I don't know if you've ever had the truly mind-numbing out of body experience that is having the entire world comment graphically about how they think your hips look in black lingerie, but I absolutely, unequivocally do not recommend it.
I slumped my tote bag on the counter of my trailer dressing area and peered into the mirror — my face was sallow and grey from a night of no sleep and too much doomscrolling. It was eight in the morning and I'd already fielded a concerned and embarrassed call from my parents (in the middle of the night because in their panic they forgot about the time difference), frustrated and game-faced calls from my team (in the middle of the night because publicists and managers simply do not sleep in Los Angeles), and one or two calls from "journalists" — and I use that word generously — calling to ask for my comments on my experience as Jason Sands' Inamorata Inflagranté. Tired as I was, I felt grateful to be at work — if anything could keep my mind off of everything, it was playing a fun part with nice people.
... At least, they were nice yesterday before they'd seen my ill-advised private photographs on the covers of their local tabloids, the captions of which incorrectly but pointedly described me as a mistress to a taken man. Who knew how they'd react today.
I stayed in my trailer as long as I could before my need for caffeine drove me out into the foggy morning and to the holding tent, where some of principal cast — Charlotte, Martha, Simon, Larry, and Lolly, were sat on folding chairs, chatting. There was a lull when they saw me. Great, I thought. The Scarlett Letter of it all begins.
"Hi," said Charlotte, standing immediately and approaching me with a concerned face. "How're you, you okay?"
"I'm okay," I lied, then turned to the group. "Hi guys."
"Let me get you a coffee," said Martha jumping up. Larry stood and offered me his seat.
"Guys, I'm not dying," I deadpanned. "I'm just half-naked on the cover of the Daily Mail."
"And who among us hasn't been?" Jollied Simon, and everyone, including me, chuckled.
I took the seat that Larry was gesturing to insistently, and Martha returned with a hot coffee for me.
"Thanks," I said, a little more earnestly.
"Is there anything we can do?" Asked Lolly, leaning forward in her chair.
"You're doing it," I said with a disbelieving chuckle. "Honestly, thank you guys for being so nice to me, it's a huge help."
"It's bang out of order," said Lolly, angrily. "You're grown, you should be able to live your life however you like without having to worry about anything like this."
I nodded, too exhausted to rekindle one of the white-hot flashes of rage I'd been wrestling with all night. I was endlessly grateful to them for being righteously indignant on my behalf — and leaving the accusations of infidelity out of it.
Bridget the PA appeared wearing a headset and an all-too-familiar-at-this-point expression of sympathy.
"Morning everyone," she said. "I'd like to invite you all to hair and make-up."
The shoot went well. I didn't have any big physical comedy moments to nail, and everyone did an excellent job of treating it like a normal day and being generally pleasant and professional, which was exactly what I needed, but I found the sour pit of angst in my stomach begin to reemerge as the hours went on. When lunchtime rolled around, I excused myself and slipped out into the hallway, grabbing my tote bag and phone as I went. Once alone, I pulled a baggy USC sweatshirt out of my bag and pulled it on over my neon-orange pleather crop-top and leaned against the wall, letting out a deep sigh. I knew it was a bad idea, but I couldn't help myself. After a moment of gathering my wits about me, I pulled out my phone.
Opening up Twitter, I found that my feed was entirely covered with The Pictures. Thank goodness they weren't naked-naked, but they were still provocative. I'd taken them posing invitingly in front of a hotel bathroom mirror wearing a new black, lacy, mostly see-through Fenty set and sent them to Jason when we'd first started seeing each other and I was so high on oxytocin and dopamine that I'd completely forgotten about the entire concept of risk.
I scrolled down, numb now to each armchair beauty pageant judge commenting things like "why are her knees so weird" and "she should get lipo with her TV money" — but something caused my heart to drop into my stomach.
It was a thread of people arguing about the alleged timeline of our relationship.
