Page 1 of A Change of Location
Part 1
Choosing location is integral to the film:
in essence, another character.
—Ridley Scott
Chapter 1
Tourists, thrilled to discover quaint and quintessential Englishness, pointed their phone cameras at the brick shop façades lining Latimer Row. Other pedestrians lingered just long enough for a quick selfie before stepping inside one of the establishments, if they bothered to enter at all. The black taxicabs passing along the street couldn’t detract from the historic ambiance. However it was briefly marred by the death-defying motorcycle courier perilously—and noisily—weaving through the traffic.
Pausing at the window of Wincott & Sons, Hannah Ballard examined the artful display of cheese wheels, blocks, and wedges. Catching sight of her reflection in the dimpled antique pane, she adjusted the tortoiseshell clips in her unruly hair. When she pushed open the gleaming black door, she was startled by the ding of a brass bell—and the intimidating and confusing array of dairy products.
“Good afternoon, Madam. Are your requirements specific, or general?”
Madam, already in over her head, contemplated a speedy flight to the supermarket several streets away. Helplessly she faced the one employee who didn’t wear a striped apron and straw boater. His shaggy brown hair, not as dark as hers, contrasted with the classic gray suit and paisley silk tie. The sign hanging outside boasted that the firm had been EST. 1753, so he definitely wasn’t Wincott, or even one of the Sons. A great-great-great-great grandson?
“I’m shopping for a party.”
“Drinks party?” At least six feet tall, he towered over her—a pet peeve, but he was so easy on the eyes that she wouldn’t hold it against him.
She nodded. “I need wine as well as cheese. And fresh fruit. For a business thing. Tomorrow. And I know it’s very short notice, which is why my hotel can’t provide catering services. The concierge suggested I come here.”
“For how many guests?”
“About eight, if they all show up.” They wouldn’t.
Hannah surveyed the neat rows of unidentifiable wedges in the refrigerated display. She felt unworthy to gaze upon his fine cheeses, or carry any of them away.
“The venue?” he prompted.
“My suite.”
The party wasn’t her idea. From the other side of the Atlantic Ocean her executive producer had insisted on it, as a gesture of goodwill and to promote their nascent film project and partner studio. Why hadn’t she reminded Liz that organizing a social event—in London, of all places—was not part of her otherwise expansive skill set? Craft services was just about the only department that remained a mystery to her. Emailing and texting invitations to her contacts at the location search company was simple enough. If, as she expected, senior staff were too busy to attend, they would probably send their assistants.
“Fine British cheeses are our speciality. We also source products from France, Italy, Spain, and Holland.”
She followed the manager as he pointed out shelf after shelf, making suggestions, nodding enthusiastically whenever she recognized a name. Cheddar, Stilton, Brie, Camembert—he had them all. And then some.
“We take particular pride in this one.”
When she leaned down to examine the label, a perverse curl slipped from its clasp and fell onto her cheek. Impatiently sweeping it behind her ear, she read, “Milverston Maid. Pretty name.”
“From Milver Vale Dairy. Would Madam care for a sample?” Not waiting for her answer, he seized an implement and expertly extracted a pale plug of cheese. His busy fingers were long and nicely shaped. He wore a large gold signet ring, its oval center imprinted with a winged creature standing upright on a single hind leg. Not the same dragon with raised claw that she knew from the Welsh flag, though it had an identical curling tail.
She always noticed hands. Dad’s were clean and capable, befitting a veterinarian who treated and operated on animals large and small. Because Mum habitually forgot to wear her gardening gloves, hers were scored and scratched by rose thorns. Decades of boating and lobstering had tanned and roughened and bruised and scarred Grampa’s. But whenever she envisioned her uncle’s hands, she always remembered that one of them had driven a knife into another man’s body. His desperate and impulsive act ruined his life and altered hers.
She accepted the morsel presented to her on a tiny napkin imprinted with the shop’s name. The giver’s intense scrutiny while she consumed it increased her self-consciousness. “Delicious.” Excruciatingly expensive, too.
“I assure you they’re the happiest and healthiest of cows. I’ve met them.”
Lifelong familiarity with English accents informed her that his was unusually posh for a shopkeeper. His salesmanship was rooted in a genuine enthusiasm for the product. He mongered his cheese quite effectively. She let him serve her a piece of Milver Blue and nodded her appreciation. Then she tried Stanwell Splendor, a softer goat’s milk cheese. When he asked a series of questions about wine, she answered with colors—red, white—incapable of reciting countries and regions and vineyards and grapes and years. Confronted with a baffling printed list from the neighboring wine merchant, she persuaded Great-Grandson of Wincott to make the appropriate selections.
“Your order will include our finest brand of biscuits,” he explained, ushering her towards the counter. “And we’re able to supply the fresh fruit you mentioned.”
“Wonderful.”
Hannah envisioned elderly duchesses and tottering countesses leaving the shop, their carrier bags crammed with cheese, hearts palpitating from exposure to his impish smile and amused gray eyes. An aerobically fit jogger of twenty-seven whose work regularly placed her within the orbit of the sexiest men on the planet, she was aware of his charm. But not overwhelmed.
