Chapter Text
“Don’t be mad.” Francesca should have known allowing her sister to run her PR was a bad idea the moment she heard those words, but when she was just starting out as an actress, Eloise needed experience and Francesca needed help and now, well, here they were.
“Why would I be mad?” Francesca remarks, trying to give Eloise the benefit of the doubt as she pours herself a glass of lemonade. It’s officially summer in New York and she plans to enjoy it no matter what Eloise is determined to throw at her.
“I have a script.” Eloise drums her fingers on the marble counter of the kitchen island. Getting the words out of her seems to be like pulling teeth, but Francesca isn’t sure she wants to start that attempt right now. Her mood this morning is quite settled, so if Eloise does not want to spill this alleged bad news, then she is simply not going to prod her.
She takes her lemonade and heads for the balcony, settling on one of her chairs while Eloise lingers in the doorway like a spirit. Okay, Francesca can only take so much more of this. “Okay, spit it out.”
“It’s a little Oscar-Baity. It’s a romance,” Eloise begins, drifting over to the balcony railing. “And I know you don’t like either of those things, but… Autumn de Wilde is attached.”
Francesca, admittedly, sits straight up. “She hasn’t made a feature film in almost seven years.”
“I know,” Eloise nods, face scrunched up. “They want you to read for the lead role. She’s great, really, she’s, like, this very sheltered woman who comes from money and is falling in love for the first time, it’s really beautiful.”
She knows her sister well enough to know there’s something Eloise is leaving out. She eyes her quizzically, asking, “Okay… what’s the catch?”
Eloise purses her lips, looking out at the city skyline as if looking into Francesca’s eyes will have some sort of Medusa effect. “It’s a… female love interest and I didn’t know if that would be your thing really because you’ve never done that before and, like, I wasn’t sure if it would push whatever sort of boundary you have but—”
“Eloise,” Francesca holds up a hand to interrupt her, letting out a soft little laugh, “That’s all? Do they have anyone attached for the love interest?”
“That’s the really bad part,” Eloise grimaces. “It’s Cressida Cowper.”
“I thought you liked her?”
“I do, but that’s a wildly unpopular opinion. She’s a nightmare to work with on set and for whatever reason, she always demands her trailers and dressing rooms and what not be decorated in pure pink, it’s egregious. I’m rather fond of her, but I don’t know if it will be easy for you, dear sister, to pretend to fall in love with her. That’s all. But it’s a really good script. At least, I think so and I’ve grown to have quite the eye for these things.”
Francesca contemplates. A female love interest. It’s not something she’s done once in her career, but Benedict always jokes with her that if she wants to win an Oscar she either needs to play a hooker or play gay and well, she’s not very interested in movies about sex-workers directed by men who only see them as playthings and that seems to be the only type of film in that subgenre at the moment.
“What does John think?” she asks, referencing her longtime partner and even longer best friend. “He’s always quite mindful about these things.”
“How am I supposed to know? He’s your boyfriend.”
Francesca sneers. The word boyfriend feels so trivial. Hers and John’s relationship isn’t… like that. Not that anyone knows the two of them gave up their romantic ideals so long ago she can hardly remember the last time they attempted to go to bed. It was amicable. He was always her best friend first, the one that always understood her no matter what. She wouldn’t risk losing him.
“Just… send me the script. I’ll look it over and get back to you, okay? If the script is good enough, then Cressida shouldn’t be an issue. If you like her, she can’t be that bad.”
Eloise snorts, shrugging at her sister and leaning against the railing of the balcony. “Well, you know the company I keep. Remember when I dared hang out with Theo? Poor guy. Paparazzi all over him meanwhile he’s a bartender. Whatever, that was a dead end anyway.”
She shakes her head, taking a content sip of her lemonade. The Bridgerton family is always one of intrigue and scandal, something Francesca is trying desperately to avoid in her own career. There was the whole business with Daphne’s relationship being outed as a PR set-up, Anthony very publicly marrying his ex-girlfriend’s sister, everything is rather dramatic in this family. Hence why Francesca much prefers a quiet, albeit sexless, life with John. It keeps things normal.
“You know how these things go,” Francesca mutters, staring out at the skyline in front of her. “Send me the script. I’ll get back to you by the end of the weekend.”
“Perfect,” Eloise cheers, clasping her hands together. “I’m off to meet Benedict for brunch, would you like to come?”
Francesca shakes her head and stands from her seat on the balcony. “I have lunch with John in a couple of hours. Give Benedict my best, though, I miss him.”
