“Hmm.” He nods. “Well, when you get a great writer like Margit, then the work tends to resonate through generations; the themes about heartbreak and how cruel it can feel that life simply goes on after losing someone… the world around us may change, but these experiences are common ground for all. You can go back centuries and the art then, it reflects the same emotions of the art produced now. It’s amazing, really, how little people have changed. We are all connected.”
“Blue Lightsplays on that, doesn’t it? The past connecting with the present.”
“Yes, I think you’re right. But again, it’s the writing of the show that is its strength—the investigation drives the plot, but surrounding it you have these compelling narratives: the families affected by the murders, their grief and desperation for answers, the tangled relationships, and the wider repercussions of each individual decision. I think so many projects now are too heavily wrapped up in CGI and special effects, and some of them are very good, but really, what still resonates with an audience is a story that focuses on people.”
I glance up as I scribble notes. “The writing is very important to you, then.”
“Unbelievably so. I have the luxury of being able to choose which projects I want to do, and I only accept the ones where the writing grips me. That’s the bare bones.”
“And your own writing?”
He looks at me suspiciously. “My own writing?”
“I’m just curious as to whether you’d be tempted to write something yourself. You have mentioned before that it’s something you’ve thought about.”
He breaks into a small smile. “You’ve done your research. I can’t remember talking about that to the press recently.”
“I remember things that interest me—you said it in an interview withGQonce.”
“Did I? Well, I suppose I can admit that I’ve done a bit more than think about it. I’m currently writing a drama set in Stockholm.”
“And I can mention that in the piece?” I ask excitedly.
“Yes, although the reaction to it terrifies me.”
I’m surprised at this admission. “Really?”
“There’s something more vulnerable about writing than acting, I find,” he explains. “There’s no pretense. You’re putting your soul laid bare on the page. But I’ve enjoyed the process.The research around Stockholm was interesting, and I learned a lot about my hometown.”
“Ah, well, I have never been to Stockholm, but my colleague here is half-Swedish, and his family lives there,” I say, gesturing to Ryan.
“Is that so?” Max says, his eyes lighting up as he turns his attention to Ryan. “You should have said! Tell me, whereabouts do they live?”
The journey home is nowhere near as excruciating as I imagined because both Ryan and I are on a high over how well the interview went. We got way more content than we’re going to need—Mae even had to politely interrupt to say our time was up and Max was needed back on set, which he actually looked a little disappointed about. We parted ways with him telling me it was an absolute pleasure and reminding Ryan to pass along those Stockholm restaurant recommendations he gave him.
“I can’t believe how long you talked about Stockholm,” I laugh as we zip down the M6 back toward London. “I thought we’d be there all day.”
“Time flies when you’re having fun.” He grins. “When Max Sjöberg is animated, you do not cut him off.”
“Totally agree. And anyway, it’s brilliant for the piece. He was so passionate. I have to admit, I’m glad you were there—he came alive when he was speaking to you about home.”
“Hang on. Are you admitting that my suggestion that we write the piece together was a good one? Is that what you’re saying, Harper Jenkins?”
“I’m saying itmightbe. Don’t get all cocky about it.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He smiles mischievously, glancing atme before returning his eyes to the road ahead. “Anyway, I can’t take credit for his good mood. That was all you. The way you put him at ease right away, without him even realizing what you were doing? Masterful.”
“I was simply having a conversation.”
“Seriously, Harper, it’s amazing. I feel honored I got to see you in action.”
“Likewise,” I say warmly.
He seems pleased. “So, do you want to plot the structure of the article and then you could maybe send that document over and we can work out how to get writing—”
“Whoa, whoa,” I interrupt. “What do you mean ‘plot the structure’? What document are you talking about?”
He gives me a strange look. “You know, you plot out an article before you write it.”
