Page 93 of A Change of Location
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Rising later than usual, Hannah put on her running garb and left the hotel, relishing in this rare opportunity for exercise. She followed the busy road that eventually passed through Newbridge town center. She stopped at the bus shelter to adjust her bra strap and study the notice board. An eye-catching pink flyer invited her to Join the Pub Dashers on their Bank Holiday pub-to-pub. 5 p.m. Four mile run across level ground. Mixed running ability. Members £8 entry, non-members £10, proceeds designated for Milver Vale Youth Club. Start and Finish @ The Peacock car park, Milverston Green. That eight-pound fee was a brilliant money-making strategy. Most members probably handed over a tenner and let the nonprofit keep the change.
She held her phone to the poster and took a picture to send Martin. It was an activity they could share without inciting the type of rumors they hoped to suppress by keeping their distance from each other. On she jogged, until her pedometer informed her that she’d completed two miles. Turning around, she headed back to the hotel. Four miles in an hour was far from her best time, but at least she was covering the same distance as Monday’s run.
Her cool-down began at the hotel entrance sign. She left the drive and walked beneath the tall evergreens, refreshed by the shade underneath the thick branches. When she arrived at the front lawn, she saw Martin’s Vauxhall parked near the door. He must have found out she’d be free all weekend. Whipping off her headband, she used it to blot the sweat from her temples and neck, and hastily finger-combed her curls.
When he exited the hotel, she was startled to see him in a suit with a paisley tie dangling down the front of his crisp white shirt. A Vuitton keep-all was slung over one shoulder, and he carried a matching dress bag. He opened the boot and placed both items inside.
Caroline Bryden, holding her phone, joined him. “Does everything fit?” she asked.
“Looks like it.”
Hannah’s footsteps on the gravel drew their attention.
“Good morning, Hannah,” Caroline said brightly. “We’re off to a wedding. A friend is getting married in Salisbury Cathedral. Thanks to union rules, I can attend all the events and stay at the hotel with other guests. Three whole days away from the set—isn’t it wonderful?”
“Very.”
“I’m hoping Alicia won’t be there,” Martin said. “The bride is her goddaughter.”
“Are you invited?” Hannah couldn’t help asking.
“He’s my plus-one,” his cousin explained. “And my chauffeur.”
“Have a nice time,” she told them, trying to sound like she meant it.
Fantasies of a long weekend with Martin, in and out of bed, were well and truly dashed. Going up the stairs, she wondered if he would also remain in Salisbury overnight. It couldn’t be more than an hour away.
Fresh lilies scented her bedroom. She’d have plenty of time to enjoy them, with nothing to do and nowhere to go. Liz and Tom had departed for Bath earlier, in their rental Range Rover, taking Lexi and her fancy English pram.
She removed her sweat-damp clothes and turned on the faucets in the glass-encased shower.
I’ve got a car, she reminded herself, as hot water streamed onto her head.
She could embark on a scouting mission for Mum’s television series, and visit some of the famous gardens in the vicinity.
By Sunday afternoon, she’d toured multiple properties in Somerset and Dorset and had shot hundreds of photographs. She hadn’t been able to consult with anyone about obtaining access for filming purposes, or gather names of individuals for her mother to interview. But she’d collected a stack of brochures, with links for websites that would provide contact information.
Having performed her daughterly and her professional duty, she stopped in Sherborne. Retail therapy, in the form of spiffy running togs, failed to vanquish speculation about Martin. And Caroline. At a wedding.
Considering worst-case scenarios was a feature of her job. Toiling in the film industry demanded that she prepare herself for any—and all—contingencies. In Maine, and more recently in London, Martin had expressed and demonstrated his feelings, quite convincingly. He wasn’t the fickle type, or the careless playboy she’d mistakenly assumed him to be early in their acquaintance. For a man of thirty, attractive and titled, he’d had remarkably few serious relationships. He wasn’t a closet chauvinist. He liked women. He relied on them for advice and support and companionship. Especially strong-minded, stubborn, and opinionated ones—Isobel, Poppy, Jan.
And me.
Still, he should have let her know he would be going away for the weekend. With Caroline.
Many weeks ago, Poppy told her that Martin deserved happiness. Hannah recalled specific times when she’d made him extremely happy. The first time she kissed him. During their dinner date at the Italian restaurant in Newbridge. While brainstorming the Milver Vale tourism campaign. When exploring each other’s bodies—in a fourposter bed or a rented Kozee Kabin or her stately room at the Ritz.
Why did it have to be so hard—seemingly impossible—to integrate a rewarding work life and a satisfactory love life?
The question forced an examination of her own responsibility for her present woes. Hard-wired to expect disaster, major or minor, she’d voluntarily imposed distance between herself and the man she loved. Avoiding publicity was only possible in the short term. In trying to protect others from harm, she was harming herself. In retrospect, she saw that Martin and Chase had both correctly accused her of overreacting to the media’s mania for gossip and scandal. Her present and future contentment depended on remedying that mistake.
Chapter 28
On Monday she woke to a gray, misty morning better suited to reading than running. By early afternoon, the sun had pushed through the clouds. Joining the Pub Dashers had been more appealing two days ago than it was an hour before the meet-up. But after consuming gooseberry yogurt, her current addiction, and drinking a cup of coffee, she felt ready to face the lanes and paths of the Milver Vale. She covered her sports bra with the new pale blue midriff-baring tank top and put on the navy cropped leggings. She wanded mascara onto her lashes and added a dash of lip crayon, then pulled back her hair with a stretchy headband.
Martin was with the other runners in the pub car park. Three other men and two women of diverse ages and physiques bent from the waist and the knees, stretching their limbs.