“We’ll all get together soon,” Eloise mutters, brushing it off. “I think a whole four Bridgertons are in New York right now. We’ll have to do something.”
“Yes, of course,” Francesca smiles, watching as her sister gathers her things and prepares to leave. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a script, placing it on the kitchen island right in front of Francesca. She stares at it like it’s going to bite. She watches Eloise go with a mournful sort of look. It’s hard with so many of her siblings being in separate places now. The only reason Francesca stays in New York instead of returning to London is because it makes her traveling for film much easier and when nothing is calling her name, she returns to the stage where she got her start in dramatic acting. Still, it can be lonely sometimes.
Now alone in her apartment, her eyes turn to the script in front of her, the title staring up at her from the front page. Vienna. Simple, elegant. Pushing down her fear of the unknown, she picks up the script.
***
Michaela walks through the city streets at sunrise, still in her clothes from last night. She was doing her usual weekend shuffle which involves sneaking out of the apartment of whichever lover she took home for the night—last night it was a lovely lady named Victoria—and heading back to her own place uptown. She steps off the curb, waving a hand to hail a taxi before any lingering morning joggers can realize who she is. Thankfully, she gets a taxi quickly and rattles off her home address before beginning her journey of trying not to nod off in the backseat. After all, very little sleep was had last night.
“Hey, I recognize you from somewhere,” the taxi driver says about fifteen minutes into the ride and Michaela prepares herself for a conversation she’s had roughly a million times before.
“I’m an actress,” she answers politely despite her raging headache and exhaustion, “You might’ve seen me in a movie or two before. Mainly horror, or indies, though, so I don’t know.”
“You were in that, um, what was it? Oh, that real scary one, um—”
“The Taking? Yes, that’s me,” she smiles, remembering one of the horror flicks she did a couple years ago. She likes to play around in her film career, but it’s resulted in her being a little, well, typecast. She’s a witty, comedic relief, horror darling. There’s a few action movies in the mix, but nothing serious. Which is a shame because she wants to be serious. Every time she tries, though, someone else seems to beat her to the punch. It’s like people can’t see her for anything else but a good laugh or some sex appeal. It’s fine, she’s young. There’s still time.
“My daughter loves that one,” the driver shares before ultimately going quiet as if remembering what time of morning it is, for which Michaela is grateful.
Now enjoying the silence, she pulls out her phone, perusing the morning’s news. The first thing she sees is a tweet from FilmUpdates.
‘Francesca Bridgerton signs on for lesbian period romance, Vienna, directed by Autumn de Wilde, playing opposite Cressida Cowper. Source: @DEADLINE’
Michaela stares at the picture, a simple photoshoot of Francesca sitting on a couch of deep green leather, wearing a white henley (almost) buttoned to the top with her gorgeous dirty blonde hair in spindly curls. Francesca Bridgerton. The longtime girlfriend of her cousin, though John is admittedly very private about their relationship, which annoys Michaela to no end. She’s only met the actress once, maybe twice, in passing, but it doesn’t seem like Francesa likes her very much for whatever reason. Michaela knows she can be a lot for some people and Francesca seems very… uptight. She wonders how John could’ve possibly ended up with someone like that.
Whatever, it’s not her business. She keeps scrolling. It’s the time of year when all the actors who clearly want an Oscar start signing onto the projects that they think will get them there and Michaela keeps waiting and waiting for something award-worthy to come across her desk, but it never does.
“Here we are, ma’am,” the driver interrupts her morning melancholy as he pulls up in front of her building. She taps her phone against the reader and thanks him with a smile before climbing out, finally starting to feel the dull ache in her feet from the heels she’s been wearing for at least twelve hours.
She sighs, just grateful for her bed to be an attainable goal right now. As soon as she gets up to her apartment, she flops down into the unmade sheets. Michaela can bemoan the state of her career later. Now, it’s time to rest.
***
One month later.
It’s far too early in the morning when Michaela’s phone starts ringing. She groans, palming for where she left it on her sheets last night, trying to source the location of the vibrating without having to open her eyes. Eventually, she finds it and presses it to her ear, not even bothering to look at who could be calling her this early in the morning.
“What?”
“Hello to you, too, cousin,” John’s voice is a welcome surprise, even if it woke her up, and Michaela sits up. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she does her best to wake up enough that she can process the call.
“Listen, you call me at—” she pauses, pulling the phone away from her ear to look at the time, “seven in the morning, I fear I’m going to have a little bit of attitude. What’s going on? Please tell me no one is dead.”
