Love on Location

by Lynne Shelby

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Can movie magic lead to a real-life romance?

'A wonderful fresh new talent' Katie Fforde

When Laurel Martin is hired to rewrite the script for a new timeslip blockbuster, she expects the historical advisor hired by the studio to be an elderly academic who won't interfere too much with her writing. But when she meets Professor Jason Harding, a young and unexpectedly handsome archaeologist who has some ideas of his own about the script, she realises the job isn't going to be as simple as she first thought.

As their work takes them from arguing over historical details in a cramped London office to discovering the hidden beauties of a Greek island, Laurel and Jason's relationship starts to echo the romance of their script.

But with Laurel's actor ex-boyfriend making trouble at home, and constant issues with the volatile director, will Laurel and Jason ever be able to write the happy ending for their own story?

Escape with this charming, summery romance, perfect for fans of Sue Moorcroft and Miranda Dickinson.

Readers loved THE SUMMER OF TAKING CHANCES:

'I highly recommend if you are looking for a perfect summery story' NetGalley reviewer

'A lovely escapism read' NetGalley reviewer

'I haven't been able to put this one down! It's absolutely gorgeous and I highly recommend' NetGalley reviewer

'Enjoyable reading' NetGalley reviewer

'Great characters and a really good storyline' NetGalley reviewer

Release date: August 19, 2021

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 192

Sample

The sun is high overhead and fierce. I sit on the rock, gazing out over the impossibly blue Aegean to the horizon where sea and sky meet in a shimmering haze of heat. A yacht sails across the bay and vanishes around the headland. I hear the faint lap of water on the shore, and the cry of a gull overhead. London seems very far away . . .

Two years earlier

Walking as fast as my high heels and Soho’s crowded streets would allow, I arrived at Silver Screen, the restaurant where I was meeting Marcus Farley, with minutes to spare. I took a moment to catch my breath, smoothed my wind-blown hair, and went inside.

As always, the restaurant was bursting with tourists having a break from sightseeing and hand-holding couples stealing a romantic interlude from their working day. My gaze travelled over the old black and white movie posters on the walls – the Hollywood-inspired décor was the reason Silver Screen was Marcus’s favourite place to eat out in the whole of London – and spotted the producer himself deep in conversation with a companion who was hidden from my view by a pillar covered in film stars’ headshots. Adrenaline surged through me, and I began edging my way past the other lunchtime diners to Marcus’s table. He saw me just as I rounded the pillar, breaking off whatever he was saying to get to his feet and air-kiss each side of my face.

‘Good to see you, Laurel,’ he said. ‘Meet Jason – Professor Jason Harding – your collaborator on Swords and Sandals.’

I turned to face the other man at the table, who had also risen to his feet.

‘Hi, I’m Laurel Martin . . .’ My voice trailed off. When Marcus had called me to offer me the job of rewriting the screenplay of his production company’s latest movie – a time-slip story in which a girl holidaying on a Greek island travelled back through time to ancient Greece – he’d told me that the director was very keen to ensure the scenes set in the past were authentic and therefore I’d be provided with a historical advisor, a university professor no less. I’d pictured my new collaborator as a bespectacled old man, wearing a tweed jacket and smoking a pipe, reminding me in a quavering voice that the ancient Greeks didn’t have mobile phones. Now, instead of the elderly academic of my imaginings, I found myself looking up at a guy who couldn’t be more than a couple of years older than my own twenty-nine, wearing a plaid shirt and jeans. He was quite good looking in a rugged sort of way, with tousled dark blond hair, stubble just long enough to be called a beard, and blue eyes. Not my type, but I could see how other women might find him attractive. Realising that I was staring, I hastened to shake his hand and shrug off my coat, and we all sat down.

