Page 3 of A Change of Location
Her wistful non sequitur amused Martin. Beneath the straw boater, the girl’s straight blonde hair was pulled back into a blunt stub like a shaving brush. Tugging it playfully, he said, “India, there’s nothing wrong here that purple dye couldn’t improve.”
“You’d know all about that, wouldn’t you?” she retorted.
Someone had written Happy Birthday! in red marker on a tabloid newspaper clipping and sellotaped it to the staff notice board. Taken years ago, it was an unfortunate relic of his exhibitionist phase. If not for the identifying caption, nobody would recognize him in that wild-eyed, pasty-faced teen with purpled hair and goth garb lurking outside a Soho club.
Typing details into the computer terminal, he said, “She’ll need the extra bits.”
“But can she afford them? Like Mr. Cole always reminds us, not every American who comes into the shop is rich. That’s why so many of them moan about our prices. And the exchange rate.” India added, “I could get sacked for letting you muck about with this order. I’ve got problems enough without that.”
The redness around her eyes had faded, but her nose was still rosy. An hour ago he’d found her in the upper room where cheeses matured, weeping her heart out. Boyfriend trouble. He’d had no useful advice to offer but hoped talking things out had helped.
“You won’t get the sack,” he said firmly. “But if you ever do, I’ll have a word with our near neighbor the wine merchant. Better yet, the haberdasher. You could give up that apron and boater. Imagine the thrill of measuring gents’ inseams all day!”
India’s pink nose pinched in disdain. “Wrinkly old toffs.”
“You might not enjoy it, but they would. Not all their customers are ancient. Where d’you think I bought my suit?”
“I’m happy where I am, thanks all the same.”
“If you let me deal with this order in my own way, I’ll tell Old King Cole you deserve a rise in salary.”
“That’s blackmail,” she accused him. “Paying higher wages would mean the bosses couldn’t afford their ground rent. Your loss.”
“Hadn’t thought of that.”
“Fine businessman you are.”
“Don’t fret, I won’t charge Ms. Ballard for the Jubilee. Acorn Films will get billed for the Chelsea she requested. I’ll make up the difference myself. And you’d best keep schtum about it.” He scrunched his face into a frown and intoned threateningly, “Or you might regret it.”
She laughed and cheekily mimed a curtsy. “Milord need not concern himself. These lips are locked.”
***
After emerging from the Savoy’s oppressively refined premises, Hannah crossed the Strand to a sushi shop for a quick bite before she descended to the depths of the underground. Changing at Piccadilly station, she navigated the crowded maze of tunnels to the platform she wanted, arriving in time to hear engines roar and feel the blast of air as the westbound train pulled up. Rush hour hadn’t started and seats were available in the carriage, but there was no point sitting with Green Park just one stop away.
She retraced her earlier path to Latimer Row. As though decreed by a lighting designer, late afternoon sun streamed artistically across the distinctive Dickensian shop fronts. At Wincott & Sons, an older gentleman presided at the counter. Alerted to her arrival by the shop bell, he nodded in acknowledgment before placing a customer’s purchases in a jute carrier bag printed with the shop logo. After the transaction was completed, he asked Hannah how he might assist her.
“When I was here earlier today, a man helped with my catering order. For Acorn Films. The manager, maybe?”
“His lordship left a short while ago.”
She assumed he was giving the staff’s nickname for their colleague, doubtless due to the posh accent.
A young blonde stepped forward. “Are you here to make a change?”
She nodded. “My numbers increased. I hope that’s okay.”
“Absolutely. Lord Milverston’s not a member of staff. But he pops in from time to time.”
“The Row is owned and managed by Latimer London Estates, Limited,” her colleague told Hannah, with obvious pride. “The Marquess of Milverston, head of the Latimer family, is our landlord. He takes a very personal interest in each of the businesses.”
Milverston, like the cheese. Latimer, like the Row.
She was aware that a few fortunate aristocrats still owned chunks of Mayfair, plus she had a passing familiarity with English eccentrics. Lord Milverston was apparently the sum of those types. She doubted an Acorn Films credit card and name-dropping Sir Owen Parry had impressed a man with a title whose ancestors must’ve arrived with William the Conqueror. So had one of hers, but the Norman invader at the root of her own family tree hadn’t amounted to much. Nobody except his direct descendants had ever heard of him. As for her nameless and undocumented Welsh forbears, they had inhabited their native Montgomeryshire hills since the beginning of time, and for generations had battled their English enemies.
“My guest list expanded to twelve,” she announced.
The girl scribbled a note on her pad. “Very good. We’ll make sure you receive the correct amount of food and beverages for that number.”
