A Woman of our Times [antikvár]

ONELondon, 1985Harriet looked at her watch.In less than an hour, the car would come to take her to Heathrow. In a little more than twelve hours she would be in Los Angeles, with Caspar.For a moment, she let herseif think about him. She didn't expect that he would be waiting for her in the crowd at the barrier. Of course he would not. But there would be another car, and then a suite or an apartment somewhere with a view of the océan, or the blue on blue geometry of a pool. Caspar would be there, wearing a white shirt, with the beginnings of a tan. He would say something, nothing significant, 'Baby, are you dead from the flight? Come here to me,' and the resonance of his voice would make it important. He would put his arms around her.The television reporter, sitting across the desk with her list of questions ready, saw how Harriet's face softened and brightened. The electrician noticed it too, and glanced at his lights.Then Harriet checked her watch again. She was used to apportioning her timé with care, and the technicians' business with fighting and sound levels was taking too much of it.Are you going to need very much longer?' she asked. 'The car is coming for me at three.' The producer's assistant gave her an encouraging smile. 'Nearly ready for you now.'While she waited, Harriet looked at the wide expanse of her office. The producer of documentarles and his PA murmured together on one of the pair of low sofas, while the sound man and the electrician hovered over their metal boxes. The cameraman waited too, behind the cold eye of his lens. It was a bright day outside, but the brighter television lights dimmed the glow of it. They created, within their circle, an artificial atmosphere of intimacy.The PA stretched her long legs in dark stockings, stood up