The next few minutes were taken up with ordering lunch. I asked after Marcus’s wife and co-producer, Shannon, and their two little girls, and, beaming with parental pride, Marcus told me of his talented children’s latest achievements. He asked if I was ‘still seeing that actor you brought to my fortieth’ and I was able to tell him that I was indeed still with Conor. There was, I decided, no need to mention that since Marcus had last met my boyfriend, we’d twice broken up and got back together again. When our lunch arrived, the conversation moved on to industry gossip – whose films were in pre-production, which star had turned up drunk on set – and it was only when we reached the coffee stage that Marcus opened his leather messenger bag and drew out two copies of the script that was the reason for our meeting, passing one to Jason and one to me – in my eagerness to have it, I almost snatched it out of his hands. I read the title on the front page: Swords and Sandals – Draft Twenty-seven.

Jason, who’d taken very little part in the conversation until then, said, ‘Twenty-seven drafts? Is that usual?’

‘It’s more than I’d generally expect,’ Marcus said, ‘but it’s not unusual for a script to go through any number of rewrites – and screenwriters.’

‘I see,’ Jason said. ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘Yeah, we’ve already had five writers come and go,’ Marcus said. ‘It happens.’

‘Was it creative differences that made them leave?’ I said.

Marcus laughed. ‘Something like that. Let’s just say that Drew Brightman, our director, felt that their screenplays didn’t reflect his vision for the movie.’ He tapped my copy of Swords and Sandals. ‘This script lacks sparkle – which is where you come in, Laurel, to iron out the issues with the dialogue and pacing. In other words, work your magic. And now we also have Jason on board to make sure the historical details are right. You guys are going to make a fab team.’

I glanced across the table at Jason. He gave a brief nod of his head.

‘Everyone at Farley Productions is very excited about Swords and Sandals,’ Marcus went on. ‘It’s a great concept – a feisty modern heroine falling through time, lovers born centuries apart – but right now it’s a hot mess. We don’t even know if it has a happy-ever-after ending, or if it’s a tear-jerker with the heroine returning to her own time and the lovers parted for ever. The final scene has changed with every writer.’

‘What do you want to happen at the end?’ I asked.

Marcus shrugged. ‘That’s down to you and Jason. If you can’t come up with a definitive ending, we’ll just have to shoot more than one version and have our market research people check out which is likely to do better at the box office.’

‘Cynic,’ I said.

‘I’m hurt you’d ever think that of me,’ Marcus said, with a grin. ‘Seriously, though, it’s called the film industry for a reason. There’s no point in making a movie that no audience wants to watch.’

‘I won’t argue with you about that,’ I said. ‘By the way, who’s playing the leads? If I’m writing a character for a particular actor, I’d like to know who it is.’

‘I can’t tell you.’

I arched my eyebrows. ‘It’s OK, Marcus. I won’t go running to the media before Farley Productions makes an official announcement.’

‘It’s not that,’ Marcus said. ‘The thing is, we’re still in negotiations with a number of actors for the main roles. We haven’t got very far with casting the minor roles either.’

I gaped at him. ‘The film starts shooting in six weeks. You don’t have a final script, you don’t have a cast . . . Aren’t you just a little worried?’ If I was the film’s producer, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night.

‘I’ll get it sorted before the first day of filming,’ Marcus said. ‘It’s what I do.’ His face broke into a broad smile. ‘Have I ever told you how much I love what I do?’

‘You may have mentioned it once or twice.’ A thought struck me, a way for me to do a friend a favour. ‘If I happened to know of someone who might be right for a role in Swords and Sandals, may I suggest they send Farley Productions their CV?’

Marcus gave me a long look. ‘You after a part for your boyfriend?’

‘No, not at all. Conor’s got two plays lined up back-to-back over the summer. But I do have this friend – actually, she’s my flatmate – who’s an actress. Her name’s Amber Wallace and she’s really talented.’

‘Doesn’t everyone in this business have a really talented actress friend?’ Marcus sighed. ‘Oh, all right, have her send her showreel to my PA, and I’ll take a look at it. Not that I’m promising I’ll call her in for an audition.’

‘No, of course not,’ I said. ‘Thanks, Marcus. I appreciate it.’

With a smile, Marcus checked his watch, raised his hand to catch the waitress’s attention, and indicated that she should bring the bill.

