Page 26 of A Change of Location
Where was he?
She’d counted on him to make an appearance, decked out in his corduroy trousers, exerting his charm and awing her crew with sprinklings of noblesse oblige. Although her companions seemed to be sufficiently enraptured by Stanwell without it.
After she’d declined Ron’s offer of wine, he said, “You might like our elderflower cordial, with sparkling water. Quite refreshing. And locally produced.”
Sipping the faintly sweet, floral-flavored beverage, she repressed the urge to smooth her hair. She’d passed countless antique mirrors this morning and knew the assortment of pins and combs holding up her curls were letting her down. She needed a trim, and soon. A shorter, undemanding style was more suitable for the weeks and work ahead. Because as soon as they locked down the necessary sites, her workload would increase and personal time would evaporate. Filming on location was a singular combination of summer camp and siege—laborious, uncomfortable, exhilarating, exhausting.
Poppy, cornered by Alistair, was responding to a stream of queries.
Hannah approach them and asked, “How’s Millie?”
“Hobbling about, but her gait improves every day. Her shaved fur’s growing back. You should pop into the office to check her progress.”
Martin was the one she most wanted to see, but hope of doing so diminished with each passing minute. Neither Poppy nor Ron had introduced his name into the conversation.
He must have gone to London to escape the intruders, she concluded.
When her well-fed group stepped into the stable yard, the presence of his car indicated he could be somewhere on the premises. What activity of his took precedence over this all-important visit from the decision-makers? And where was Ariel?
***
“Easy, my darling.” Martin gripped the restive dog’s collar as she moaned her desire to drag him onto the balcony. She pressed her damp nose to the glass pane. Like him, she was spying on the scrum of people gathered in the drive.
He focused on Hannah’s small but commanding figure, chivvying all the chaps into the minibus. Her wild curly hair was the one unrestrained aspect of her appearance—she wore severely professional garb today, the austere charcoal gray trouser suit.
In his own way and for different reasons, he was as curious as Ariel. What did her film company’s brain trust think of Stanwell? He’d battled his urge to intrude upon their tour, or join in the meal he’d organized so carefully. Plenty of modern Britons clung to the idealized concept of a classless society, and he wouldn’t spoil Stanwell’s chances by inadvertently rousing prejudice against aristocrats. Or making an ass of himself.
Ron brought his lunch tray moments after the team boarded the minibus and set off for the Home Farm.
“What’s the verdict?” Martin inquired, with false nonchalance.
“Our guests complimented the food. You don’t care to come downstairs for yours?”
“I’m not depriving you of this rare opportunity to buttle for me.”
Ron unceremoniously handed over the cutlery. “Film people are chatty and their conversations are transparent and revealing. By now Poppy will have resigned herself to what appears to be a certain outcome.”
“I won’t send for my legal adviser until there’s substantive proof of intent.” As Ron moved to the door, he asked, “Could you tell if they’re visiting other properties?”
“Sir Owen Parry compared us to a house called Westerleigh. I deduce that he prefers Stanwell.”
“That’s something.” As soon as he finished his prawn mayonnaise sandwich, he’d investigate the chief competition on the internet.
Ariel took up a position beside his knee, watching for any stray crumb that might fall her way.
“Patience,” he murmured. “If this turns out well for us, by summer’s end you can scavenge food from catering vans.”
***
During the tour of Milver Vale villages and potential interior and exterior locations and scenic vistas, Hannah asked Poppy to introduce the group to local residents who might be receptive to having their properties appear on film. Several were eager, others indifferent. The ones familiar with tabloid papers and entertainment websites were aware that the director was married to an equally renowned actress.
An apple grower asked eagerly, “And will your missus be starring?”
This wasn’t the only time Owen Parry had heard the question—probably the fourth. “She not available, I’m afraid. She’ll be working in Tuscany.”
His mobile chirped, an incongruous sound in so pastoral a setting, and he retreated deeper into the orchard for privacy.
Hannah checked her own phone, which had silently registered an earlier text from Liz: In labor. Ouch! Back 2 hosp. More l8r.
