Page 30 of A Change of Location
Hearing the door of the flat open and close, then a series of footsteps, she tucked her towel more securely and returned to her room.
“Hannah?” Martin called out.
“Don’t come in!”
“Is something wrong?” His voice too close for comfort.
“No.”
“I popped in to find out if you’re managing all right.”
“Definitely, thanks.”
“Help yourself to anything you like. I’ll be back—I’m off to Wincott & Sons. Won’t stay too long.”
After she heard him retreat, she could breathe naturally. In retrospect, she recognized her error in prowling half-naked around his flat. If he’d seen her, he would have assumed it was a come-on.
Chapter 10
Even though he’d been perfectly satisfied with the customary version of Hannah Ballard, he was even more appreciative of the one he found when he returned to the flat. The sight of her sparked contradictory reactions—eagerness to show her off, the desire to keep her all to himself.
“You’re entirely too exquisite to take to a pub.” She smelled so marvelous that he couldn’t bear to march her through the thick and noxious fug of cigarette and cigar smoke polluting the pavement in front of the Red Lion.
“I didn’t know that was the plan.”
“We’ll be dining at the Ritz, so we might as well start with drinks in the Rivoli Bar. Can you walk in those heels?”
She looked down, saying ruefully, “Hope so.”
Seated in an alcove of the Art Deco bar, sipping the peatiest of single malts, he could forget his mighty struggle with shirt studs and bow tie and cummerbund. He asked Hannah how she’d spent the afternoon.
She ducked her head self-consciously. “I splashed money around like I was Liz Gregorio. She can afford it. But I can’t.”
“I thought movie people were loaded.”
“Not the location scouts. Or the location managers. My parents wonder how I manage to pay for rent and food. Boston living doesn’t come cheap.”
“I imagine they’re proud of your accomplishments.”
“I’m not so sure. On the rare occasions when we’re together, I avoid the controversial topics. My chosen career used to be one of them. Perhaps it still is.”
“I had the impression American families are close-knit and huggy. The opposite of stifled, repressed Brits.”
“No nationality has a monopoly on dysfunction. There’s a reason I left home at seventeen, dropping out of high school to go to college.”
“At least you weren’t sent away before you were able to count your years in double digits. Like I was.” Martin jiggled the amber liquid in his glass. He wouldn’t admit the intense loneliness of his Eton years. Changing the subject he asked, “Am I allowed to tell people about the filming at Stanwell?”
“If you want to. Cast and crew accommodations are already reserved in Newbridge. The stars and production principals will have rooms in the fancy manor house hotel on the edge of town. Everyone else stays in the other one.”
“What about you?”
“The other one. By the motorway.”
They joined the queue forming outside the reception room, and had their names checked against the guest list. Martin emptied his pockets, and Hannah opened her tiny handbag for inspection. A security man discreetly wanded them before letting them enter. Hannah’s silk gown shimmered in the light of the giant chandeliers, and Martin noted the flash of sparkling threads woven through her gauzy shawl.
“Wow,” she said under her breath. “The jewelry!” She fingered a gold earring. “I’m under-adorned.”
Spotting a particular glittering female, he muttered, “Hell and damn.”