"I bet she was screwing him while he was with Talia and that's why the show got cancelled"
"@MaggieJames Being the other woman is not a good look bb"
"Honestly I always got the mistress vibe from her"
Hot tears of anger and hurt spilled instantly over my cheeks, no doubt smudging my professionally done liquid liner — Shit, they'll have to do it all over again. My hand flew up to stop them, pressing the worn cuff of my sweatshirt against my bottom lashline, and I took a sharp inhale of breath through my nose.
I knew none of the things they were saying were true, but being so aggressively misunderstood — and, let's face it, slut-shamed — made me feel like my blood was turning to acid. I looked back at the screen and scrolled to make the words disappear, but in their place came a paparazzi picture of Jason and his uber-chic fashion photographer girlfriend, Talia, coming out of Erewhon hand-in-hand. A rush of fury flashed in my chest as I took in his smug face, partially obscured by the pair of black vintage Ray-Ban sunglasses that I had given him for his birthday. Wearing my gift while holding hands with the girlfriend he conveniently forgot to tell me about, I thought to myself shaking my head. How could I possibly have convinced myself I was in love with this snake.
Still. He looked so effortlessly cool, with his perfect lopsided smile and his swoop of lush, curly hair. The ghost of my feelings for him rattled my ribcage.
I was broken out of my miserable reverie when the beautiful old floor creaked under heavy approaching steps and Ben appeared, striding into the hallway with his nose buried in a script, a pencil in his hand. He stopped abruptly when he saw me.
"Hi," he said pleasantly, then froze when he took in my red, teary face. He cast a quick glance back through the doorway to make sure no one else was about to walk in, then turned to me and spoke in a quiet, concerned voice. "You okay?"
I nodded, hurriedly wiping my cheeks with my sweatshirt sleeves.
"Sorry," he continued, his brows knit together in worry. "I don't want to interrupt if you want to be alone."
"No, it's fine," I said in an unconvincing attempt at breeziness. "I'm just having a — what do you call it here? A whimper?"
"A wobble," he said, his face creasing in an amused smile. "That's okay, this is a wobble safe-zone."
"Thanks," I said with a watery smile. I crossed my arms, suddenly feeling embarrassed.
He hesitated a moment, his face serious again, and looked like he was pondering what to say.
"Um," he began, taking a step closer and speaking in a discreet voice. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable at all, so we obviously don't have to talk about it or anything... but I just wanted to say that we hope you feel safe here. And if you need anything from us, please just let me know, okay?"
He was looking at me with earnest eyes. They were flicking between mine under tilted brows, full of genuine worry. I swallowed.
"I appreciate it," I said, nodding. "Thank you. I'm fine."
I paused for a moment.
"Actually, to be honest, I'm not fine, I'm feeling really, really violated."
He shook his head, his expression heavy with sympathy. I saw a muscle in his jaw twitch.
"It's not okay at all," he said softly, a quiet edge to his voice. He put a hand on his hip and the other rubbed his neck in frustration. "Seriously, it's not on. I'm really sorry."
"I'll be okay," I shrugged, taking a deep breath. I already felt a bit better having put a voice to my feeling, and the look in his eye was making me feel... I couldn't place it. Seen? Protected, even? Whatever it was, it was helping. "I just made the huge mistake of..."
I trailed off, holding up my phone and rolling my eyes.
"Oh, god," he chuckled sympathetically. "No, don't do that."
"No, it was a bad idea, just..." I looked back at the screen, shaking my head. "Lots of stuff that isn't true."
I held out the phone screen up, and he put a hand under mine to look at it properly. My heart fluttered at the touch, but I told myself to get a grip.
"Gosh," he said quietly, reading intently. I fought a chuckle at the almost Winnie-the-Pooh-esque word choice. "That's uh... blimey, that's awful, I'm so sorry."
