Page 81 of A Change of Location
“Will I have to babysit?”
“Smart ass, you know we’re taking the nanny.” Liz’s beautiful, fine-boned face conveyed dismay. “I thought you’d jump at the offer.”
“It’s tempting.” Then, remembering why she’d spent the first part of the day boxing up her belongings, she said, “But I already promised Mum I’d work with her on Wendy Edney’s Great British Gardens.”
“That’s my production. There’s no conflict. You’ll be in exactly the right place to begin preliminary groundwork and research. Let’s brainstorm about a more impressive title than PA. I want your name in the closing credits.”
“Deal. Where do I sign?”
Liz extended her arm. “Handshake will do for now. Gentlewoman’s agreement till I have a chance to work things out with the Contracts Department. My travel maven will email the link for your e-ticket. You’re on the flight with Tom and Lexi and me. And Telma.”
Hannah glanced again at the date on her itinerary. “Better start moving my stuff to Falmouth. Today.”
She’d departed Bear Knoll as a creative partner on Wendy Edney’s next television series. Now she was an Academy-award winning producer’s new employee. Fingering the envelope Liz had given her, she told herself that it wasn’t an instant cure for unresolved conflict and potential controversy. But she wouldn’t let that consideration impair her present state of euphoria.
Chapter 24
A Mercedes-Benz stretch limousine delivered the Gregorio-Picton-Ballard party to the Ritz Hotel’s entrance. The doorman ushered the passengers from the dark street to the lobby, where bellhops took charge of the hard-sided suitcases and Liz’s array of Louis Vuitton luggage—carry-all, garment bag, and toiletry case.
Tom set Lexi’s car seat on the grandiose carpet and unfastened the straps so he could pick her up. Hannah claimed her new wheeled case, larger than the one that had accompanied her on her trip in the spring.
“Tomorrow,” Liz said, “I’m buying an English pram. So Lexi can travel to the park in style.”
The infant, cradled in Telma’s arms, let out a wail. The Portuguese woman crooned soothingly and shielded the sensitive eyes from the brightness and glitter of the chandelier.
“I’ll take her.” Liz said exchanging her designer handbag for her daughter. “Hannah, go ahead and check in. Sleep as late as you want, and enjoy your free morning.”
She stepped aside to make way for a group of men and women in formal dress and was reminded of the springtime night when she and Martin had attended a dinner in these same opulent surroundings. She concluded that a similar event was taking place this evening.
Her room was located on the hotel’s Arlington Street side. Pulling aside the pale blue curtain, she looked over the rooftops and wondered which belonged to Latimer House. If Martin was there, only a few blocks of Mayfair separated them.
She relied on ibuprofen and a hot shower to combat the headache brought on by her day-long transatlantic flight. If she could fall asleep right away, she could more easily re-set her body clock to British time. But her restless brain refused to cooperate. She checked her phone again and found a message from Liz, enthusing about her deluxe suite’s lavishness and reminding her of their scheduled conclave tomorrow with the director and associate producer. Reaching for the television remote, Hannah searched for a program dull enough to lull her into unconsciousness. A foreign language channel did the trick.
At an advanced hour of the morning, Hannah left the hotel and was swept up in the steady stream of foot traffic in Piccadilly. Mayfair teemed with summer tourists and traffic, and the noise and fumes from the cars, cabs, and buses assaulted her senses. She turned the corner of St. James’s Street, seeking a quieter, less crowded route to Latimer Row.
Pausing at the curved window of Wincott & Sons, she admired the display of cheeses. Staff members were waiting on customers, but she didn’t spot Martin. Moving on to the florist’s shop, she purchased a bouquet of pale roses and green berries bound with strands of ivy, then made her way to Latimer House.
The porter—she struggled to recall his name, something Irish—buzzed her into the lobby.
“Nice to see you again,” he said.
Lorcan. That was it. “Didn’t you used to be on the evening shift?”
“My fiancée pressed me to take on daytime hours, when the last chap retired. Says it’ll keep me out of the betting shop. And with my nights free, I can take her out more often.”
“These are for Lady Richard Latimer. Can you make sure they’re delivered?”
“She might be home to visitors. I can ring the penthouse and find out.”
After a brief hesitation, Hannah agreed.
During the call, he nodded at her, and when he put down his phone he said, “Fourth floor. Lift’s round the corner.”
She remembered.
“Welcome back,” Isobel greeted her. “Oh, how lovely.”
“Coals to Newcastle,” she murmured. The round table in the foyer was covered with arrangements.