‘I have to get back to base,’ he said. ‘I’ve a conference call with New York. I’ll leave you two to have another coffee and plan out how you’re going to work together. If you could arrange to bring the revised script into the office by the beginning of next week?’

Before I could answer, Jason said, ‘Not a problem.’

Hey, I’m the writer here, I thought, taken aback. I’m the one who agrees a deadline. Aloud, I said, ‘That’s fine with me.’ The waitress arrived at our table. Marcus settled the bill, and got his feet.

‘Bye for now, Laurel,’ he said. ‘Professor. Anything you need, call the office.’ He made as if to leave, but then turned back to us. ‘There’s a lot riding on this movie. Just so you know.’ With that, weaving his way swiftly through the other diners, he left.

‘I’m not a professor,’ Jason said.

‘I’m sorry?’ I said. ‘What?’

‘I teach at a university,’ he said, ‘but that doesn’t make me a professor. I don’t use the title outside work, but officially I’m Dr Harding. I’ve tried explaining this to Marcus, but he can’t seem to grasp the difference between a doctorate and a professorship.’

I wasn’t entirely sure I understood the difference either. ‘But you are a historian, right?’

‘No, I’m an archaeologist.’

‘Please tell me that still makes you an expert in all things ancient Greek.’

Jason raised one eyebrow. ‘Near enough for our present purposes, I should think.’

‘Good to know,’ I said. ‘So, how do you want to do this? I’d like some time to work on the script on my own, so I suggest we meet up in a few days – let’s say Friday – to compare notes.’

‘Is that your usual modus operandi?’

‘My what?’ I’d heard the phrase before, but I wasn’t quite sure what it meant.

‘Your usual way of working,’ Jason said.

‘Er, yes.’ Recovering my train of thought, I went on, ‘I’m sure Marcus could find us some desk space at Farley Productions, but his offices are always chaotic – ringing phones, frazzled production assistants – so it’s better if we meet somewhere else. I know a good coffee shop just round the corner from here.’

‘We can use my office for our meeting, if you like,’ Jason said. ‘It’s a little cramped, but it’s quiet and conducive to study. The university campus is only a short walk from Aldgate station.’

Not an area of London I was familiar with, but one I could get to easily enough. I pictured the scene: an old rambling building of sand-coloured stone, a venerable seat of learning . . .

Becoming aware that Jason was staring at me quizzically, I said, ‘OK. What time?’

‘Can we make it nine a.m.?’ Jason said.

‘Sure.’ I’d have to battle through the rush hour crowds to get across London by nine o’clock, but at least it would get the meeting over early in the day. ‘Let me give you my number. And if I could have yours?’

‘But of course.’ Jason reached into his shirt pocket and brought out his phone.

‘I guess that’s all for now,’ I said, once we’d exchanged contact details, and he nodded his agreement. I stood up, put on my outdoor coat, and stashed my copy of Swords and Sandals in my bag – Jason, I noticed, having donned a scruffy parka, placed his script in a worn canvas rucksack, such as a hiker might carry – and we went out into the street.

‘See you later, Prof—I mean, Jason,’ I said.

‘Goodbye, Laurel,’ he said. We both started walking – coming to an abrupt halt when we realised we were going in the same direction.

‘Where are you heading?’ I said.

‘Piccadilly Circus,’ Jason said. ‘The station.’

‘So am I.’ I resumed walking along the pavement. Jason fell into step beside me.

‘Have you known Marcus long?’ I said.

‘I met him for the first time today,’ Jason said.

‘So you’ve not worked for Farley Productions before?’

‘No,’ Jason said. I waited for him to say something more, but he seemed disinclined to talk, and as we walked through Soho and along Shaftesbury Avenue, our conversation became somewhat one sided, with me telling him about some of the scripts I’d worked on for Farley Productions – I’d been one of a team of writers on several well-known TV shows, but he hadn’t seen any of them. We’d crossed over the road to the pedestrianised area in the centre of Piccadilly Circus, and were wending our way through the hordes of tourists who, even on this cold, overcast March day, were milling around the famous statue of Eros, when a stray thought drifted into my mind.

