Page 10 of Love At First Fright
“Already have done.” A mischievous glint that Rosemary did not like appeared in Dina’s eyes.
“And?”
The evil witch tapped her nose.
—
Rosemary could happily have spentanother afternoon yapping away with her best friends, but work called, and an hour later she had pulled up outside the Cloverwood Hotel, with enough time to check in and get settled before the preliminary cast and senior crew meeting.
Aside from the gorgeous country mansion where Immy had been married nearly two years ago, this was the fanciest place Rosemary had ever seen. A tall white-brick townhouse, complete with wrought iron fencing and a forest-green front door, it was tall enough to be gently imposing yet small enough to still have a boutique quality to it. An autumnal wreath hung on the brass door knocker, and a smiling footman hurried to take her suitcases from her.
“There’s no need,” she said, but the man only smiled and shook his head. “Nonsense, I’ll get these to your room. Are you just checking in? Here with the cast or crew?”
“Crew, I guess. Does that mean the whole hotel is booked?”
“Indeed it does. The front desk will get you all checked in, and sort you out with some tea, it’s getting nippy out there.” The footman walked off with her bags, placing them on a golden trolley.
The foyer of the hotel was warm and inviting. Black and white marble tiles clicked beneath her feet as Rosemary made her way through a mahogany-panelled hallway, complete with paintings of old English gentlemen and their hunting hounds, to the reception desk.
She kept on the lookout for ghosts—a hotel as old as this one definitely had a couple—but if there were any, they weren’t hanging out in the foyer. Everyone here seemed to be wearing the same dark green uniform, not a hair out of place. She feltpositively rumpled in comparison, and mentally thanked Dina for the magical muffins again, she’d have been in an even worse state without them.
“Checking in?” asked one of the receptionists.
“Yes, please.”
Handing over all the necessary details, Rosemary looked around. She saw signs to the Ampleforth Suite, which was where the meeting was due to happen in just over an hour. To her left there was a sign that read “Library and Spa,” and Rosemary let herself fall into a daydream where she whiled away her hours in a library spa, if such a thing existed.
“You’re all set, you’re staying in our Hobb Suite, on the second floor. You’ll love it,” they said, handing over a gleaming copper key with an embossed leather keyring. “It’s one of our most beautiful rooms.”
Wow, the production really spared no expense,Rosemary thought, her insides wriggling with glee.
“Thank you so much,” she said, and made her way up the green-carpeted winding stairs to her room.
The Hobb Suite contained the largest bed Rosemary had ever seen. Who had it been designed for, a mediaeval king who regularly conducted orgies? No one needed four pillows side by side. She could starfish herself and still not touch the edges. Every inch of the room was decadent, maximalist heaven. Tall windows looked out over the Thames, with a view of London Bridge, with thick brocade-velvet curtains drawn to either side. She kicked off her shoes, relishing the soft hush of the carpet.
There was a cosy, deep armchair where she could read, and a desk set below the window. She ought to sit down and try a writing blast. Maybe she could bleed out a few hundred words. But even the thought of sitting down to write filled her with apprehension. Besides, how was she supposed to get herself inthe creative drafting headspace when she’d soon be in a meeting room with people who could make or break her book’s legacy?
Rosemary peeled off her dress to change into something new, just to feel refreshed. She didn’t bother properly unpacking since they were only here for the night. She wanted to look casual, but fancy enough that she fitted into this place. She applied a dark nude lipstick that she’d bought at the duty-free shop—it had beautiful gothic packaging and was called “Kiss of Death,” so she reallyhadto buy it.
Rosemary checked her watch, even though she’d checked it only a minute before. Still too early to head down to the meeting suite. She supposed a walk might take the edge off. She pulled on a cardigan and left the Cloverwood.
Instead of heading towards the Thames, she turned north, heading into the City of London. Rosemary wandered around the twisting streets of the City; those who worked in the shiny glass high-rises had all left for the day, leaving it surprisingly peaceful. History sprouted up like wildflowers around the skyscrapers in the form of old pubs and chapels, their ornate gothic and mediaeval towers so much more interesting to look at than the slick planes of glass. Rosemary had one building in mind that she wanted to visit, one she hadn’t been to since she was a student.
St. Dunstan in the East, dating back to 1100, was the kind of place that every writer dreamed of discovering on their wanderings. Secluded down an unimpressive back street of the City, its gothic arches were ivy clung, the stone blackening with age. Seeing it again induced a moment of striking nostalgia; she hadn’t been here since she was a student. Nothing had changed: it had been waiting for her. As Rosemary approached, the heavens opened, and an October rainstorm quickly threatened to soak her to the bone.
“Shit.” She rifled through her bag for an umbrella that she soon realised wasn’t there. She’d have to add in time to get changed again when she returned to the hotel before the meeting. Anxiety began to seize her chest. No, no, she could handle this. Nothing to panic over. The tall oak that leant over the ruins of St. Dunstan would hide her from the worst of it, and she’d dry off by the time she walked back. Rosemary ran for it, sheltering under the autumnal green-and-yellow branches of the tree. She inhaled the petrichor scent of moss and rain on stone, letting it clear the anxiety away. She had this handled.
Rosemary heard a muttered “Fuck” and watched as a tall man in a cream sweater ran to hide under the same tree, clearly with the same idea as her. He wasn’t standing directly beside her—in fact Rosemary was pretty sure he hadn’t even noticed her presence yet—but she stared as he pushed back his dark brown hair, wet from the rain, and checked his watch.
It was only when he turned to look around, his eyes briefly flitting over her, that Rosemary realised she knew exactly who he was: Ellis Finch. The man she’d been dreading seeing for months. He was taller than she expected; broader, too. And, surprisingly, paler.
There was a ruddiness to his complexion that spoke of days spent outdoors, but none of that tangerine tan she’d seen him slicked in on the billboards for his latest action movie.
His chunky knit sweater shouldn’t have accentuated his muscles—but it most definitely did. There was something strangely effortless about him, even just waiting under a tree for the rain to stop, as if he had become the centre of their small universe, and try as she might, she couldn’t drag her eyes away.
Should she say something? In less than an hour they would be sitting in the same room going over the script she wrote, after all. It couldn’t be a bad thing to introduce herself tosomeone who was essentially a future colleague of hers, could it? Tentatively, Rosemary stepped towards him.
“Hi,” she said, speaking before she had time to think (which was very unlike her), “you’re Ellis Finch, right?”
