Page 29 of A Change of Location
“Perfect,” she said fervently, eyes glued to her freshly chopped curls, framing her face in an interesting way. The transformation enthralled her.
“We’ll want you back in about three weeks, to properly maintain the cut.” He beckoned to an underling and moved on to his waiting client.
“Book ahead next time,” advised the assistant, whose bone structure she envied. “Antoine rarely has a cancellation.”
No wonder, thought Hannah.
Time spent in South Kensington had been productive. At Harrods she’d found a baby gift for newborn Alexandra. In an upscale charity shop offering gently worn couture, she scored a jade silk sheath that was offensively—rather than criminally—expensive.
In the High Street she found a pair of gold satin shoes with extraordinarily high heels. Liz, a magnet for exclusive invitations, enjoyed evenings out, and Hannah could justify her costly acquisitions in the expectation of future dressy occasions. At a day spa she splurged on top-to-toe treatment—facial, massage, manicure, pedicure—emerging with glowing skin and soothed limbs.
And now I’ve got fabulous hair, she exulted, gathering up the assortment of shopping bags.
Her re-conditioned feet carried her from Beauchamp Place to busy Brompton Road. Attracted by the colorful window display of a shop featuring goods imported from India, she chose a silk wrap—jade green striped with gold—to complement her new dress.
Unable to carry anything more, she hailed a taxi. “Latimer House, near St. James’s,” she told the driver, depositing her bounty on the floor.
He sped through the traffic, squeezing between red buses and navigating clogged lanes with admirable efficiency. “On holiday?” he asked.
“Working,” she replied. “My company is making a movie over here.”
“So, who’s in it, then?”
“Caroline Bryden and Lucas Daltrey.”
Dream casting, as Liz frequently declared. Caroline, a porcelain-skinned redhead directly descended from a Victorian aristocrat, possessed two BAFTA awards, a Best Supporting Actress Oscar nomination, and appeared on every producer’s short list. Lucas, a popular West End thespian with dramatic and comedic chops, hadn’t collected any statues—yet—despite receiving critical acclaim for every stage performance and several screen appearances. Forsaken Fortune provided him with his breakout role.
“I’ve been in movies, with my cab,” her driver volunteered. “On telly, too.” He pulled aside the glass partition and passed his card through the narrow gap. “I’m reliable.”
“Thanks. Ours is a period film,” she said apologetically. “Horses and carriages and wagons.”
“I’ve heard it said London traffic is slower nowadays than it was in olden times, when there was hansoms and carts and mounted policemen filling these streets.”
Buckingham Palace’s iconic façade filled the window. A swarm of tourists gathered at the gate, waiting for the changing of the Guard. Hannah was suddenly conscious of her distance from the farmhouse on Bear Knoll.
She imagined her mother weeding in the rose beds and her father shoveling aged animal manure onto the vegetable patch, both of them making the most of the time before the dreaded black flies launched their annual onslaught. At this hour Grampa would be at Ballard’s Landing, puttering on Jenny’s Dream. As for Chase, she had no idea what he’d be doing. His laconic responses to her recent texts and emails offered no details whatsoever.
The Latimer House porter opened the glass-paneled door. The lift swept her up to Martin’s floor, and she let herself into his flat with the extra key he’d given her. After arriving at Paddington Station, they’d come straight here in a taxi, depositing their overnight bags before going their separate ways. Now she had the opportunity and the privacy to explore.
In the drawing room she found English classicism, elegant but not oppressively so. Pale blue damask upholstery complemented swagged gold-fringed curtains. Landscape paintings adorned each wall. Her association with Liz, a true-born Brahmin and prominent film industry fixture, had exposed her to luxurious surroundings, but nothing like this. She was drawn to the mantel by a row of photos in antique silver frames. An Edwardian beauty in a bridal gown, her lace wedding veil anchored to her head by a diamond tiara. A lad in long-tailed coat, posed in front of a brick building that might be at Eton, possibly Martin’s grandfather. The portly gentleman seated on the Stanwell House terrace, holding a cocktail shaker, must be the late marquess. A boy with a familiar grin stood in a punt, grasping a long pole, as an attractive young couple looked on—Martin with his parents.
She identified his personal lair by its lived-in atmosphere and its contents—desktop computer, state-of-the-art widescreen television, audio equipment and compact speakers that surely produced the purest sound. Large-format photographs of exotic places shared the wall space with framed concert posters. A cursory examination of her host’s bookshelves told her that his reading preferences were travel and music.
The extensive and disorganized collection of compact discs was similarly revealing. In this era of music streaming, he retained a full catalogue of sensitive, angst-ridden British singer-songwriters—she spied Joe Jackson, Mark Knopfler, and Peter Gabriel in the mix, members of the same generation of rock musicians her father favored. The New Wave and Goth traditions were amply represented by The Cure and New Order, Elvis Costello and The Psychedelic Furs.
She suspected Martin had chosen the sleek, ultra-modern kitchen appliances. Her gaze landed on two candid photos attached to the fridge door. In one he wore chef’s garb, presumably taken during his stint in Italy, in the other he and Poppy were mounted on horses.
The largest of the five bedrooms appeared to be his. She moved on to the next, decorated in a more feminine style. The neglected atmosphere of the two smallest indicated that they had been allotted to children or a servant. Hannah’s contained a charming Biedermeier-style suite of matching furniture: sleigh bed, dressing table, and tall chest of drawers. She tossed her shopping bags onto the striped coverlet and eased her feet out of her jogging shoes. Time to check out the shower room—and the water pressure.
Thoroughly refreshed, she wrapped herself in a voluminous towel and tried to replicate Antoine’s styling. He’d used product and she hadn’t brought any. Martin didn’t seem the type to keep it, judging by the shagginess of his hair.
Doesn’t matter, she told herself, finger-fluffing her damp curls. Nobody at the dinner will know who I am, or remember I was there. And it’s not a date.
When a telephone rang, she decided not to answer it. If Martin wanted to contact her, he’d call on her cell. After the fourth chime, the answering machine clicked on. She stepped into the hall to listen.
“Martin—Jess. You’re never where you’re supposed to be. And why is your mobile always switched off? Poppy swore you were in town today. I can confirm that Posh is definitely running a photo feature on Natalie’s wedding, in the same edition as that article I told you about. The writer contacted me, asking for pictures. Of you. Or you and her. Consider yourself warned. Let’s meet up soon, haven’t seen you in the longest. Smooches.”
As far as Hannah could tell, Martin’s circle of friends was exclusively female. Poppy, Jess, Natalie. Was he currently sleeping with any or all of them?
