All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  “And keeps your mind occupied, I take it?” Kay asks with a knowing look.

  “Oh, don’t worry about Chris—that was ages ago.” Susan hopes she sounds convincing.

  “It was ages ago, dear, but it was such a tumultuous time, and I know how upset you were over the whole thing.” Kay sighs and contemplates the bush for a little while. “I may not have handled things the best way I could. I hope you know that I only wanted to help you and make sure you were all right.”

  “Of course I know that,” Susan says warmly, taking her aunt’s hand and squeezing it. “Why wouldn’t I think that?”

  Kay smiles and pats Susan’s hand. “Have you seen him?”

  “Once. He happened upon me in the park when I was out with Meg’s boys. It was … fine. A little awkward, but that’s to be expected.”

  “And now you two are competing against each other? How did that come about?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Usually is. Are you nervous?”

  “A little.”

  “Good. Nerves drive you on. I try to get myself good and terrified before I go on stage. That way I’ll overcompensate and be great instead of just good enough. But you were never satisfied with just good enough. I’ll bet anything you’ve been turning yourself inside out over the desserts at the restaurant.”

  “Inside out and back again. You should have seen me with this stupid sea buckthorn.”

  Kay laughs. “You’ll knock everyone’s socks off, my dear,” she declares. “Fear not! But do leave yourself some time for fun, all right? I was serious about inviting you all to meet Philip. I think he’d rather like you.”

  “I’m hardly the type movie stars go for, Aunt Kay.”

  “Oh, nonsense! I’m a movie star, and I adore you.”

  Susan chuckles and gives her aunt a fond pat on the arm.

  “Really, though, Susan, don’t sell yourself short. Just because you don’t look like Julia doesn’t mean you don’t have merit. And I’ll be honest with you: I think you’re really blooming up here. You look and seem …” Kay steps back, shaking her head, searching for the words. “I don’t know—happier. Brighter. It’s good, it really is. I was starting to be afraid you’d never recapture that, and it broke my heart. I’m so glad to see it back again.” She glances back toward the house and sighs. “Oh, here comes your father now. Our time is done. Hello, Bernard!”

  “Still examining the lilac?” he asks, looking at the bush as if it confuses him.

  “No, we were talking about this food festival Susan’s going to be competing in. Of course, we’ll all be there to cheer her on?”

  “Yes, yes, of course!” Bernard agrees. “But I thought you’d have rehearsal?”

  “Don’t be silly: they can rehearse a scene without me that afternoon. This is important! Is there any of that wine left, or has Julia drunk it all? Come on, you two, those tasty nibbles won’t eat themselves.”

  * * *

  Kay was serious about that cocktail party. With the same efficiency she’d displayed when rescuing Susan from her grief many years before, she has a date set, hors d’oeuvres ordered, and a waiter and bartender lined up to make sure nobody has to bother doing anything for themselves. The entire cast of the play is coming, and some of the crew, and Kay’s theater and film friends who are in town, ahead of the opening of the festivals in just a week’s time. Bernard is beside himself.

  “She said David Mamet might be there!” he gushes to his daughters over breakfast the day of. “And Kenneth Branagh has practically promised to poke a head in!”

  Susan has too much on her mind to get excited about theoretical Branagh sightings. The Foodies Festival is just a few days off, and she needs a perfect sweet for it.

  “Pastry is not Chris’s strong suit,” she informed Gloria, recalling with a smile the time Chris attempted to make a quiche for their dinner. The crust was so tough it was almost impossible to cut, and when she tried driving a fork through it, she managed to shoot the bite halfway across his flat. It smacked his roommate’s sullen cat in the rump, and the thing leapt a good four feet in the air, yowling indignantly as they laughed. They wound up ordering a curry that night, and binned the quiche.

  “He might have improved,” Gloria pointed out. “Or he might bring his pastry chef.”

  “He isn’t. Rey told me he’s bringing one of his apprentices.”

  Gloria was clearly impressed by Susan’s use of the kitchen underground. “Look at you, spy girl!”

  Susan shrugged. “We need to win this, Gloria.”

  “Yeah,” said Gloria. “I know. Believe me.”