‘Eros was the Greek god of love, wasn’t he?’ I said, gesturing towards the bronze figure of the winged archer with his quiver and his bow.

‘He was the god of romantic love and desire,’ Jason said, standing next to me, and looking up at the statue. ‘His arrows had the power to make anyone, god or mortal, fall in love. Just one scratch was all it took—’ He broke off. ‘Another time, I’d be happy to stand here discussing Greek mythology, but I need to get back to Aldgate.’

I tore my gaze away from the statue. ‘So do I. That is, I need to get home to Hammersmith.’

‘I’ll say goodbye, then,’ Jason said, ‘as we’re travelling in opposite directions.’

‘Bye,’ I said. I was about to add that I’d see him on Friday, but he’d already plunged into the crowd swarming towards the entrance to the tube, and was lost to my sight. Well, he’s a man of few words, I thought.

I took one more look at the statue and . . .

Eros draws back the string of his bow and lets fly an arrow. It streaks towards me, straight towards my heart . . .

Enough, Laurel, I told myself firmly, turning my back on the god of love.

Now was not the time to start running a movie in my head.

Taking Swords and Sandals out of my bag, I sat down at the small desk in the corner of my bedroom and started to read. After a few pages, I was asking myself how a script could possibly go through twenty-seven rewrites and still be so dull. And yet, I liked the basic plot, the main characters definitely had possibilities – and bringing the story to life was what I was being paid to do. I picked up a pen, ready to jot down some preliminary notes.

The sound of the front door opening and crashing shut made me start. I heard the sound of my flatmate Amber’s footsteps trudging up the stairs.

Her voice came to me from the landing, ‘Laurel? Are you there?’ Before I could reply, my bedroom door swung open to reveal her standing in the doorway. ‘I was called in to audition for a TV series today,’ she said, by way of greeting. ‘It did not go well.’

‘You didn’t get the part?’ I asked, although I was fairly certain I already knew the answer.

‘I didn’t even get a recall.’ To my surprise and concern, for she usually got over a failed audition very quickly, Amber sounded as though she was about to cry.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I guess being cut at an audition never gets any easier.’

‘No, it doesn’t.’ She came into my room and slumped down on the bed. ‘You’d think I’d be used to it after ten years in the business, but it’s still a rejection and it still hurts.’

‘Hey, this isn’t like you,’ I said. ‘Don’t upset yourself. None of the actors I know get every part they audition for.’

Amber’s eyes narrowed. ‘Except for Conor.’

‘He does seem to be on a roll at the moment.’ It occurred to me to wonder if Amber’s inability to utter my boyfriend’s name without scowling might be due less to her disapproval of my taking him back after our last break-up and more to her being just the tiniest bit jealous of his long list of credits.

‘I’ve not had any acting work in six months,’ Amber went on, ‘and my last job was only a voiceover.’ She sighed heavily. ‘So, I get cut, and I’m feeling down, and then, on my way home, I get a phone call from Tom to tell me that he’s getting married. And he wants me to be his groom’s girl.’

‘But that’s great news!’ I said. ‘You must be thrilled for him.’

‘I should be, shouldn’t I?’ Amber said. ‘My best friend has just announced his engagement. I should be ecstatic. But I’m not.’ She bit her bottom lip.

‘I don’t see why,’ I said. ‘You get on all right with – what’s her name? Tom’s girlfriend?’

‘Her name is Freya,’ Amber said. ‘She’s OK, I guess. I don’t really know her. I don’t want to know her. I’ve seen little enough of Tom since he got with her, and I’ll see even less of him once he’s married her.’ Her voice grew shrill. ‘Tom and I have been friends since we were in primary school – I don’t want to lose him.’

I stared at her, aghast. Where was this coming from? ‘Just because the guy’s getting married, it doesn’t mean he’s going to cut you out of his life.’