"Thanks," I replied as he straightened and looked back up at me. "Yeah, I'm trying to figure out how to fit 'actually, we started seeing each other quietly while we were shooting Taylor Made and I thought I was falling in love with him and then I went over to his place and saw him through the window with who turned out to be his very serious girlfriend he conveniently forgot to tell me about' into two hundred and eighty characters."
He raised his eyebrows.
"Shit."
"Yeah," I nodded. "It, uh... it's been a weird year."
He nodded too, looking down at the floor thoughtfully. I suddenly felt mortified.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to... ugh." I shook my head. "Is 'TMI' an expression over here?"
He chuckled and looked back up at me, then cleared his throat, casting me a sympathetic wan smile.
"It's okay, I was just... actually, I went through something similar. My last girlfriend. Went off with one of my mates from University."
"No!" I breathed, horrified for him. "God, that's awful."
"Well, you know," he demurred, putting one hand in his pocket and shrugging casually — although I could tell there was still a very real current of hurt below the breeziness. "On to bigger and better things, right?"
He smiled down at me. I chuckled, wiping my face again with my sleeve.
"My friend Kamie said the same thing."
"Well there you go then," he said, warmly. Then he looked embarrassed. "Sorry, I didn't mean to overshare, myself, I just wanted you to know I get it. To a degree, that is— Obviously your situation is ten times worse what with the— well, you know—"
He became flustered, gesturing down at my body. I raised an amused eyebrow. His face instantly looked horrified.
"Not— I'm sorry, that's not— What I mean is I didn't have the whole, um— the, er, picture aspect— that is— With the Daily..."
I smiled, amused by his awkward fumbling. He pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes and shook his head, laughing at himself and looking pained.
"... Mail..." He finished, feebly, and rubbed his face. "I'm so sorry, I'm not doing well, am I?"
"I'm just amazed you're still going, frankly," I laughed.
"Right," he said, looking down at me again with an embarrassed grin and beginning to walk away. "Don't keep digging the hole."
"Quit while you're ahead," I nodded.
"Right, so I'll just—" he pointed in the direction he was walking. "I'll just get on with it then."
I laughed and waved. He disappeared into the next room and I took a deep breath. I did feel safe, on set with these people. It was Out There that I was the most worried about.
Unfortunately, Out There was right at my doorstep. The next day I wasn't called in to shoot, which meant that I spent the entire day looking at my phone in my bed and fielding texts from Kamie telling me to stop doing exactly that. I thought about opening my laptop and working on my screenplay, but I couldn't muster the mental energy. In the evening I was forced out of my depressive cocoon and into a pair of heeled white gogo boots, because I was invited to the BBC building in Marylebone for a press event to promote the show. Brilliant.
When my car rolled up to the main doors at 5pm that evening, my heart stopped — the place was swarming with paparazzi. I slumped back in my seat and avoided the concerned gaze of Marshall the driver, examining me in the rearview mirror. When the photographers saw me through the windows, they began swarming, shouting my name and wildly inappropriate questions.
"This is ridiculous," I said to Marshall. "I've never had paparazzi have any interest in me before — ever! Now, all of a sudden, they're..."
I trailed off, looking nervously out the window.
"Want me to walk you in?" His voice was steady and reassuring. I was endlessly grateful.
"Thank you, Marshall, but I'm gonna be okay. Promise."
I dug into my tote bag and pulled out my own pair of dark sunglasses. Two of us can play at the smug, cool-looking celebrity game.
Once inside, I was shepherded up to the sixth floor where there was a nice-looking interview studio with a full, raucous audience and several chairs lined up onstage. It was a fan event — in my experience the best kind of event — with a crowd made up of mostly engaged, active viewers plus a few entertainment journalists there to get a quote or two for promotion in their "what's on" sections. I was led under the bleachers and around to the green room, where Mat, Martha, Larry, Jim, and Ben were waiting. They all greeted me warmly when I arrived.
As we waited to be introduced, I smoothed the skirt of my emerald-green vintage dress, realizing that I was nervous. I was just beginning to wring my hands when I felt a firm arm clamp around my shoulders — Martha had come up beside me and given me a tight side-hug, rubbing my arm bracingly. I was immediately filled with gratitude.