  So, the day of Kay’s party both women have been chained to their stations, tweaking and swearing when something goes wrong, allowing little gasps of delight when it doesn’t. Upstairs, the last of the dry rot is being removed and the contractor promises the walls will be finished by the following week, at the latest. Susan can’t wait for the restaurant to stop echoing with the pounding of work boots and hammers and the shriek of saws, though the workmen have helped her add considerably to her swear vocabulary. And they’re nice guys: she regularly bakes them biscuits and brownies, which they receive with a “Cheers, luv!” and down in a gulp with their massive mugs of builder’s brew during their morning break.

  No biscuits today, though. Susan’s too busy trying to solve the mystery of a weeping meringue, one that is still unsolved when Gloria lifts her head and shouts, “Hey! Suze! Don’t you have to be somewhere?”

  “Damn it!” Susan hastily dumps mixing bowls and spatulas in the sink at the dishwashing station, stashes fruit and tarts in her reach-in, slaps on some mascara and lipstick, and decides it’ll just have to do.

  “Have fun!” Gloria calls as Susan skitters past her station, takes the stairs two at a time, and rushes to Kay’s flat.

  Kay has taken a penthouse in a new building not far off the Royal Mile. The building has the antiseptic, colorless feel of a place that’s meant for people just passing through, but Kay’s decorated her flat with gorgeous wall hangings made from embroidered silk she bought in India, and the dull gray furniture is livened up by Moroccan cushions in poppy red and saffron yellow. There’s a terrace with a spectacular view of the monuments on Calton Hill, and since it’s a mild night, the French doors opening onto it are thrown open and guests with drinks are already mingling out there, leaning oh so casually against the railings.

  Those guests, Susan assumes, are the actors and actresses. They’re uniformly beautiful, tall, dangerously lacking in body fat, and dressed in clinging, expensive clothes and uncomfortable shoes. They keep to their own little cluster.

  Inside—right next to the kitchen—are the nonactors. They’re less glossy, and they greet one another with big hugs and laugh loudly at their inside jokes. They load up every time an hors d’oeuvre tray passes, as if they’re hoping this will be their dinner. (It seems Kay realized this would be the case: the hors d’oeuvres are more substantial than one would expect at a cocktail party, and there’s a small mountain of bacon rolls at one end of the bar.)

  Kay flits between these two groups, air-kissing the actors, joking with the crew, and stopping in the middle to speak to the non-theater people, such as Susan’s family, who seem uncertain whom they should approach, or how. Only Bernard and Julia have made an attempt to sidle up to the people on the terrace. One actor easing into his dignified salt-and-pepper years smiles tolerantly and nods at whatever Bernard is saying, even as he shoots one of his fellows a “save me” look. Julia has apparently run out of things to say to an actress with waist-length blonde hair, so she joins Susan at the bar, to have her glass refilled.

  “I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” Julia says as the bartender hands Susan her glass of white wine.

  “Lost track of time,” Susan explains, reaching out to snatch a miniature sausage roll from the waiter’s passing tray. She hasn’t eaten all day; it vanishes in an instant.

  Julia wrinkles her nose at the sausag
e rolls and then wrinkles it further, sniffing. “God, Susan, you reek of the kitchen!” she hisses. “You couldn’t be bothered to shower before you came?”

  “I didn’t have time!” Susan answers plaintively as she lifts a corner of her shirt and sniffs. Does she really stink? All she smells is sweet: cake batter and sugar and fruit. But maybe she can’t smell the worst of it?

  Julia rolls her eyes. “I hope you find a new pastry chef soon; this isn’t dignified.”

  “Don’t hold your breath,” Susan says. Their search for a pastry chef has been suspiciously futile, and she suspects someone out there has been poisoning the well.

  Julia accepts her champagne cocktail from the bartender and leans against the bar, sipping and watching Kay as she stops to have a word with Meg and William.

  “Aunt Kay is not aging well,” Julia declares in a whisper. “I mean, just look at her skin. And that hairstyle! And what is she wearing?”