“Quite the opposite,” John says, stupidly cheerful for this early. She loves her cousin dearly, but she has no idea how he’s become such a morning person—especially since they have spent God knows how many nights laughing together until the sun comes up. “You don’t have any projects going right now, do you?”
Michaela shakes her head before remembering she’s alone in her apartment. “No, no I don’t.”
She’s been putting off accepting anything because all the scripts are starting to blend together. Mindless action movie. Indie horror that thinks it’s being inventive. David Lynch copycat. Nepo baby who needs to put down the pen. Safdie brothers film that kills her off twenty minutes in. It’s all bad. Everything bad. “Perfect.”
“What, why?”
“So, do you remember that film I told you about? That Francesca’s doing?”
“The—yeah—the, like, 60’s romance one, right?” Michaela grumbles, trying to remember the plot synopsis that John has no doubt told her about prior to this phone call. “What about it?” \
John makes a noise in affirmation. “Forgive me if I’m overstepping, but I know you’ve been in a bit of a slump and wanting something a little more serious and, well, Cressida dropped it.”
“Dropped it?”
“Well, got fired.” She can practically hear the grimace in his voice, “It’s all very hush-hush, I’ll tell you about it over drinks soon. However, since they lost her and it’s this close to production, if they can’t find someone soon, they’ll have to call it and, well…”
He drifts off and Michaela groans, “Spit it out.”
“I may have mentioned you’ve been looking for a career pivot and the director totally went for it,” John admits. “I know you said you’re tired of lesbian period romances getting made but it’s a really good script and you know, de Wilde made Emma and you love that movie, so I thought—”
“Hold on,” Michaela stops him. She’s fully awake now, so she climbs out of bed and opens the curtains, watching the sun rise over New York. “Have you spoken to my agent? Have—has anyone spoken to anyone?”
“No. I wanted to make sure it was okay with you. You know I would never go over your head,” John scoffs, almost offended that Michaela even sort of implied that. “I know it’s not ideal, but… it’ll give you an opportunity to show these people what you’re really made of. And Francesca will love you for it.”
She snorts. She doesn’t think Francesca Bridgerton will ever love her no matter how many movies she signs on, no in their few brief meetings, she has made it very clear that Michaela is not her type of person. It’s fine. Michaela has a strong personality for some people. She’s used to not being liked.
Still, John has a point. She’s been wanting to get serious with her career for a long time and here is a serious script falling right into her lap. She doesn’t need to meet with her agent to know she’d be stupid if she didn’t take it. Even if it means working with Francesca Bridgerton. Still staring out the window, she sighs, “Fine. Send my agent and I the script. I'll try and get back to you by the end of the day.”
“Thank you, Micki, you’re the best,” John cheers. “Oh, Francesca is going to be delighted. Okay, I’ll have Eloise send it to Sophie. Perfect. I owe you so much.”
She laughs, “You always owe me. Now let me go back to sleep.”
“Fine, fine, goodnight, cousin. I love you.”
“I love you, too,” she smiles, hanging up the phone. As soon as she’s alone, reality starts to settle in. This could change her career, change her life. Despite her reservations, Michaela allows herself to feel it. That teeny, tiny bit of pure excitement.
***
“We got someone,” Eloise’s voice crinkles over the phone as Francesca peruses the farmer’s market on a Saturday morning. She’s been down in the dumps ever since Cressida got booted from Vienna and therefore put the entire film’s production in jeopardy. She’s been eyeing other scripts, but nothing has caught her eye the way this script has. The yearning, the romance. She wants it. It calls to her.
“For Vienna?”
“For Vienna,” Eloise affirms, barely able to contain the excitement in her voice.
Francesca stops in the middle of Union Square, nearly bumping into someone. “Well, who is it?”
“John’s cousin! Michaela Stirling!”
Francesca swears her heart stops for a second. Michaela Stirling. Oh. Oh no. No, no, no.
“Michaela… Stirling?” she repeats, just in case she didn’t quite hear it correctly.
“Yes! Isn’t that lovely? You’ve met her before, right?”
Oh, yes she has. A couple of times. And she’s gotten on Francesca’s nerves each and every time. She’s so—loud and—and charming and—ugh. She drives Francesca absolutely mad and half the time she doesn’t even know why. And now she’s going to have to pretend to be in love with her? Is an Oscar really that worth it?
Still, ever the lady, Francesca forces a smile onto her face, even though Eloise can’t see her. The tension bleeds through her voice anyway. “Just perfect. That is perfect.”