All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  A proper bacon roll, like the ones they make for the staff, takes him back. His dad used to make them sometimes as a treat. The bacon and buns were equally cheap, usually bought at a dodgy corner shop, but Chris and Beth loved them. They’d watch as Dad flipped the bacon into the air and caught it (sometimes) in the pan, like pancakes, and they’d all dig in together, munching and licking dribbles of brown sauce off their fingers. Those rolls were the first thing Chris learned to cook.

  His one concession is to use really good bacon in the rolls now, but the buns still come from a corner shop, and good old-fashioned HP Sauce is slathered over the bacon.

  “And what’re you up to on your days off?” one of the waitresses asks Chris as he swallows his first bite.

  Chris shrugs. “Might go out to Dunbar and forage some seaweed.”

  Calum rolls his eyes. “D’you ever do anything that’s not work?” he asks.

  “I’ll play with the dog too,” Chris replies. “She likes the beach.”

  “You should come up my way,” the waitress invites. “I’m just outside Musselburgh. It’s nice up there. Quiet.” She winks.

  Chris pretends to be very focused on finishing his roll.

  “Oh, Chris, I forgot—there’s a message for you.” The hostess reaches into a pocket and retrieves a slip of paper. “Some journo. Said it was urgent.”

  “They always do,” he says, wiping his hands on a dishtowel and tossing it in a hamper with the other dirty kitchen linen. “Too late to call back now,” he adds, glancing at his watch.

  “No, no, I told him you couldn’t get back to him until after eleven, and he said that’d be fine, that he’d still be up. He said something about Susan Napier.”

  Chris frowns, wondering why a journalist would be calling him about Susan. He catches Calum’s eye, and Calum gives him an “aren’t you curious?” look back. He is curious. But he makes a show of rolling his eyes and telling the others he’ll catch them up before heading to his tiny office at the back of the restaurant.

  Ginger is curled up on a pillow beside the desk, snoring. She wakes when she hears the door open and comes over to snuffle Chris’s hand (which still smells of bacon roll) and paw at his leg.

  “I’ve not forgotten you,” he promises, holding up a piece of bacon he saved for her. She plunks her bottom on the ground and receives her reward.

  Chris drops into the chair at the desk and dials the number on the slip of paper.

  “Chef Baker!” an excited voice trills after the second ring. “Delighted to hear from you. I see you got my message. May I say, your hostess has a lovely phone manner. She hardly lets you feel it when she’s giving you the brush-off.”

  “It’s why I hired her,” says Chris. “What can I do for you?”

  “My, isn’t that a tempting question? Don’t worry, I won’t take much of your time. Only, I’m working on a wee story for The Scotsman about Elliot’s—you remember, that little place you don’t think much of?” Chris cringes. He regretted saying that almost as soon as it came spilling out of his mouth during the interview. “Anyway, I have to say, I do agree with you—or, rather, I did, but I was there today, and their food has vastly improved. At least, the bits I tried were excellent. I’m sure it’s the best they have to offer, but even so …”

  “I can’t really offer opinions on someone else’s food, especially when I haven’t tried it,” Chris curtly reminds him, hoping to wind this up quickly because Ginger is starting to get anxious, and he doesn’t want a puddle on the floor. Plus, he hates talking to journalists.

  “Of course, and I’d never ask that, but that’s why this is such a marvelous opportunity, you see.”

  “What are you talking about?” Chris opens the office door and finds Calum lurking there, leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed. Chris gestures desperately to the dog, and Calum rolls his eyes but pats his leg and takes her outside.

  “The competition. Don’t tell me … oh, she’s a sly one, that Susan Napier, isn’t she? She told me it was all sewn up, that the two of you were going to have a head-to-head at the Foodies Festival next week, with the proceeds going to the charity of the winner’s choice. I thought she might be bluffing, because I hadn’t seen it on the schedule, and the organizer is a dear friend of mine, but I phoned Barbara up and sure enough, it’s a late addition. I guess Susan thought she’d try to get a bit of her own back.”

  “Well, that was stupid of her,” Chris snaps before he can stop himself (again!). He doesn’t like being maneuvered in this way. “She’s mistaken—there’s nothing arranged between the two of us.”

