TikTok. “Yup. It’s make-or-break time for me. This is when we find out if I can do this.”
“You keep saying that, but things aren’t that dire. If this gig falls through, they’re always hiring at Starbucks.”
Maggie had almost gone that way during the trial. “I don’t even like coffee that much.”
“Don’t tell them that during the interview. Seriously, though, how are you holding up?”
“It’s like the first year of teaching.” Meaning that Maggie felt underprepared and as if every step was taking her three times as long as it needed to. “I want to be good at this. I want to be good at this so badly.”
“You are good at this. You’re good at everything.”
If that was true, why had Maggie found herself unemployed and humiliated? Why was she remaking herself in her late thirties, when she really ought to have been on the cusp of getting bored with her life and having a midlife crisis instead?
“You have to say that. You’re my best friend.”
“I don’t have to say crap. And besides, the fact we’re friends proves your awesomeness.”
Savannah wasn’t suffering from a lack of self-confidence. Well, one of them should be well adjusted.
“Enough about me, how is Emily?” Emily was the concertmaster for the local symphony orchestra and Savannah’s on-again, off-again girlfriend.
“Exploring things with her ex from college.”
“Ouch.” That had to have hurt.
“It’s okay. I may be too bi for her anyhow.”
Savannah was playing it off, but from previous iterations of this fight, Maggie knew that it stung. “You want to talk about it?”
“Nope.”
What she needed was a girls’ night—and Maggie was halfway around the world.
“Got it.” With Emily off the table—and with her, music, the farmers’ market, and brunch were off the table too—what was safe to discuss? “How are my verdant babies?” When Maggie had taken this job, she’d sublet her place and put most of her things in storage. Savannah had been kind enough to take possession of her collection of houseplants.
It had started during quarantine with one or two pots, but it had quickly spread to every windowsill and side table of her condo. Maggie had thought she’d missed the green thumb gene, but it turned out you could learn how not to kill plants. There were books and YouTube channels and everything.
“You literally left me a calendar with daily instructions.”
“You wouldn’t want to confuse the ferns and the snake plant.” For starters, one had to be watered daily, and the other would only need to be watered twice during Maggie’s entire absence.
“You labeled every pot with the inhabitant’s name and a QR code I can scan for a complete dossier on the variety.” Savannah’s tone was dry, but really, she knew what Maggie was like.
“I just wanted to make it easy for you. Plus, you know, educational. How are things otherwise in Eugene?” Savannah would know that was code for How are my former students? As bruised as Maggie still was by her old job, she did miss everyone.
“Excellent. Amira got into Berkeley.”
“Have her parents relaxed?”
“Of course not. They still have to ensure she gets all As for med school. They’ve probably started stressing about whether she’ll land the right residency.”
How exhausting for Amira ... but also for her parents. When every step of your life was about what came next—when nothing was worth celebrating or brought security, because there was always another thing and then another—where was the achievement in that? The rest? The fun?
Maggie tried not to think about the agenda that was sitting on the hotel desk ... and the similar agendas for every other day of the shoot that were in her accordion files.
This was different. Totally different.
“And the school board?”
“Our benevolent overlords would never act contrary to the good of the people.”
“That bad?”
“I’ve never seen a group of people in charge of something who seem to hate it as much as those bozos hate public education. Honestly, you got out just in time. Do you think I could set up a private choir?” As it was, Savannah taught voice lessons in her “free” time, but that income didn’t come close to covering her teaching income. Side hustles were a crock.
“You could be like Harold Hill! You could travel around setting up choirs and selling uniforms and pitch pipes and seducing librarians.”
“If the librarians are cute, I’m in.” A pause. “I miss you. I mean, I’m deeply jealous you’re hanging out in Scotland with Tasha freaking Russell and Cole ‘The Abs’ James. But I also miss you.”
Maggie had a flash from the before times—before COVID, before everyone decided teachers were the enemy—to a Friday happy hour at Chili’s with Savannah and the other cool teachers from their school. She missed her best friend so much. She missed her old job more than she would let herself admit. But the ache in her chest was also for that , for the sense of being a part of something larger than herself. The camaraderie, the jokes, the confidence that they were in a job where they made a difference and improved lives.
She had none of those things here. Maybe she could have them, someday, but she still felt so insecure.
She was playing a role, and even several months in, she still felt badly miscast. Some part of Maggie’s heart was still pinwheeling madly postfiring, desperate to know which way was up and which was down and which direction she ought to be going.
Ever since college, Maggie had known . The very nature of teaching was predictability. If it was spring, she’d be teaching the film unit in her intermediate drama class, and doing scenes with her beginning students, and directing a musical. Her calendar had been as certain as the daffodils popping up when the snow melted.
Maggie had had moments in the last few months where she felt as if she were getting that conviction back, but then along had come Tasha to make her feel dizzy all over again.
“I miss you too.” After a poignant beat, Maggie tried to sound cheerful as she added, “I’ll be back in three months!”
“Not soon enough. This pothos is looking sad.”
“You should’ve picked pretty much any other plant: pothos is impossible to kill. Just check the soil, and—”
“Maggie, I was kidding.”
“Right, right. I knew that. I was kidding too.” She hadn’t been. “But I do have to go. It’s a night shoot ... and that’s the only detail you get.”
“Ooooh, that’s enough for me to build an entire dream scenario. I will take it. Talk soon, Niven!”
Maggie took a quick nap, and before leaving for the bus that was going to take the crew up to the location, she dashed off a quick email to Bernard.
Going into the first day of shooting, I feel as prepared as it’s possible to feel when I don’t really know what I’m doing. As long as everything goes according to plan, I feel confident. But I have absolutely no ability to improvise, and that’s what worries me the most. With teaching, it took years before I trusted my ability to respond to whatever might happen in the classroom. I wish Zoya were directing this episode as we have the best working relationship, but I’m glad that I’m starting with Rhiannon as Tasha still isn’t speaking to me.
They were almost at the last moment for the star to change her mind about that. It felt like a distant mountain that Maggie wanted to climb, one that kept poking through the clouds and taunting her.
Every time Bernard asked about it and Maggie had to repeat that no, nothing had changed, Maggie hadn’t made any progress, she wanted to cry. She’d almost begged Bernard to get on a plane to see if he could make any headway. Maggie didn’t have any ego here—okay, she had a small and reasonable amount of ego—but at this point, her worries weren’t just about herself but also about Tasha.
Maggie wanted to make sure that Tasha was going to be okay.
She blew out a long breath, watching the hair around her face stir. She couldn’t control Tasha’s reaction. She could only keep making herself available and do a good job with Rhiannon and Cole.
In the last year, so much had been outside Maggie’s control. She’d spent so much time literally making herself sick over people’s feelings—which she couldn’t dictate—and other people’s choices—which weren’t hers to make. The helplessness had almost destroyed her, until she’d realized that if she could embrace it, then she had more energy for the stuff she could control. Seeing her limits, affirming them, it increased her power.
I’m still feeling stymied about that, she wrote, but that’s a problem for another day.
And quite frankly, it was a problem Tasha had to solve on her own. All Maggie could do was keep her hand outstretched and hope Tasha would eventually grasp it.
She hit send on the email to Bernard, packed her bag, double-checked its contents, and headed out—because those were the things she could do.
Tonight, they had to be enough.