Page 33 of A Change of Location
As soon as the meal concluded, the diners left their tables. When one of Martin’s contemporaries claimed his attention, Hannah deemed it a prudent time to visit the powder room. It was as gorgeous as she’d expected. Two women of a generation between her mother’s and Alicia’s briefly acknowledged her presence before resuming their languid dialogue. They were discussing Daphne, who couldn’t give up shooting despite being “passionately green and now half-vegetarian.”
Closing herself in a stall, Hannah pondered the term’s meaning. Did they mean Daphne ate half-portions of meat, half of veg? Meat at every other meal?
At the sink she washed her hands with floral soap and eavesdropped on their gossip.
“She’s awfully keen on hunting, too,” reported the plump one with the bulging bust.
“I do wonder how those children will turn out. Will they ever feel a connection to their heritage, or any sense of responsibility?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Little gypsies, the lot of them. I predict they’ll be trekking about in the Himalayas or haring off to ashrams.”
“We did it ourselves, Clarissa,” pointed out the woman wearing sapphires in her earlobes, on her fingers, and around her neck.
“Marrakesh,” her friend said reminiscently. “Not a care in the world. Oh, the heavenly hashish!”
No one would have guessed, thought Hannah, that these upper class, bejeweled females shared a drug-infused hippie past.
She emerged to see that the landowners were departing en masse. She followed Martin to the main entrance where a line of vehicles waited, and the hotel doormen opened and closed the doors of chauffeured cars or taxicabs.
“I’m glad you were with me. Seriously. Otherwise, it would’ve been the usual nightmare. What did you think of it all?” he asked after they crossed from Arlington Street to St. James’s Street. “Be honest.”
“I have no point of comparison. It was unprecedented.”
The air felt refreshingly cool. Down the street stood the towering brick palace gatehouse. Tudor crenellations at the top reminded her of the rooks in Dad’s chess set. The clock face glowed like a full moon.
“Alicia terrifies me. If she’s not on the phone to La Rochelle tomorrow morning, I’ll be astonished. Mother will learn about your movie from her.”
“Tell her about it yourself. Tonight.”
“She’s an hour ahead of us. It’s too late to ring.”
“Will she mind about the shoot?”
“Not a bit. She never lived at Stanwell and has no strong attachment to it. Whenever she visits, she frets that I’m excessively burdened by all the responsibility.”
“Are you?”
“Not on the good days. We’ve had lots of those lately.” He pulled open the impressive glass-and-wood front door of Latimer House. “Evening, Lorcan. Any winners today?”
“No, sir. Had a promising tip for tomorrow, though.”
In the lift, Martin enlightened her about the night porter’s racing fanaticism.
She stifled a yawn.
He noticed.
“Sorry,” she sighed. “Time for this Cinderella to turn back into a pumpkin. That’s what my dad calls me. Punkin.”
At that moment she realized that within seconds they’d be inside his apartment. Alone together. Late at night. With five bedrooms.
This is not a date, she reminded herself again. No reason for either of us to feel awkward.
“Another drink?” he asked, switching on the kitchen lights. “If you don’t care for more alcohol, I keep powdered cocoa mix in the cupboard—quality stuff. And if you can bear the mess, we can listen to music in my sitting room, or catch the news on the telly.”
“Sure. But I need to change into something—”
“Comfortable?”