Suddenly, the audience began clapping and whooping, and before I knew it, we had been ushered onstage. We took our seats and the interviewer — a stout older man with nice-looking glasses and an even nicer demeanor — began a Q&A about the episodes and the show.
"... And, of course, we have a guest star from across the pond joining us," he said eventually, gesturing warmly to me. "The lovely miss Maggie James!"
The audience was effusive, and I smiled, raising my hand in a little wave.
"I'm very happy to be here, thank you!"
"Now a lot of fans are wondering — how did this happen exactly? How did you end up on Ghosts, did the writers reach out to you?"
"Uh, yes, we manifested her," said Larry in a jokingly serious voice.
"How very LA of you," I quipped, grinning. "No, to be honest, I'm such a fan of the show, I basically bulldozed my way onto set by begging."
There was a titter of laughter in the audience, and the cast grinned at me, good-naturedly.
"And how has it been having an American on-set?"
"Educational," said Jim. "So many different ways to mispronounce trainer brand names."
I laughed with everyone else and looked around at the warm faces of my new friends, smiling and open. The crowd was full of earnestness and easy laughs and for the first time in two days, I started to feel my shoulders genuinely relaxing.
"Brilliant," said the host eventually, turning out to face the crowd. "Well, now's the time that we open things up to the audience, so if anyone's got a question... yes, you there in the second row!"
He pointed to a man with glasses and an ironic Game of Thrones tee shirt who stood and accepted the mic that was passed to him.
"Um, yeah, hi!" He smiled playfully at us, then locked his gaze in on me. "I was just wondering, do you have any plans to release any more lingerie pics? Perhaps a calendar?"
The room went silent in shock and for a moment, nobody moved. It took me a second to register what was actually happening to me, but when it did I felt that sickly twist in my stomach reappear and the blood drain from my face. I opened my mouth to answer but found that whatever I could possibly say was stuck in my throat. Suddenly, I was interrupted.
"I assume that question is for me."
I whipped my head around to see Ben down at the end of the line of chairs clearing his throat and leaning forward in his seat with his hand raised. There was a grateful titter from the crowd as they clung to his tension-breaking joke like a life-raft.
"No current plans," he continued with an exaggerated serious-artist voice. "But do expect an album to drop in the spring, it's gonna change music forever."
The titter turned into a full-blown laugh, and I cracked a grateful smile.
"Sorry, Ben," said Larry, latching onto the bit. "But I'm pretty sure that was for me, and, uh—" he squared his shoulders sassily toward the man who had asked the question. "Yeah, I am. What are you gonna do about it?"
I masked my anxiety with thankful laughter as one by one they each pulled an "I'm Spartacus." Shooting a discreet look down at Ben, I caught his eye and tried to convey my gratitude telepathically. He nodded almost imperceptibly, a tight smile on his face, but as my gaze dropped down to his hand on his lap, I saw it was clenched in a white-knuckle fist, and when he looked back at the man who had asked the question, that muscle in his jaw twitched again. Underneath the joking, he was furious.
And to be honest, I was, too. I looked back at the man, his pleased-with-himself expression igniting a white-hot flame of disgust in me, but I kept my face pleasant and my body language calm.
"Er, yes, only questions about the show, please," said the interviewer, adjusting his glasses.
"You okay?" Martha put a hand on my shoulder once we were back in the green room and searched my face with worried eyes.
"I'm fine," I said, but I was shaking. I was so angry more than anything.
"I do apologize," came the voice of the interviewer, out of breath as he hurried into the room after us. "I should've made some sort of announcement at the beginning or something—"
"No, no," I cut him off gently. "You were wonderful, thank you so much for the lovely interview."
He gave me a relieved smile and nodded in reciprocation before disappearing back into the hallway.
When the door closed behind him and it was just the cast in the green room, everyone resumed checking in with me and expressing their frustration with the man in the audience.