  “Oh. That’s a shame. Because like I said, Barbara’s already put it on the schedule, and it’s up on the Festival website already. And there’s something about it going out in The List tomorrow morning. It’ll be a shame if you back out now. Might look a bit like you’re … not quite confident you’ll come out on top. And it never goes over well when someone cancels a charity benefit just because it seems like he can’t be bothered.”

  Chris mulls this over as Ginger and Calum reappear. He could just say he’s too busy for this, except he long ago agreed to do a cookery demonstration at the Festival anyway, so he’ll already be there. And what harm could it do? It’s a crowd-pleaser; they’ll both get some publicity out of it. If he wins, he can put the money toward a good cause. And it might be fun. But still, he feels manipulated, and that pisses him off. And he isn’t going to allow this Rufus person to run the show.

  “I’ll talk to Barbara about it tomorrow,” he says curtly. “Good luck with your piece.” He hangs up before Rufus can say another word.

  “The hell was that about?” Calum asks as Chris douses the lights and grabs Ginger’s leash.

  “Apparently Susan Napier wants to do a head-to-head at the Foodies Festival.”

  Calum snorts. “Sounds desperate.”

  “Very. But we may as well go ahead and do it. She’s already worked the whole thing out with them.”

  “Course she has. Wants to make sure she’s got all the advantages.”

  “Yeah, well, we’ll see about that.”

  The staff are gone, already on their way to the bar for drinks. Chris figures he’ll stop by for his usual single stout, nursed for just long enough so the others don’t think he’s trying to avoid them. He isn’t; he’s just tired of the long, raucous after-hours drinking. He wants to go home and crawl into that nice, comfy bed and just sleep. Maybe he’s getting old.

  But now he’s got an event to plan for, which means he’s unlikely to get much sleep tonight. Chris flicks the kitchen lights off a bit harder than is strictly necessary.

  “At least you’ve got time to think it over,” Calum says, as if reading Chris’s mind. “It’ll keep your mind occupied while you go trekking for seaweed. Unless, of course, you decide to take someone along, and I think you should. Lyddie seemed keen.”

  “I don’t date staff,” Chris reminds him.

  “Lauren, then. She’s fit. Bet she wouldn’t mind a quick dip in the chilly sea.” Calum waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “And a nice warm-up afterward. Go on and take her. I’m sure she can show you all the best spots.”

  “You’re a filthy creature.” Chris shakes his head, chuckling. “Anyway, she’s out of town. Some music festival in Berlin or something.”

  “Ah, mate, you live like a monk, you do,” Calum teases as Chris opens the back door, then pauses. “What’s up?”

  Chris holds up a hand for quiet, listening. Did he just … Was that some kind of rustling he heard in his kitchen? Jesus, they don’t have mice, do they?

  He flips the lights on and strides back into the kitchen. No telltale rodents scurry out of sight (thank God), but he can still swear he hears something. Is he going crazy?

  His eyes slide toward a small storage room just off the kitchen. He yanks the door open and there, sitting on a pile of freshly laundered chefs’ whites, is Rab, looking sheepish.

  “Jaysus, boy, what’re you up to?” Cal
um asks, grabbing his chest dramatically. “You’ll give us all a heart attack.”

  “What’re you doing?” Chris asks. “Don’t you want to go home?” His mind starts conjuring up all sorts of nightmare scenarios: abuse, drink, drugs, gangs.

  “It’s—it’s—I—” Rab stammers. His face, normally as pale as those whites, reddens, and the port wine birthmark that runs from just below his left eye to the top of his neck turns a livid purple.

  Calum’s voice is steel. “There’s no cash left here overnight, you know,” he reminds the boy. “If it’s theft you’re after, you’re out of luck.”

  Rab looks up at them in panic, shaking his head. “No, no, no! I really—I just wanted to practice.”

  The two chefs stare at him, baffled.

  “Practice?” Chris repeats.

  “What do you need to practice in the middle of the night? You did fine on salads tonight. Get yourself home, boy,” Calum says, rolling his eyes but seeming relieved he doesn’t have to deal with some hardened thief.