  “I think she looks amazing,” Susan answers. She can only hope to age as gracefully as her aunt, though she seriously doubts she will. She’ll certainly never have her style: tonight Kay is wearing a long white caftan with bell-shaped sleeves, embellished along the neckline with blue beads and embroidered white flowers. It flows as she walks and delicately lifts with every breeze that comes through the open windows. On most other women her age it might have looked a bit much, like Norma Desmond trying out beachwear, but somehow Kay makes it work.

  “You would think she looks amazing,” Julia sniffs.

  “What’s got under your skin tonight? Ohh,” Susan grimaces sympathetically. “Is Philip Simms here?”

  “He is,” is Julia’s clipped response. “I said hello.”

  “That was nice of you.”

  “He acted like it was the first time he’d ever seen me.”

  “Well, Jules, it was a long time ago. He may have forgotten.”

  Julia’s face clouds over at the very thought she might be forgettable, so Susan hastily adds, “Or it may be that he’s just embarrassed by what happened. Maybe he’s trying to cover up. Awkwardly.”

  To Susan’s relief, at that moment Kay looks up, sees her, and beams.

  “Didn’t hear you come in, darling!” Kay abandons Meg (who pouts), floats over, and folds Susan into a hug. “Oh, you smell delicious! What’ve you been baking today?”

  “Roasted strawberries and rhubarb for a mascarpone ice cream. Lemon tart pastry, mint meringues, sundried tomato rolls, honey cake.” Susan reels off each item, counting them on her fingers and feeling like she must have forgotten something.

  “Sounds divine!” Kay grins and gestures to the waiter, who comes over with his tray of miniature quiches. Kay helps herself to two.

  “I was just saying to Susan, Aunt Kay, that I really love your dress,” Julia simpers, taking a quiche and setting it on a napkin on the bar.

  Kay smiles. “That’s sweet, dear, but no you weren’t. If you’re going to lie, at least be good at it.” She slips an arm through Susan’s and pats her niece’s hand. “Susan, I want to introduce you to someone. You don’t mind if I steal you away, do you?”

  Susan, halfway through a quiche of her own, shakes her head and tries to swallow. Kay steers her toward the crowd on the terrace, which has bunched around one man in particular. He has wavy brown hair, a lean frame that’s just muscular enough to be fashionable, and an easy, brilliantly white smile. This is Philip Simms: actor, face of Versace watches, and recent Academy Award nominee. (He lost, alas, to someone who played a former POW who picks up the pieces of his life by helping a polio-crippled boy train a troubled horse to win the Kentucky Derby. Nobody can beat that.)

  As Kay and Susan approach, Philip sniffs the air and his eyes widen in delight.

  “Who brought cake?” he asks.

  “Oh, sorry, that’s me,” Susan mumbles, dying a little inside but also thinking how hilarious Gloria will find this exchange when Susan tells her about it in the morning.

  Philip’s smile broadens, and he says, “You smell like cake? That’s amazing!”

  “It’s because I’ve been baking all day,” Susan explains, noticing that the actresses clumped nearby are eyeing her. They back away slightly, as if she’s oozing calories and they’ll put on half a pound every minute they’re within her range.

  “Philip, this is my niece Susan,” Kay introduces. “The one I was telling you about.”

  “Yeah, yeah! The one with the restaurant.” Philip hops forward and shakes Susan’s hand. “I’ve heard loads about you. Glad you could make it tonight—you sound super busy.”

  “I am,” Susan admits.

  “Well, we are honored.” Philip puts a hand on his chest and inclines in a slight bow.

  Susan smiles, unexpectedly charmed. “Well, you should be,” she rejoins. “I’ve abandoned weeping meringues for this.”

  “Weeping meringues—the tragedy! Do tell me how one moves a meringue to tears.”

  “I wish I knew,” Susan sighs.

  Philip smiles again, and Susan has a sudden sense that she’s seen him before. In person, not on a commercial or poster at the cinema. It takes her a few moments, but then she realizes he was the man Gloria claimed had been checking Susan out at the bar not too long ago. How could she not have recognized him then? Was seeing someone out of context really that confusing?

  She blushes and feels foolish, but he leans against the railing and gestures for her to join him.

