Page 98 of A Change of Location
“I wonder what the novel’s author will think when she gets here.”
“Frankly, I wish she’d stick to her keyboard and finish the sequel to Forsaken Fortune. But it’s important to keep her happy. She hasn’t fussed about the slight adjustments. In fact, she phoned me to say what a good job the scriptwriters did. Not the usual eat-shit-and-die-for-fucking-up-my-masterpiece tirade I often get.”
Hannah and Liz returned to Stanwell House the following day. Two indoor scenes were on the morning schedule, and Liz wanted to run interference in case her director’s dictatorial methods annoyed Sir Francis Cooke.
“And if somebody, anybody forgets to call him ‘Sir Francis,’ trouble will ensue. He’s easily offended.”
“Fun times ahead,” Hannah muttered.
During the first set-up, she and Alistair debated which of two bedchambers would be better for a deathbed scene.
“All along, I intended for them to shoot in that very large one called The King’s Room, which has the most sumptuous furniture and fittings. I couldn’t get permission.”
“Why not?”
“No reason given. I’m not fussed about the number or position of the windows,” Alistair continued. “We can use a light balloon. Let’s measure each of the available spaces to make sure the actors can move about after the equipment goes in.”
She had no decision-making authority on locations—he’d taken it from her, months ago. Nevertheless, she went with him, stepping around the boom arm of a microphone stand blocking the entrance hall. She almost collided with the helium canister that would be used to fill the floating light balloon. When a sound tech buttonholed Alistair, she waited by a window and watched Martin in motion on the tennis court, driving the ball across the net to Ron. Nobody had told her he’d returned from London.
Conscious of Alistair’s looming presence, she turned.
“How about dinner tonight? Latimer Arms.”
“Liz wants me to review the video press kit footage. The file came today.”
“That takes twenty minutes, at most. I’ll book a table for seven o’clock and pick you up at your hotel.”
“I’ll meet you there,” she said, to underscore that this was not a date.
***
Sometime after Hannah’s April stay at the Latimer Arms, its dining room had been refurbished. Striped wallpaper replaced the busy floral she remembered, and the chairs were covered with pale brocade. The influx of movie money, or the expectation of it, must have inspired the updated décor.
“Miss Ballard,” the hostess greeted her. “Good to see you again. It’s been quite the adventure, having your movie people here. T’other day my son and his mates got paid to be in a crowd scene. He skived off from class to do it, but I didn’t mind. Does ’im good to start earning his own dosh, ’stead of asking me for it all the time.” She handed over the evening menu.
Without looking, Alistair asked, “Any specials?”
“Baked halibut. What’ll it be for drinks?”
“A glass of Sancerre,” Hannah replied.
“I’m drouthy. Bring me a pint of Milverston Bitter.”
“Righty-oh.” The woman lit the candle in the center of the table and departed.
“What does drouthy mean?” Hannah asked.
“Dry. Thirsty for drink.”
“Are you bilingual?”
“Not me. Though I’ve got family who enjoy speaking Gaelic. To confuse the tourists looking for Nessie in the loch.”
A young server delivered their beverages and asked if they were ready to order.
“I’ll start with a house salad,” Hannah told her. “Mushroom tortellini for my main.”
“Leek and potato soup. Somerset Pork Chop. Might as well do the locavore thing, right?” Peering closely at Hannah, he asked, “Does meat eating bother you? Are you vegetarian?”