  “I wasn’t going to practice salads. I was going to work on pastry,” Rab mumbles, looking down at his hands, clenched in his lap. “It’s … I like doin’ it, but I don’t seem to be doin’ great with it, ya know? I keep wreckin’ the puff. And then I mixed up salt and sugar in the crème pat the other day and thought Chef Martin was gonna kill me.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” Chris reassures him. “We all screw up at some point. When I was your age, I somehow mixed up olive oil and truffle oil. Made the world’s most expensive batch of completely inedible vinaigrette dressing.”

  Rab smiles in spite of himself, and so does Chris. Amazing, really, that Elliot hadn’t fired him for that. But instead the old man tasted it and said, “Experiments are good, lad. That’s how you’ll know what works and what doesn’t. This doesn’t. Now you know. And so do I.”

  It’s a shame his pastry chef doesn’t have that sort of equanimity. Martin’s a good guy, and a great chef, but he’s not a natural teacher. Rab’s not the only apprentice who’s struggled with him, but he is the only one who’s persevered with pastry. And despite the salt/sugar disaster, he’s been doing a good job with it.

  “So, you love doing puddings, eh?” Chris asks.

  Rab looks up at him and shrugs. A tiny smile appears. “Yeah. It’s no’ easy, but it makes people happy, eh?”

  Susan used to say something like that, Chris recalls. And Elliot too.

  “You do seem to have a talent for it,” Chris observes. “I’d say your short crust puts even Martin’s to shame. And that mousse you made the other day …” He glances at Calum, who nods in emphatic agreement. “We’ll see about getting you more training, if that’s what you want,” Chris promises. “But we can’t have you banging around in here after hours.”

  “Can’t you practice at home?” Calum wonders.

  Rab gives him a rather withering look. “I have four younger siblings, and the kitchen’s the size of this closet,” he answers, indicating the storage cupboard.

  “Fair enough,” Calum allows.

  “Come on,” Chris says, patting the boy on the shoulder and getting him to his feet. “You can come to my place. Get your practice in there, or at least get a good night’s sleep, and get here bright and early tomorrow morning. And I’ll see what I can do about finding someone who can train you. And also, maybe get you out of the kitchen here for a bit, and we’ll see what you can really do.”

  Rab’s face brightens. “Thanks, Chef!”

  “Ach, it’s after hours. Call me Chris.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Oh, Kay

  “Darlings!” Kay folds first Susan, then Julia into tight embraces as soon as she’s through the door at Moray Place. “And Bernard! You’re looking unnaturally youthful,” she adds, offering up a cheek for him to kiss.

  “Kay, how lovely you look,” Bernard declares, peering a little too closely into her face. “How do you do it?”

  “It’s not so difficult,” Kay replies. “I walk, Bernard. And I work. Amazing how rejuvenating some honest, hard work can be. Just look at how wonderful Susan’s looking these days.”

  She gestures to Susan, who blushes. She doesn’t think she looks all that great—she hasn’t even bothered with makeup, beyond a hurried slick of mascara. And she’s been so busy she’s sure she looks worn out. But neither Julia nor Bernard offer any arguments, so maybe there’s something to it.

  “Well, do walk this way—we’ve got a beautiful little pinot grigio waiting on the terrace,” says Bernard, offering her an arm with a flourish. “Unless you want a tour first? How do you like the place?”

  “Oh, very nice. So roomy,” Kay replies, giving the entryway a once-over as she straightens the flowered silk scarf draped around her neck. “You seem to have changed your style, Julia,” she notes.

  “I haven’t had time to work on this. I’ve been busy at the restaurant,” Julia announces.

  Kay crooks a perfectly groomed eyebrow. “Have you indeed?”

  Julia’s almost childlike in her eagerness. “I’m doing the whole thing over. It needs it.”

  “Oh, you clever girl,” Kay says, glancing in Susan’s direction.

  “Thank you,” Julia replies. “Just wait until you see it! But you have to wait until it’s finished. It’s been such a fuss, really—there was an issue with the lighting fixtures, and I had to rethink my whole concept, and Susan’s always on me about the budget, which is impossibly tight, but I’m managing despite her.”