  “I love a good pudding, but I’m hopeless at baking,” he admits. “Kay says you’re amazing. What’ve you been baking today?” He cocks his head, waiting for her answer. He isn’t just being polite—he seems genuinely interested. Or he’s an excellent actor. Either way, Susan finds herself slipping easily into a conversation with him, detailing her adventures with the meringues and the sea buckthorn and the pudding she served Rufus.

  “Oh God, that sounds amazing, and I don’t even like bananas. Will you make it again soon, so I can try it?” Philip says after she describes it.

  “Sure,” she finds herself promising.

  The party continues to buzz around them as the sun inches toward the horizon. It won’t really set until after ten at this time of year, but the light dims enough for Kay to begin lighting strategically placed pillar candles.

  Susan and Philip drift toward a rattan sofa on the terrace, talking about food and traveling and the new play. They do not discuss the television role that made him famous or the Oscars or his upcoming film, which hasn’t even opened yet but is already being touted as the one that will surely, surely sweep the awards next year. And before they know it, the terrace is nearly empty, the actors having departed (taking Julia with them, Susan assumes, judging from her sister’s absence).

  The crew members, too, are gone; the platter of bacon rolls now completely empty; and only one solitary, half-squashed mini-quiche remains of the hors d’oeuvres.

  Bernard has deflated onto a chair: apparently neither Branagh nor Mamet came, and he failed to make a friend of the salt-and-pepper actor.

  Meg and William are sighing and making noises about having to go relieve the babysitter, but yes, all right, just one more drink, they’re taking a cab home anyway because parking in the city center is the worst, isn’t it?

  Philip, having just finished up one of his funnier stories about researching a role as a Maine lobsterman, realizes it’s time to make a graceful exit. He looks around and murmurs, “Well, we’ve shut the place down.”

  Susan chuckles, realizing she’s sorry to have to say good night. The two of them rise as one from the rattan sofa and wander inside.

  “Kay, I can’t thank you enough for a beautiful night,” Philip says, warmly embracing his costar. “And you know what? I don’t think you’ve even begun to do Susan justice. I expect better from you, Kay.”

  “Well, I thought I should let her personality speak for itself,” Kay says, as Susan stands there, blushing.

  “And it certainly did,” says Philip, turning back to Susan. Ka
y discreetly pulls out of hearing range. “Listen,” Philip murmurs to Susan, “I know you’re incredibly busy, but if you ever get some time off, I’d really like to continue our chat. It’s been fun.”

  “I’d like that,” Susan replies, grinning. “I’ve got a thing on Saturday, but how about Sunday? If it’s nice we can take a walk along the Waters of Leith.”

  “Yeah, that’d be great.” He whips out his phone. “What’s your number?”

  Susan tells him, and he thumbs it into his contacts, puts the phone away, and takes her hand, gallantly kissing the back of it.

  “Until Sunday, then,” he says. “Good luck with the sad meringues!”

  “Oh,” Susan sighs, rolling her eyes, “thanks. I’ll need it.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Competition

  Saturday is clear but windy. High gusts buffet people out walking their dogs in Inverleith Park, where the Foodies Festival takes place. The huge tent where the main events are held snaps and sways alarmingly with the wind.

  “Hope it doesn’t come down on us,” Gloria comments as she and Susan unload large plastic tubs full of ingredients.

  Honestly, Susan wouldn’t mind if the tent was carried off, because then they’d have to cancel this thing and she wouldn’t be risking humiliation. Because she knows that if she and Gloria lose, they’ll just be proving Chris right, publicly. Elliot’s is behind, and they’re not catching up. Their relaunch will be sunk before it even happens.

  This competition is a stupid idea.

  She watches Chris as he sets up, assisted by a teenager with very bright red hair, the blindingly white skin that typically accompanies it, and a startling birthmark that covers half his face. He’s lanky in the extreme and has a certain sunken-faced, bug-eyed look that speaks of several generations worth of struggle and poor nutrition. Every now and again, he glances warily at Susan and Gloria, before Chris gets his attention and directs him where to place cutting boards and mise en place. Chris, too, occasionally casts an eye Susan’s way, with a look so chilly she actually shivers, despite the fact the tent is warm to the point of stuffiness.