Page 86 of A Change of Location
Hannah sat across from him, her pretty face tense. Was she constrained by the presence of her boss or cold-shouldering him because he’d gone off in a huff last night? He’d meant no harm by sneaking a kiss. To Hannah, it was proof that he was a careless and overly demonstrative lunatic. And Natalie’s unwelcome and inconvenient presence had made the situation worse.
“How was your production meeting?” He directed his question at Hannah.
Liz answered him. “Longer than it needed to be. We were with the director and co-producer and staff at an office in Soho. Most of the department heads joined in from Hartcliffe Studios. Hannah was reunited—virtually—with Alistair McLaren, her favorite Scotsman. He blew her a kiss and called her a bonny lass.”
She nodded. “You’d have thought I was his long-lost—something.”
“It was sexist,” Liz said.
“Embarrassing. And demeaning.”
Liz went on, “Then Hannah and I had a session with a group of finance people. I came back here to feed the baby and discovered Tom and Telma were packing up for the move to Somerset.”
“Where in Newbridge is your rental house?”
“Carleton Close. Contemporary, five bedrooms, fully furnished, with an enclosed garden. And a granny flat for the nanny.”
“After you’re settled, I’ll have you over to Stanwell for drinks and dinner.”
“Martin’s buttering you up,” Hannah interjected. “It’s his ambition to be cast as a village idiot.”
Liz’s black eyebrows slanted downward as she studied him. “Really?”
“Not seriously. I’ve been teasing Hannah about it ever since I’ve known her. You’ve already got one member of my family in your epic.”
“Oh, right—Caroline Bryden. How exactly are you related to her?”
“We share a set of great-great grandparents,” he clarified. “I believe that makes us third cousins.”
He was impressed by the Oscar-winning producer. He thought her extremely brave, embarking on motherhood while burdened with ultimate responsibility for the major motion picture version of an adored bestselling novel. During his long separation from Hannah, he had viewed all the available Acorn Films television programs and movies. Judging by what he’d seen, Forsaken Fortune was certain to succeed.
He prided himself on his impeccable behavior at the tea table. Even Alicia, insistent on proper etiquette, would be pleased. He hoped Hannah noticed—and approved. Nobody in the Palm Court could possibly guess that they had ever shared a bed.
***
Hannah guided the hire car through the roundabout until she came to the road connecting Newbridge to Milverston Magna. The wipers whipped back and forth, clearing cascading raindrops from the windshield. Liz, seated on her left, paged through a binder of multi-colored papers.
“I can’t find today’s scene. Where’s the revision?”
“Pink pages. 28A. Interior. Harvest supper.”
“Got it! And the call sheet.”
After they passed through Milver Cross, traffic thinned. The vivid yellow rapeseed flowers that brightened the fields in May and June had vanished. The sides and tops of the hedges had recently been shaved. Hannah missed the bright white clouds of hawthorn blossom and nodding daisies that had rendered this drive so magical earlier in the year.
Beyond the crossroads, signs warned that entry was restricted to Hartcliffe Studios personnel. Liz presented their photo identity badges to the security officer—everyone, even the executive producer, had to follow the stringent security protocol.
Driving on, Hannah entered the familiar universe-within-a-universe, where creativity, artistry, and heavy equipment collided. People in wet weather gear tramped about—cable pullers, set dressers, gaffers. Rows of vans and trucks covered the sodden ground. She spotted the larger trailers of the leading performers and the smaller one where medical staff administered Covid rapid tests and distributed face masks to those who wanted them.
“A ten-hour day,” Liz commented as Hannah searched for a parking spot. “I’m good for about half that. How about you?”
Hannah stifled a yawn. “Whatever you say.”
“Here’s your other boyfriend. Holding what looks like the world’s biggest umbrella.”
For the past two weeks, Alistair McLaren had brought her cups of coffee, engaged her in conversation, and shared the on-set gossip and jokes. His attentiveness provoked no end of commentary from Liz.
“Does his lordship know our location manager has a crush on you? Not that he has any cause for concern. Your room at the Ritz should’ve been designated the Honeymoon Suite. Every time I passed by, the fancy Do Not Disturb was hanging on your doorknob.”