  “I’m sure you are. Your patience, Julia, is remarkable.” Kay pats Julia on the arm, and Julia glows.

  “Shall I tell you about the—”

  “Later, dear,” Kay says to Julia, slipping a hand around Susan’s waist. “I want to hear all about what Susan’s doing at the restaurant. Shall we go open that wine, and you can tell me all about it?”

  Julia droops and Bernard pats her on the arm.

  “Yes, the wine, excellent idea,” he says, leading them all toward the terrace. “Kay, I do wish you’d stay here with us. I’m sure we could squeeze you in. You didn’t have to go taking that little flat for the month.”

  “Oh, Bernard, you’re a dear, but you know how I like having my own space,” Kay excuses as they emerge into the sunshine. “Besides, the flat is much nearer the theater, and I’m going to be very busy there for the next few weeks. Rehearsals start in two days.” She leans over to examine the platter of snacks Susan has put together. Olives, four different types of cheese from Mellis’s in the Old Town, cured meats, and an assortment of homemade chutneys and flavored crackers. Susan also baked a focaccia that morning, spongy inside and crisp outside, topped with garlic and sweet cherry tomatoes, and lavishly drizzled with olive oil. Kay spears an olive and helps herself to a slice of the focaccia.

  “Now,” says Kay, settling back with her snacks, “tell me how the restaurant’s getting on. New chef all settled in?”

  “She seems to be,” Susan answers. “We hope to reopen in a few weeks, and Gloria and I are doing a competition at the Foodies Festival next Saturday.”

  Kay’s eyes widen. “Are you? That sounds fun! Who are you competing against? Not each other?”

  “No. Chris Baker,” Susan answers. She pretends to be very interested in her glass of wine as she glances through her lashes at her aunt. Kay is looking right at her. Serious. Getting a read on what Susan’s feeling.

  Am I such an open book, Susan wonders? Can Kay really suss out what I’m feeling, when even I’m not sure?

  “Well,” Kay murmurs, exchanging a meaningful look with Bernard, “there’s a name from the past. I had no idea he was here.”

  “Just opened his first restaurant,” Julia supplies. “It’s good. I had dinner there the other night.”

  Susan’s astonished. “You did?”

  Julia shrugs. “Sure. Everyone’s going there. And it’s good to know the competition, isn’t it?”

  “What was the food like?” Susan asks. “What did you
have?”

  “It was all right. Looked nice. I only had a salad, and it wasn’t that memorable. Someone else had the fish; a couple of people had puddings and seemed to like them. I was mostly looking at the design of the place. Inspiration, you know. Oh, Dad, you’d love the wine list.”

  “Everyone has a good wine list these days,” Bernard responds curtly. “That’s hardly a reason to go to a restaurant. Kay—tell us about this play of yours.”

  “What, Oedipus? It’s hardly new, Bernard.”

  “Yes, but it’s new to us,” he insists. “We’ve never seen it with you. And Philip Simms—did he fly up with you?”

  “No, no, Phillip’s been up here for a while now. He came for the Film Festival and just stayed on. He’s never been to Edinburgh before and says he loves how down-to-earth it is. Hardly anyone bothers him. Refreshing for him, I take it. He’s a darling; I’ll have to bring him round, or have everyone over for drinks or something.”

  Bernard glances at Julia, who shrugs. “Sounds nice,” she drawls. “Is there more wine, Dad?”

  Bernard hands her the bottle.

  “What a pretty garden you have here!” Kay declares. “Is that a lilac over there? I do love a lilac. Susan, let’s go look at it.” She rises and strolls toward the lilac bush in the far corner of the garden. Susan obediently joins her.

  “As you can see this is a fine … lilac,” Susan says, gesturing to the bush.

  Kay smirks. “I hate lilacs. The smell reminds me of old ladies, and I don’t like old ladies, even though I am one. Now, my dear, I want to know how you are.”

  “I’m well,” Susan answers. “As well as can be. Working all hours, but it’s good. It keeps me busy, keeps my mind working.” Her mind’s been working overtime the past few days. She’s been firing on all cylinders, her brain churning out new ideas faster than she can write them down. It’s exciting. She’s going to be doing a lot of experimenting this week.