Rocking the Second Act is a live, evolving draft — I tweak, polish, and occasionally rewrite chaos in real time.
If you’ve just arrived, the Chapter Index will get you up to speed.
Prefer audio? I’ve recorded an audio version too. 👇🏼
Veronica
If pride really does come before a fall, I was about to faceplant into a cable trench.
The Whetū lot buzzed with caffeine and chaos – grips wheeling trolleys, makeup artists carrying brushes like weapons, and some poor production assistant sprinting past shouting, “Quiet on set!” even though no one was listening.
Lily strode beside me, already half in character, half in wardrobe: jeans, checked shirt, nervous determination. She looked so young and so ready. I, on the other hand, looked like someone who’d wandered in from a school pickup line.
We reached the wardrobe corridor and she turned, eyes bright with excitement.
“Okay, Mum, this is it.”
“I can’t believe you’re–”
She cut me off with a grin. “Don’t make this a thing.”
“I’m not making it a thing, I’m observing the thing.”
“Same difference. Go.”
“Go where?”
“Anywhere that isn’t here.”
I hovered. “I could just stand quietly–”
“Mum, please don’t hover. Your anxiety can be felt from space.”
“Fine,” I muttered, retreating. “Consider the signal cut. Emotional Wi-Fi is off.”
I clutched my keep-cup like a shield and backed away as she turned towards the wardrobe corridor.
She’s barely eighteen and already more professional than I’ve ever been.
I once cried during a Zoom meeting because the agenda said open floor.
She softened then, leaning in for a quick hug. “Love you.”
“Love you. Don’t forget to breathe. And blink. And hydrate. And–”
“Mum.”
“Right. Gone.”
The Wharekai looked like a café that had lost a fight with a brainstorm: laptops, latte foam, and creative debris everywhere. I spotted Bronwyn instantly – or, more accurately, the small cyclone of chaos that was the café table she had claimed as her office: laptop open, coffee cups breeding, plates with half-eaten muffins, pages of notes spreading like an invasive species.
She waved me over. “Veronica! Sit. Welcome to the nerve centre.”
I sat, eyeing the table. “This looks less like a nerve centre and more like a scene from Hoarders: Creative Edition.”
Bronwyn smiled serenely. “Genius thrives in clutter.”
“Is that what we’re calling this?”
She ignored me, typing something ferociously. “I’ve been playing with the story spine – maybe each episode could anchor around a different song? The lyrics as emotional theme?”
“That’s good,” I said. “So episode two could be ‘Women Who’ve Accidentally Joined Cults.’”
“Perfect. We’ll save that one for your autobiography.”
We both laughed, the kind of easy, creative laughter that feels like oxygen. For a moment, I forgot where I was – forgot that I was an intruder in a world where people had actual job titles.
Then I heard that voice.
Low. Scottish. The kind of voice that could turn a weather report into foreplay. My ovaries stood to attention like it was roll-call.
Bronwyn’s grin widened without looking up. “Here comes trouble.”
Hannah appeared first, glowing with that maddening natural grace she had no right to possess — unfair levels of glow, like she’d been carved out of light and representation goals.
“Veronica!” she beamed, sweeping me into a hug that smelled faintly of bergamot and good decisions.
“Oh god,” I said into her shoulder, already overheating. “You even smell famous. Jesus Christ, I’m not built for this.”
Behind her came Alasdair Willoughby – that grin, that jawline, and an aura that said I own at least one leather jacket and possibly a vineyard.
Bronwyn made introductions. “Alasdair, this is Veronica Lark – writer, mother, chronic overthinker.”
He eyed my hair and smirked. “Not another bloody redhead. My wife’s going to think I’m running a recruitment drive.”
“Don’t worry,” I said before my brain could stop me. “We’ve got a secret ginger network. Monthly meetings, minutes written in blood.”
He barked a laugh – a proper one. Dear lord, did I just make Alasdair Willoughby laugh?
“See?” Hannah said, grinning. “I told you she was funny.”
Bronwyn, never one to waste momentum, leaned forward. “We’ve been developing something new – midlife, music, messy women who don’t die quietly.”
I froze. Oh no. Oh no no no. The fuck was she doing. My inards were screaming though I had frozen to the chair.
Hannah jumped in, eyes bright. “It’s raw and hilarious. Think Fleabag meets Daisy Jones and the Six if they both went to therapy.”
My internal monologue immediately evacuated the building.
What the fuck. Why are they saying words that came out of my head? Why is my face doing that smiling thing? Stop smiling. Breathe normally. Holy shit, I’m levitating.
Alasdair turned to me, interested. “So what’s the heart of it then? The why of it?”
I stared at him, brain static. Then, by some miracle, words fell out of my mouth in the right order.
“It’s about women who hit the middle of their lives and realise resilience isn’t a virtue, it’s a trap. But… with guitars.”
Silence. Then – laughter. That deep, delicious rumble again.
“With guitars,” he said. “I like that.”
He turned to Bronwyn. “Set up a meeting.”
Then he paused, looking between us. “Put together a tone deck. I want to know what it feels like.”
Bronwyn nodded instantly. “You’ll have it.”
“And loop in the others,” he added, already walking off. “Rebecca, Jake, Willow, Tilly – get everyone’s fingerprints on it. If we’re doing midlife and messy, it’d better sing.”
He gave me a grin over his shoulder. “With guitars.”
Just like that. A decree from on high. Then he strolled off, Hannah giving me a wink before following him out.
I’m not saying my soul left my body, but it definitely checked the exits.
I sat there, staring after them, trying to locate my body.
Finally, I turned to Bronwyn. “What the fuck was that?”
She smiled, entirely too calm. “That, my dear, was a soft pitch.”
“That felt less ‘soft’ and more like being hit by a cultural landslide.”
Bronwyn reached for her coffee. “Welcome to development.”
What really got me was how unbothered she was by this startling event. I might never recover, but there she sat, slurping her cold flat white, barely turned a hair.
A text pinged from Lily.
About to film my first scene. Didn’t throw up.
I smiled, heart thudding.
Two redheads, one studio.
Both of us finding our lines.
Another incredible chapter! I loved this so much!
So joyous, Wendy! Something a little broken in me is always looking for the 'but'. It's so refreshing to read something so real with no 'buts.' Love your writing. So many great lines in this one.