Page 24 of A Change of Location
She conjured the image of a lanky twenty-something wearing headset and microphone. “Pam, Hannah Ballard. Can you put me through to Liz? Just for a sec.”
“Ms. Gregorio isn’t here,” the girl answered. “Yesterday she checked into the hospital. For, like, observation.”
“Premature labor?”
“Not sure. I could connect you with her assistant?”
“Not now. Have her call me later if there’s news about Liz and the baby. Never mind the time difference.”
“Sure. You’re in L.A.?”
“England. She has my number.”
Hannah ended the call. She speed-dialed Liz’s cell—no answer. After leaving a brief and excessively cheery message predicting all would be well, she made her way to the table and shoved her phone into her handbag.
“Not good,” she muttered, not bothering to conceal her apprehension.
“Something wrong?”
“Hard to tell. I hope not. First Millie, now Liz.” Reaching for her wine, she said, “Her baby isn’t due for at least a month. But for some reason she’s already been admitted to the hospital.”
Chapter 8
Hannah shared her miniscule Hartcliffe Studios workspace with the assistant location manager, a Scotsman whose blatant attractiveness in no way compensated for the hassles of their enforced companionship. Alistair McLaren’s accent evoked the hills and glens of his native habitat somewhere “nair In-vair-ness.”
On a dismally gray afternoon she made her way to their cramped quarters, striving not to spill two paper cups of commissary tea. At the door she halted in silent and suspicious watchfulness. He sat in her chair, elbows leaning on her desk, intently studying her laptop screen.
Unabashed about snooping, and getting caught, he told her, “I’m looking for the updated shed-yule for our Stanwell visit.”
She refused to let him off the hook just because he was gorgeous. “You could’ve asked for it.” After replaying his excuse, she asked, “What do you mean, our visit?”
“Nigel didn’t tell you? Or Owen? I’m included in the search party.”
She bit back her frustration at being left out of the communications loop yet again, certain that any complaint would be repeated to her overlords. Avoiding potential landmines and quicksand was by now instinctive, and though sucking up wasn’t technically included in her job description it might as well be.
Eventually, she and the rest of the crew would leave this vast complex of warehouses and soundstages for the film location, where camaraderie would develop. It always did. Conflict, too.
She presented the steaming paper cup to Alistair.
“Ta,” he responded.
He hadn’t asked her to bring it to him. She’d volunteered, from a determination to maintain friendly relations during her current confinement here at Hartcliffe Studios.
Days were busy and long, crammed with presentations and meetings and conference calls. Whenever she heard a burst of laughter from one of the office suites—often as she passed by—paranoia rose, with an accompanying suspicion that she might be the target. Blaming the pervasive cheerlessness of her surroundings for her mood’s downward spiral, she reminded herself that the real fun of filmmaking was yet to come, on location.
At least she’d received positive news from Boston. Liz, discharged from the hospital, rested comfortably—and impatiently—at home. Several times a day she messaged Hannah, and when the time difference allowed, they logged on for a video chat.
Solitary evenings in a budget motel adjacent to a noisy motorway roused nostalgia for the comfort and quiet of the Latimer Arms. She found herself missing Martin’s infectious smile and vibrant personality. Poppy, her contact at Stanwell, seemed even brisker and more businesslike on the phone than in person. But when Hannah asked after Millie, the estate manager’s coolness thawed.
Alistair transferred his impressive bod and his tea to his workspace behind the partition. She heard his muffled curses as he shuffled papers. “Here it is,” he announced, and his dark, close-cropped head bobbed above the partition. “Our shed-yule.”
“Fab,” she said absently, logging into the Acorn Films email server. Nothing new. Her personal account contained a note from her mother reporting long-awaited signs of spring in Maine. She typed a hasty and marginally coherent reply.
“Our minibus to Stanwell House and the Milver villages leaves at nine in the morning,” he called over. “How long a drive?”
“Fifty minutes. An hour at most.”
“But according to this, we don’t arrive there till half-ten.”
