Page 39 of A Change of Location
Martin guided Étoile away from the activity and onto a narrow bridle path edging the field. Hannah prodded Meg lightly with her heels and followed. The path gradually ascended to a forest of tall trees with straight trunks and gray bark. Their branches filtered the morning sunshine, and blue flowers on slender spikes carpeted the ground beneath them.
“Bluebells!” After a moment of silent admiration, she asked if this was conservation land.
“The beech wood lies outside the development zone. I’m investigating how to place it in a protective trust.”
Back at the stable yard they removed the horses’ tack and rubbed them down before turning them out into the fenced paddock behind the barn.
On the way to the house, Martin told her, “I was meaning to ask if you’d do something for me, but you might need convincing. There’s no time for that now. I’ve got to clean up before leaving for the airport.”
“I’ll try and bear the suspense.”
Before long, she reminded herself, I’ll be the one heading to Heathrow.
Because she seized any chance to be helpful, she volunteered to muck out a pony’s stall that Shona hadn’t yet done. On finishing, she studied the rows of colored ribbons, faded and fresh, won by either Poppy or Martin.
When she saw him next, he was ambling towards his car, dressed in fresh shirt and trousers.
“Care to come along?” he asked.
“Not like this.” She indicated her sagging jodhpurs, streaked with a brown substance that might or might not be mud.
Going into the house, she passed a large mirror that highlighted the incongruity of her riding attire and her luxuriant surroundings. She climbed the staircase, noting the ache in her thighs after a morning in the saddle.
On leaving Stanwell she would miss her bedroom. Light flowed in from the tall, chintz-curtained windows. She slept in a period-correct four-poster fitted with a comfortable modern mattress. By opening the casement, she could look down on the giant wisteria trained to climb up and across the outer wall. When she discovered the topmost branch was within reach, she’d plucked a few of the lightly-scented flowers and put them in the porcelain vase on the fireplace mantel.
A quick shower washed away sweat and grime and the scent of horse. Bodily if not mentally refreshed, she selected one of her secondhand tops from Newbridge and paired it with the denim miniskirt. Powering up her laptop, she carried it to the window seat. A quick scan of online communities where location scouts gathered for networking—and complaining—yielded no useful or actionable information. One more unnecessary reminder that hers was an uncertain vocation.
Hearing voices and laughter from below, she gazed down at the three gardeners removing spent blossoms and staking the tallest plants in preparation for Sunday’s big event. The grounds of Stanwell House, off-limits to the public, would be included in this year’s Open Gardens Tour.
A ping alerted her to an incoming message. She reached for her phone.
Staring at the image of an infant with enormous eyes of indeterminate color and tufts of dark hair, she breathed, “Hello, Alexandra Elizabeth.” Then she typed, “Need to talk.”
Instantly, Big Ben sounded.
“She’s gorgeous!” Hannah said. “How do you feel?”
“Like shit. And somebody else’s shit.”
“You can’t use that kind of language around your adorable baby.”
“By now she’s used to it.” After a pause, Liz said grimly, “But I’m not accustomed to this postpartum malaise.”
“Because of hormones shifting? That can’t last forever.”
“For some women, it goes on for months. Even up to a year.”
“You better not be self-diagnosing on the internet.”
“That made me feel worse, so I stopped. Now that our locations are locked, what’ve you been doing?”
“Absolutely nothing.” Here was the moment she’d dreaded. “I’m off the production. Owen fired me. In person.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
Hannah gave a brief synopsis of her final meeting with the director.
Liz groaned, then growled, “Why didn’t you let me know about this right away?”