‘But if he has a wife to go home to, he won’t be crashing on our sofa after a Saturday night out, or calling round after work with a takeaway, will he?’

‘No, he won’t,’ I said. ‘Not if he wants his marriage to be a happy one.’

Amber fell silent and looked down at her hands. When she looked up again, she said, ‘I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I? I must be channelling my inner five year old. The one that says he’s my friend, not hers.’

‘You so need to stop doing that,’ I said, relieved to hear her sounding more like her usual self.

‘I so do,’ Amber said. ‘Tom is marrying Freya, and I need to get over myself and be glad for him.’ Tucking her hair firmly behind her ears, she got to her feet. ‘Right now, though, I have to let my agent know that yet again I didn’t get a job she put me up for. And hope she doesn’t decide to drop me and make this day even worse.’

‘Wait a sec,’ I said, recalling that Marcus had agreed she could send him her showreel. ‘Your agent won’t drop you when you tell her that the head of Farley Productions is considering you for a role in his next feature film.’

Amber’s mouth actually fell open. ‘You’re joking.’

‘I’d never joke about something that important,’ I said. ‘Remember I told you that I was meeting Marcus Farley today?’

‘I do,’ Amber said. ‘Marcus – and some professor who’s collaborating with you on the Swords and Sandals’ screenplay?’

I nodded. ‘Well, I mentioned you to Marcus, and he said he’ll take a look at your showreel.’

‘Oh, Laurel—’ Amber sank back down on the duvet. ‘That’s . . . that’s amazing. Thank you. Thank you so much.’

‘Don’t get too excited,’ I said, quickly. ‘He hasn’t promised you a job.’

‘I understand that,’ Amber said. ‘But it’s still the best news I’ve had all day.’ She clapped her hands. ‘So, apart from hopefully rescuing my acting career, how did your meeting go? Did you get on with your professor? What’s he like?’

‘He isn’t a professor,’ I said. ‘Marcus got that wrong. His name’s Dr Jason Harding, he’s younger than I expected, and he’s an archaeologist.’ I thought back over the meeting. ‘I don’t really know what to make of him. He didn’t say much.’

‘The strong, silent type. I once dated a guy like that. I thought he had hidden depths. Turned out he didn’t have anything worth saying.’

I laughed. ‘Jason did get a bit more communicative after we left the restaurant. He told me that Eros was the ancient Greek god of love and desire.’

‘You’ve only just met the man and already you’re talking about love?’ Amber fanned her face with her hand.

‘Ha, ha, very amusing,’ I said. ‘We were in Piccadilly Circus—’

‘The romantic atmosphere of a crowded tourist attraction,’ Amber said. ‘That explains it.’ She sprang up from the bed. ‘Now, I really do have to call my agent, but then can we get my showreel sent over to your producer friend?’

‘For sure,’ I said.

‘Thanks again. For talking to Marcus. And for listening to me rant about Tom.’

‘No worries,’ I said. After all, she’d listened to me ranting about Conor often enough.

Amber went to the doorway. Looking back over her shoulder, she said, ‘I hope you like your historical advisor when you get to know him better.’

‘I don’t have to like him to work with him,’ I said.

‘Really?’ Amber said. ‘I find it hard to act with someone I don’t have a rapport with off set. I’d have thought it would be very difficult to work creatively with a guy unless you were . . . on the same page.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Stick to acting, Amber. Leave the one-liners to me.’

Jason sat at his desk in his home office, and set his copy of Swords and Sandals down in front of him, together with a notebook and pen. He turned to the first page of the script, but before he started reading, his mind drifted back to the meeting with Marcus Farley and Laurel Martin. The producer had an easy charm, the scurrilous stories he’d told over lunch amusing even to Jason – who’d had no idea who he was talking about – but before Laurel had arrived, he’d asked enough insightful questions about ancient Greece to convince Jason that he had a keen intelligence. As for his new collaborator, Jason found it difficult to believe that the woman ever stopped talking long enough to write anything – and yet, she’d reeled off the names of any number of TV shows she’d worked on. There must be something going on in that butterfly mind of hers, Jason thought, even if it wasn’t immediately apparent.

