Why waste time trying to take her down when she was tying herself up with scandals that didn’t even touch me?
So I called Victor instead. “I’ll take that job in England. When do they need me on location?”
———
Maldonwas a historical drama inspired by a poem.Braveheartbut make it the marshy Essex coastline, the Saxons bravely and futilely defending the coast against the raiding Vikings. Not many—orany—women in the poem, mind you, but they’d created some vital roles, even if I was still “wife of Byrhtnoth” until a week into filming when someone decided it might be useful to give me a name.
They settled on Hild.
Wife of Godric, to my delight, was Sasha. I hadn’t seen her in over a year, and we collided on set, slipping in the mud as we clutched each other close and squealed.
“Wow, look at you!” she cried—which was a statement I was used to, as polished and chrome as I ordinarily was. But here I was in a coiled ginger wig, salt-crisp and windswept, layered in a simple tunic with a leather belt working overtime to compensate for the time-period-accurate unsexiness that hadn’t stopped them plucking my brows, layering mascara, and waxing everysingleinch of me. (I’d vetoed nudity, of course, but there were scantier scenes they didn’t want to risk.)
Sasha looked unsurprisingly delighted—I half wondered sometimes if her first joy in acting was the opportunity to play dress-up. The earth tones complemented her, made her eyes darker and her skin brighter, and the layers exaggerated her curves in the same way they swallowed mine.
She reached a hand out to feel the plastic strands of my wig, and I caught that scent of her: pomelo and violets, and suddenly I was back on that Austrian set, caught on a breath between excited and terrified.
We spent six weeks of that rainy summer filming across the marshes, the estuary sweeping murky seawater in periodically so we’d all rush to make the most of it, while the production people exchanged wary glances that questioned why we hadn’t just opted for a studio and a more consistent green screen.
The town was quaint, a gentle hill with pubs rolling downit that we flocked to before news got out that some big movie was being filmed nearby and then we were locked into drinking on set or in our hotel bar.
I’m rambling, aren’t I? Well, my love, it’s hard, talking to you of former flames.
Oisín hurt me enough that I don’t mind trawling through those tainted depths to the heart of who he was to me. But Sasha?
She didn’t hurt me, and I didn’t hurt her; we just flitted in and out of each other’s lives, enough that I think I’ll always wonder what might have been if we’d met at a time when each of us had more to give. As it was, it was this:
Her piling into my hotel room on that first night, like she used to do in Austria. “My god, Nadine,” she said, as her head fell against my stomach, lying on my bed and staring at the popcorn ceiling. “Tell me everything.”
And then: “What’s it like in LA? I always thought I’d find it lonely. Oh. And Ivan? Well, yes, I suppose he must be busy.”
“How are you? Really?”
“Are you going to see your parents while you’re here? Can I come? I’ve never been to Yorkshire.”
“What do they think about this? You? Your life?”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I’m here.”
“It’s pretty, isn’t it? A little desolate. Fitting though. It suits you … I wish it didn’t.”
And then, at some point, her lips on mine.
It felt like the edge of nowhere, where even the sea retreated on a twice-daily basis, like its curiosity piqued and waned, found the town lacking and still could not resist its enticing draw. It was so very far from the life I’d left behind.
It felt safe there, even amongst the conservative locals and swarming crew. Dreamlike, with the gray-brown banks and gray-green marsh-weeds and gray-blue sea. Curling up beneath soft cotton sheets to stare into Sasha’s gray-gray eyes.
It was silly and fun, and then, suddenly, it was all agonizingly deep and unbearably melancholic. Sasha’s fingers were gentle even when she clutched at me, everything breathy and wistful and, I suppose, not quite substantial enough to hold. But for that summer, at that point in my life, it was exactly what I needed.
When I told Ivan, on one of our once-every-few-months calls he just said: “I like this for you. I did always wonder what made you so happy on theDreadbaseset. Maybe we both got it wrong.”
Ruchi asked me how I wanted to play it. I told her I didn’t want a real thing like this to be fodder for the press, but that if it got out, I wouldn’t deny it. “Noted,” she’d said. Then added: “So, for my records, is this just Sasha, potentially other girls in the future too, or potentiallyonlygirls in future?”
“Everyone’s a possibility, Ruchi.” I’d sighed then added, half joking: “No oneis more likely though.”
“Not on my watch, Heywood. Your dating life makes greatpublicity—but you can keep this one. Let me know if there’s anything I can do and … enjoy. You deserve this.”