"It's ridiculous," Larry said in disbelief. "Why would anyone ever ask a question like that?"
Ben shook his head.
"Wanker," he muttered. "I'm gonna speak to the program and ask if he can be banned from future events."
"Hey, it's fine," I said with a wan smile. "I mean what are the odds there'll be another picture leak scandal the day before a fan event? Unless Larry follows through on his promise, that is — you said that with a lot of commitment, Larry."
"Well, you know," he said with tired amusement. "Gotta give the people what they want."
I laughed, but I knew my face was betraying how utterly exhausted and sad I was feeling.
"I know," said Martha with a twinkle in her eye. "Shall we pop upstairs?"
The others reacted with smiles and eyebrow raises.
"Why," I said warily. "What's upstairs?"
Martha turned and stooped down to grab a bottle of Prosecco out of the green room fridge, and Jim caught my eye and jerked his head in a "follow us" motion. I obliged.
We piled into the elevator and rode it to the very top floor of the building. When we arrived, the group led me up one more flight of stairs and Mat pushed the door open — ignoring the 'WARNING - ALARM WILL SOUND' sign, which turned out to be wildly incorrect anyway — welcoming us out onto the rooftop.
I felt my chest relax as my lungs filled with the fresh evening air. It was a regular rooftop — nothing fancy, no lounge chairs or barbecue area or anything — but it had a hell of a view.
"We come up here sometimes when long writing days or notes from the executives make us feel... well, like we need to drink Prosecco on a rooftop," said Mat with a wry smile as Martha popped the cork.
"Yeah," said Ben quietly with a tired look in his eye. "Been a lot of those notes lately, haven't there?"
He exchanged a knowing look with Larry. I wondered what it meant.
We passed the bottle around and milled about, enjoying the breeze and the far-down sounds of the city. My heart leapt as the sun began to set and suddenly the sky was on fire, fluffy clouds glowing orange, and warm pink beams of light kissing each rooftop and iconic shape on the skyline. I drifted away from the group and walked to the edge of the rooftop, taking in the view with eager wonder — the Shard, the Eye, Big Ben, way down the river peeking over some buildings was The Gherkin... I want to live here, said the whisper in my head that I'd been hearing for so long. I want to create here. I smiled to myself and pulled out my phone, snapping several pictures in a row, trying to capture the feeling as much as the colors and landmarks.
"Oh god," said a low, playful voice behind me. I turned to see Ben standing with his hands in his pockets, looking out at the vista below. "You're one of those people who videos firework displays, aren't you?"
"Excuse me," I laughed in shock — because he was exactly right. "But somebody's got to get the grainy, shaky version of them to show the world!"
"You're right," he nodded with a half smile. "It's a noble profession."
I looked back out and took a couple more pictures.
"I'm basic, okay?" I said drily. "I love sunset pictures. I take them every time there's an amazing one."
"And do you actually go back and look at them ever?" He asked with disbelief.
"I do, as a matter of fact!" I showed him my phone's camera roll — sure enough, there were quite a few sunset pictures dappling the feed. "It sounds stupid, but they remind me that the world is beautiful, even when it feels..." I trailed off, looking back out at the view. "... I don't know. Sad."
I could feel him looking at me, but I didn't want to get emotional again, and I knew that if I met his gaze and saw all that sympathy I would lose it.
"I just want to remember this," I said, gesturing out at the London skyline, the clouds behind it beginning to turn a heavenly purple. I sighed. "This is... you're lucky to live here."
We watched the colors turn for a moment in silence. Then, Larry called out to us.
"You ready?"
"Oh, right," said Ben, snapping to attention. "I was actually sent over here to let you know that we do, in fact, have to go now, because we will, in fact, get in massive trouble if we're up here after dark."
"Wow," I said, raising an eyebrow. "The BBC runs a tight ship, huh."
"You have no idea," he said wryly, and we all headed back inside.