Page 91 of A Change of Location
The shortest queue was for people seeking vegan, vegetarian, or gluten-free fare. He received a serving of orzo salad and joined his cousin. A wardrobe woman was winding a sheet around her to protect the costume.
“Just what I needed—another layer.” Caroline plunged a straw into a water bottle and held it to her rouged lips. “Whose idea was it to film a period piece in the hottest summer month?”
“Liz Gregorio’s I should think. Or Sir Owen’s.”
“How’s your mother? I heard from mine that she’s dealing with another bout of cancer.”
“She’s doing famously. Lives near here and would enjoy seeing you. What time do they set you free?”
“According to my call sheet, six o’clock. Shooting finishes before then, but Lucas and I have a blocking session. With our intimacy coordinator.”
“Fancy a pub dinner? Based on my reading of Forsaken Fortune, your character wouldn’t refuse an invitation from a titled gentleman.”
“Definitely not. As my horse-mad grandfather would say, Rosalind is mare-ish. I haven’t had a night out since coming to Somerset,” she admitted. Daintily she touched a paper napkin to the corner of her mouth. “Usually at day’s end I’m so tired I can’t think of anything but a hot bath and room service. Vegetarian options on the country house hotel menu are limited. And monotonous.”
After polishing off his final forkful of salad, he said, “Message me after your rehearsal, and I’ll collect you. Where will you be?”
“The big barn. Hayloft scene.”
He hadn’t forgotten the eroticism of that episode. “All in a day’s work, right?”
He added his empty plate to the recycling bin. Scanning the crowd, he saw Hannah pacing the riverbank, phone clamped to her ear, tablet in the crook of her arm. She couldn’t wave back, but she acknowledged him with a nod and a smile that made his heart race more than his run had done. The giant Scot loomed beside her.
The sun sat low in the sky when he drove to the parking area beside the tithe barn. Set carpenters had constructed an accurate facsimile of a hayloft from weathered wooden joists and beams. The director stood at the base of a stepladder, and a woman perched on the top rung addressed the couple on the pile of straw. Lucas Daltrey sprawled across Caroline, and her legs were splayed.
Peeping over her co-star’s shoulder, she asked, “Is this what you want me to do?”
“Move your head a bit to the right,” Sir Owen told her, “so the camera can frame your face. That’s better.”
The actor let out an explosive sneeze. Everyone laughed.
“Allergic to hay?” the intimacy coordinator asked.
“I didn’t think so.”
“That’s all for now. Lucas, go to the medic first thing tomorrow morning for antihistamine tablets. We’ll have another quick run through in costume, with lighting and mics, sound and camera.”
Caroline descended the ladder and brushed away the hay from her top and leggings. Her flaming hair was shorter than it had been when posing for the Posh feature, to accommodate the period wig. After her assistant handed over her backpack, she asked Martin where he was taking her.
“The Huntsman’s Horn in Milverston Magna. Five minutes from here.”
During the short drive to the village, he repeatedly pulled into the lay-bys to avoid film company lorries transporting equipment.
“Are you satisfied with progress?” he asked Caroline. “And the performances?”
“I try not to analyze. Owen is the most demanding director I’ve ever had. The notes he gives makes me wonder if I should abandon acting for another job.”
“Like what?”
“No idea. Reckon I’m stuck with this crazy profession.”
“Don’t be offended, but it’s hard to connect the movie star with a girl who had shiny railway tracks on her teeth and wore her hair in two bunches.”
“And I remember when your hair was purple and you wore black eyeliner. My grandparents predicted you’d be remanded into custody on drugs charges. Or worse.”
“I’ve always been notable for my sobriety. How are they?”
“Living in pampered isolation in a luxury care home near Salisbury. An enormous country place like Stanwell, converted into residential suites.”
