Page 83 of A Change of Location
“A title not officially sanctioned by the Producers’ Guild.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Liz stated emphatically.
“A film set is a hierarchy. People want to know who fits where. Who do you suck up to? Who do you treat like shit?”
“Nobody’s treating my executive assistant like shit. That’s for shit sure.”
They passed through the hotel portals and entered the American Bar. The gentlemen wore the requisite jackets and ties.
Sir Owen kissed Liz on both cheeks. “Hannah Ballard. Such a pleasure.”
Was it really? Not if he also recalled that strained meeting at Hartcliffe Studios, when he told her she’d been replaced by Alistair McLaren. She took vengeful delight in the knowledge that her successor wasn’t important enough to be included in this high-level meeting. While she hobnobbed with a knight of the realm, that creep was stuck at Hartcliffe, figuring out which sites were suitable for setting up craft services and the honeywagons.
When everyone was seated, the director told Liz, “We look forward to meeting Tom.”
“You soon will. Tonight he’s spending quality time with his daughter. Meaning she sleeps while he devours one of the scholarly history books he picked up at Hatchards. We’ll arrange for social time when we’re in Somerset.” Looking at Nigel, she added, “I haven’t seen your husband since Cannes. When was that—two festivals ago?”
Her co-producer nodded. “Remind me, Hannah, are you married?’
Avoiding Liz’s close-mouthed smirk, she replied that she was not.
“She does have a significant other, an Englishman who swept her off her feet when she was over here scouting. I’m lucky she was still available to work with me on this shoot. And as showrunner for Wendy Edney’s next gardening program.”
“Isn’t she your mother?” Nigel asked.
“Yes,” Hannah said. “She and Liz gave me my start in show business.”
“Acorn is producing her new series for ServeFlix,” Liz continued. “Six episodes will film in Britain, six more in Ireland. After that—the world!”
When Liz alluded to Martin, Hannah had been tempted to kick her under the table. Now she wanted to give her a hug for championing her in the presence of people who had discounted her expertise.
Liz asked about the progress of rehearsals and sought assurances that casting of minor roles was completed. From there, the discussion turned to the shooting script, and other critical matters. Hannah typed brief notes and reminders into her tablet and occasionally posed a clarifying question. The director ordered a second round of drinks. Her energy ebbed from the combination of sparkling wine and jetlag. The nursing mother, who limited herself to still water, must be thinking it was nearly time for Lexi’s next feeding.
Sir Owen downed the last of his gin and tonic. “Apologies for dashing off,” he said. “I’m dining at the Garrick Club with friends. My PA will ring Hannah to schedule a meeting at my Soho office so both of you can meet our department heads. Some are in town. The rest will participate remotely from Hartcliffe or their home offices.”
***
The Ritz doorman welcomed them with a smile, a bow, and a cheery greeting. They responded in kind.
Before speeding to the lift, Liz said, “Let’s do the afternoon tea tomorrow. Can you arrange it with the concierge?”
When he asked the number in their party, Hannah discovered her sense of recall was significantly impaired by a recent transatlantic flight and multiple glasses of wine. “Two. I think.” She doubted Tom Picton would join them, but to be on the safe side, she added, “Perhaps one more. For the three-thirty seating.”
“Very good. Lord Milverston asked us to convey a message. He wishes you to know he’s in the Rivoli Bar.”
Martin, uncharacteristically dressed in coat and tie, sat beneath a shiny bas-relief panel of Leda and the Swan.
“This is an ambush,” she said. “Why didn’t you text and let me know you’d be here?”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. Gosh, you look smashing. Nothing at all like the damp person I watched banding lobster claws on the deck of Jenny’s Dream.”
That made her smile. “We lead double lives. In your spare time, you work in a cheese shop.”
“Not today. Back to back to back meetings. Mother was delighted by your visit, and the flowers. She sent me over to offer myself as her substitute for the Palm Court tearoom.”
“Three-thirty tomorrow. Liz will be thrilled. Champagne cocktail, please,” she told the white-coated waiter who had glided to their table.
Frowning into his whisky glass, Martin said, “I know I ought to be grateful to her for making you her executive assistant, and bringing you back to me. And I am. But I hoped to present you with an alternative.”