With a shrug, he returned his attention to the screenplay, skimming quickly through a scene set in a Greek village. Memories surfaced of the first time he’d worked on a dig in Greece, staying in a village of whitewashed houses . . . He rarely thought about those days, but now he found himself smiling as he recalled how he and his fellow archaeologists had risen with the dawn to walk down to the beach where the fishermen were waiting with their brightly painted boats to ferry them to the small uninhabited island . . . the excavation of the ruined sanctuary . . . how it felt to make his first-ever archaeological find, to hold an artefact in his hand and know he was the first person to set eyes on it in three thousand years . . .

Those were good times, Jason thought. I’ll always have those memories of Greece, despite what came after . . .

‘The man’s impossible,’ I said, pacing around my bedroom and coming to a halt in front of my boyfriend, who was lounging on the bed. ‘Conor! Are you listening to what I’m saying?’

Conor looked up from his phone. ‘Yeah, I hear you. But I don’t understand why you’re getting yourself in such a state.’

‘I’m not in a state,’ I said, ‘but if I was, I’d have every right to be. Swords and Sandals is a larger-scale production than any film I’ve ever worked on. It could be the start of a whole new phase in my career – and Jason Harding is sabotaging it. He knows nothing about film making, yet he thinks he can tell me how to write a screenplay.’

‘What does it matter?’ Conor said. ‘You’re the writer, not him. He’s only there to advise you.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ I said, ‘but nobody seems to have told Jason . . .’

I’d known on my first read-through of Swords and Sandals that it wasn’t going to be the easiest rewrite I’d ever done, but that morning, as I negotiated the underground, twice changing trains, standing in over-heated, over-crowded carriages, finally reaching Aldgate East station and the escalators that took me up to the street, I was satisfied I’d done a good job. I’d have Jason glance over my new draft to make sure I hadn’t left in any blatant historical errors, and on Monday I’d hand it to Marcus, confident that he’d sign it off as a shooting script.

I turned left out of the station, shivering in a sudden gust of wind and, following the directions I’d brought up on my phone, walked through the unfamiliar streets, catching the occasional glimpse of towering City skyscrapers as I passed old brick buildings that might once have been warehouses or factories but were now offices, and traditional pubs rubbing shoulders with modern coffee shops. After about ten minutes, I found myself walking alongside a stretch of iron railings, beyond which I could see a cluster of what appeared to be low-rise office blocks. It was only when my route turned into an entrance way where a sign informed me I’d arrived at London Aldgate University that I realised I had – as my phone confirmed – reached my destination.

I walked on past a car park and a sports hall, following a tarmac road that brought me to a windswept paved square. A few young men and women – presumably they were students – shoulders hunched against the cold, were hurrying into one or other of the surrounding buildings. I wondered if they were late for a lecture, were determined to bag the best seat in the library or simply wanted to get out of the biting wind. So this, I thought, is what an urban university campus looks like. I much preferred the sunlit hallowed halls of my imagination.

Jason’s instructions for finding him on campus had been limited to a text saying that his office was ‘in the Humanities building, fourth floor,’ but fortunately, on the far side of the square, I spotted a billboard-sized map which showed me the way I needed to go. Heading out of the square, I followed a concrete path that wound between a tower block – a sign by the door told me it was the Faculty of Science and Engineering – and a low-rise building that was, apparently, the Students’ Union. I passed the School of Psychology, went down a flight of steps and across another square, and finally arrived outside the building that housed the Faculty of Arts and Humanities. Sliding glass doors opened on to a lobby, where a lift carried me up to the fourth floor, and the School of Archaeology.

Stepping out of the lift, I found myself in a narrow corridor, with no idea where to go next. Seeing a knot of denim-clad students, boys and girls, standing a short distance away engaged in a lively conversation, I walked up to them. They fell silent as I approached, and I noticed how young and fresh faced they were. It was something of a shock to realise that in their eyes I must seem quite old – almost a . . .