The man read the letter and handed it back to her. “Very nice,” he said, “now here’s my authorization.” He held up a badge.
Harry leaned over and whispered in Kelli’s ear, “They’re Secret Service. Shut up, and let’s get everything unloaded.” Two bellmen appeared in a big cart and began removing luggage, while the two agents opened the black equipment cases and started taking out equipment.
Kelli got on her cell phone.
“Clair Albritton,” a voice said.
“Clair, it’s Kelli Keane from Vanity Fair. I’ve just arrived with my team, and we’re being given a hard time by the Secret Service.”
“Kelli, please remember we have two presidents and a lot of other important people in residence. Everybody is being given a hard time. Please do as they ask.”
Kelli put away her phone and turned to find an agent pawing through her underwear. He closed the bag and started on another. She stood there, sputtering, while Harry relaxed in the van, looking through an L.A. Times.
“Take a few deep breaths, Kelli,” Harry said, in his Glaswegian accent. “This is a little more than par for the course, but there’s nothing you can do to rush it. Just have a seat and relax.”
Kelli leaned against the van and longed for a cigarette. She had quit, cold turkey, two years ago, but when she was annoyed about something the urge came back, and she was very annoyed at the moment. Now the agents started closing the cases, and two others began removing the seats from the van. Another one was lying on his back on a creeper, surveying its underside.
“Okay,” somebody said finally, “you can reload now.” The bellmen got everything back into the van.
“You see,” Harry said, “that took only forty minutes. It’s not like we have to be somewhere. There’s nobody to photograph until tomorrow.”
“There’s the grounds,” Kelli said.
“Somebody else is doing that,” Harry said. “I’m not a landscapist.”
Kelli finally wilted before the wisdom of one of the world’s great photojournalists. “All right,” she said, “I’ll settle for a cold beer.”
The van moved off up the hill and finally stopped in front of the reception building. Clair Albritton was there to meet them. “Hello, Kelli, sorry about security. A warning: if you leave the grounds, you’ll have to go through all that again when you return.” She spread a map on the hood of the van and gave Kelli and Harry a briefing on the layout of the hotel.
“Where are you going to want to put the lights, Harry?” Kelli asked.
“Lights? We’re not going to need any lights that aren’t handheld. This place is too big, and there are too many people to do setups. I’m going to be working on the fly. Don’t worry about it, dear, it’s not my first time.”
Everybody got back into the van, and they followed a cart with Clair and the two bellmen down the hill to a two-story building. Clair got out and began instructing the bellmen. “Kelli, you and Harry have the two ground-floor rooms. Your assistants are upstairs in two other rooms.”
“We don’t have suites?” Kelli asked. She had become accustomed to suites.
“The suites are all reserved for the people you’ve come here to photograph and interview,” Clair said. “We could have let them all three times over.”
“It’s fine, Kelli,” Harry said. “We could be in a motel somewhere, you know.”
“What about interiors?” Kelli asked.
“Architectural Digest is already here, photographing some suites, the restaurants, and the rest of the grounds,” Clair said.
“How many other journalists are here?”
“A dozen or so. A fellow from a London paper is next door to you. Most of them are nearby.”
“Why do I feel we’re being quarantined?” Kelli asked.
Clair laughed. “Kelli, you have free run of the grounds and the public buildings. What more do you want?”
“A suite,” Kelli muttered. “Where is Stone Barrington staying?”
“He has his own house,” Clair replied. “And all the rooms are full.”
“Where is it?”