Her producer
Agathe picks her way through the rubble of another day on set.
The film is an IP cash-grab, an adaptation of a superhero comic that bombed the last two times they tried to make a film out of it.
Luckily, the project belongs to her colleague Gregg.
Agathe is here for another reason. She dodges out of the way of platoons of PAs with walkie-talkies, skirts around the drill-sergeant reassembly of a residential street so that the same explosion can be run again before they lose the light.
When she catches the director, she gives him a note he’ll ignore and he asks if she has a cigarette, though he’s well aware she doesn’t smoke.
A spandex-clad actor in a body harness hangs despondently from a cable.
Agathe heads straight for the first assistant director, who is deep in conversation with the gaffer.
‘Clara,’ Agathe says. ‘Can I have a word?’
But Clara’s phone has started ringing at that very moment, and something like panic comes over her face when she sees the name on screen.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she says. She’s already running away. ‘Five minutes?’
Agathe can’t help but laugh at the irony: being made to wait around by the girl who used to book her taxis.
Even as a runner, Clara was all over the place, but always happy to step in front of traffic for the sake of a good shot.
She’s principled, has good instincts. She wouldn’t let Agathe read a script if she deemed it too formulaic.
She wouldn’t be working on this film if the director wasn’t an auteur, albeit one who has sold out for a blockbuster paycheque and first-dollar gross.
Clara would never compromise for such a deal, but she’ll happily do her best to make the best film possible, and learn all the relevant ropes while doing so.
Back when Clara was just another assistant in a hamster wheel of assistants, it was easy to simply keep one eye on her.
You can’t overestimate anyone in this business, because so many fall off the wheel before you’ve even learned their name.
But at some point, Agathe had blinked. Clara had left Agathe’s office to work her way up the rungs to becoming an AD, and now Agathe and her former protégée are suddenly almost peers.
Almost. One day, when Clara looks back on the moments that defined her, Agathe knows already that this conversation will be a pivot point.
Clara stands by the production office, talking quietly into the phone. Agathe walks slowly over, not wanting to look like she’s listening in, but also not wanting to give Clara an easy route of escape.
‘How’s Jasper?’ Clara is saying. ‘Give him a smooch from me.’
Seb. It’s a shame that his career never really took off.
He was handsome, a hard worker, possessing a certain je ne sais quoi.
What had he done since that film for Nils?
A few TV cameos, a couple of blink-and-you’ll-miss-him roles in British indie dramas.
And that godawful musician film, panned by critics and dumped unceremoniously on Netflix in a move still reminiscent of being thrown in the straight-to-DVD bargain bin.
He’s going to be in a police procedural, apparently, although word is that ITV are already trying to sweep that one under the rug.
This whole industry: hamsters and wheels.
Seb has been falling off for a while now.
His girlfriend is only just getting going.
‘Yes, I’m serious,’ Clara says, into the phone. ‘Just because I blurted it out doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about it. I’ve been thinking about it a lot.’
A pause while she waits for Seb to answer.
‘I’m glad you’re happy,’ she says. She swallows. ‘I’m happy, too.’
On the other end of the line, Seb speaks for a while. He seems excited.
‘Hold your horses,’ Clara says, with a nervous kind of laugh. ‘I don’t mean, like, trying trying. We can just be a bit less… careful.’ She lowers her voice, covers her mouth. ‘I’m on set. You’ll have to use your imagination.’
Seb speaks again, more slowly this time.
‘When I’m back,’ Clara says. ‘There’s no rush, right? I don’t want there to be any rush.’
It’s not clear whether she gets an answer she wants. Either way, she tells Seb that she loves him, then she hangs up the phone and holds it to her chest. Clara is facing away, so Agathe can’t tell what her face is doing. When she turns, she flushes briefly, then quickly gathers her composure.
‘Oh, Agathe,’ she says. ‘Did you—?’ Those ice-blue eyes haven’t changed in the near-decade they’ve known one another. ‘What did you want to ask me?’
‘Just a quick one,’ Agathe says. ‘How would you like to make your own movie?’