Page 34 of A Change of Location
“Something else,” she said, conscious of a sudden burst of nerves. Her excessively high heels carried her unsteadily down the hallway.
Chapter 11
For undisclosed reasons, Sir Owen Parry had made his first appearance at Hartcliffe Studios, taking possession of an office that had been prepared for him in advance. Hannah, summoned to a private meeting, pretended she didn’t have a dozen unmarked items, at a minimum, on today’s checklist.
The director never failed to dress impeccably, as befitted a man knighted by the late queen for his service to the arts. Today he wore a sweater of quality cashmere, pale blue. She wanted one just like it.
“After consultation with several parties involved in our production, a difficult but necessary decision was made with regards to your role. I’m informing you myself, to prevent any misunderstanding.”
Unsure how else to respond, she nodded.
“From tomorrow, Alistair McLaren will take on the position of location manager.”
The stark pronouncement refuted the British habit of indirect speech. He wasn’t beating around the bush, as Grampa might say. Although her breath had become trapped deep in her chest, at the bottom of her lungs, she managed to blurt a single syllable. “Why?”
“Your lack of experience overseeing an entire department and a complex shoot, in this country, raised concerns. Not that Liz exaggerated your abilities, which you have proved.”
“I’m half-British,” she interrupted. “I’ve been coming to Somerset all my life. Alistair’s from Scotland.” These justifications were pitifully lame and not at all persuasive, but she didn’t care. “I’ve worked on location since I was thirteen. As a professional.”
His cashmere-covered shoulders shrugged. “Not over here, apart from your student projects at Bristol. Alistair has numerous credits in British television and film.”
“Never as location manager,” she pointed out. “When did you decide to dump me? What did Liz say about it?”
He frowned. “I have complete authority to act on personnel matters while she’s taking her maternity leave.”
“She doesn’t know.”
“We expect you to remain with the production. In another capacity.”
Who the hell was included in that “we” he kept repeating? She suspected he’d inflated the number of decision-makers.
“After reviewing the options,” he continued, “we’ve settled on one that best matches your abilities and prior role.”
“Alistair’s assistant? No thanks.”
“If you’re concerned about salary—”
She stalled him by standing up. “As far as I’m concerned, I’ve been made redundant. Tomorrow I’ll check out of my hotel. And return the hire car.”
“Is that what you want to do?” He seemed genuinely surprised. His voice took on a paternal tone when he added, “Take time to consider what you’re giving up.”
“No need,” she said firmly. Her list of priorities had suddenly shrunk to one—getting off the premises as swiftly and unobtrusively as possible, with her dignity intact. “When you came to the directing symposium at Bristol University, and gave such a glowing evaluation of my short film, it was my dream to work with you. At least I can say I had the privilege. For three weeks.”
She turned and hurried out of the room.
Retreating to her workspace, she was relieved to find it empty. Otherwise, she’d be tempted to strangle the perfidious Alistair with one of the long cables littering the room. She suspected he’d intended to push her aside from the moment she arrived at Hartcliffe Studios.
Despite the powerful urge to contact Liz, she wouldn’t.
Owen can tell her what he’s done, she thought vengefully. Or make Nigel Rossiter do it. And they’ll have to listen to her vent all the outrage that I had to hold back.
Far more worrisome, her immigration status had instantly become problematic. Her visa permitted her to work in Britain temporarily, as a creative sponsored by a sanctioned entity—Hartcliffe Film Studios. Her six-month stay was contingent on employment, and she was clueless about altering her status. Money wasn’t an immediate concern. The payroll department had recently deposited two weeks’ salary to her online bank account. Acorn Films would absorb credit card charges for her car and hotel, tonight’s dinner and breakfast tomorrow.
Grabbing her satchel, she shoved her laptop inside and pocketed her cell phone, desperate to get away before Alistair returned. He required no briefing before she made her escape. He was the beneficiary of her diligent planning and preparation. She’d shared all her files and notes. They were stored on his laptop and his phone and his tablet.
Liz will make it up to me, she consoled herself. This isn’t the end of my—oh, hell, I’ve been bumped from the picture of a lifetime. It’s destined to rake in millions of dollars and scoop up every award going. And my sole contribution—securing the perfect location—will be forgotten.
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