All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  “Yeah, that happens sometimes,” she reassures him. “Low and slow is what you want. You try and rush something like curd or custard, and the eggs cook too quickly instead of thickening up.” He nods intently as he uses a spatula to shove the last of the curd through the sieve. “Right,” says Susan. “While that cools, let’s bake off those tart shells.”

  Twenty-five minutes later, with the baked tart crusts cooling on a rack, Chris calls out, “Lunchtime!,” holding up a pair of bowls filled with pasta.

  “You’re a legend,” Susan says, realizing—belatedly—that she’s starving. She and Rab slide onto stools at the chef’s table, and Chris sets the bowls in front of them.

  Spaghetti aglio, olio, e peperoncino: spaghetti with olive oil, loads of garlic, and chili flakes. She stares down into the bowl, at the tangle of slick spaghetti and the bright red and orange pops of fresh, minutely chopped chili peppers. Breathes it in, that sharp, grassy-sweet smell of the garlic and the rich, fruity, green scent of the olive oil, and just like that she’s back in his tiny kitchen in London, sitting on the countertop, giggling as he twirls the pasta around the fork and feeds it to her.

  “You’re not shy with the garlic,” she gasped the first time she tried it. “Or the chili!”

  “Too much?” he asked, withdrawing the next forkful.

  “No, I love it!” She grabbed the hand holding the fork and directed it toward her mouth, inelegantly slurping up the pasta. It was addictive, that. Rich and comforting.

  He grinned and kissed her, licking a tiny drip of oil off her bottom lip. “It’s a sort of insurance policy,” he whispered. “No one else’ll want to kiss you after all that garlic.”

  She laughed, swatted him playfully, and finished the whole bowl.

  He made it for her almost every time she stayed the night. It was their dish.

  Was, she reminds herself sternly, swallowing hard, now. But she looks up at him, through her lashes, wondering if he’s done this deliberately. Is this just his go-to dish? Something fast and easy to prepare, which he can throw together in a hurry, without thinking? Or did he make it because he knows the sort of memories it’ll evoke? And if that’s the case, why? Does he want to taunt her with everything she’s stupidly given up, or remind her of how good it was, for a time? Or is it … something else entirely?

  He’s looking at her expectantly, facing her across the countertop. “Not hungry?” he asks, once her hesitation has become painfully obvious.

  “No, just …” Unsure what to say, she dips her fork into the pasta, swirls it around, and takes a bite. Just as good as ever. He’s added something—lemon zest, and perhaps some chopped anchovies, but it’s still mostly about the heat of the garlic and the chilies, the decadent richness of the olive oil, and the silky handmade pasta.

  “Almost exactly as I remember it,” she says with a smile.

  He cocks his head just a little. “Exactly?”

  “Almost. You’ve made some changes,” she allows, her smile widening. And then, before she can stop it, “Guess you’ve had some feedback over the years.”

  “No. Never made it for anyone else.”

  “Oh,” she whispers.

  The mist begins to rise again, until he clears his throat and turns his attention to some lamb chops he’s trimming. “Most of the women I’ve known don’t like that much garlic.”

  “No? But they were all right with the heat, I guess?”

  He glances back up and smirks, then turns away and begins frying the chops in a pan.

  Rab has inhaled his pasta, oblivious to their conversation. Now finished, he slides off the stool. “The missus is here, Chris,” he says, jerking his head toward the front door.

  Susan’s heart seems to cram itself into her throat. The missus? She cranes her neck toward the glass door, confused. Surely she would have heard if Chris was married? Is this some secret wife he’s had stashed away? Will there be some blonde glamazon at the door, waiting for her garlic-free lunch?

  No, most assuredly not. Instead, there’s a tiny, elderly lady with hair an improbable yellow-blonde color, pulled back into a bun. She’s dressed in a purple cardigan with pearl buttons, black trousers, and sensible flat shoes. She’s probably all of about five feet tall and roughly rectangular in shape. She has one hand cupped against the glass as she peers into the dark restaurant, looking for signs of life, no doubt.

  Chris’s head whips round. “Ah, she’s early! Go let her in, Rab,” he says, leaving the lamb chop to cook while he delicately arranges some fondant potatoes, glossy with butter, on a plate alongside roasted carrots and a mound of mushy peas.

  Rab unlocks the door and lets the woman in.

  “Thankee lad, that’s a good lad,” the lady says, reaching up to pat Rab on the arm. “How’s yer ma?”

  “She’s awright,” he answers, locking the door behind her.

  “Comin’ along, then? She must be gettin’ big ’n ’ all, now!”

  “She is. Gran reckons it’ll be another girl.”

  “Just so long’s it’s healthy.”

  Chris puts the chops on the plate with the veg and skitters out of the kitchen with it, bending to greet the woman with a one-armed hug. “Ya’ve caught me out, Missus Mollie!” he apologizes.

  “Aye, well, I can see ye’ve got guests; a bit o’ distraction’s to be expected,” Mollie replies, with a twinkling glance Susan’s way.

  “She’s teachin’ me tae bake,” Rab announces.

  Susan can’t help but notice that his and Chris’s accents are thickening considerably in this woman’s presence, a phenomenon she’s witnessed between staff members in her own kitchen. She once came across Gloria talking to the fish supplier in slang and accents so impenetrable she’d actually thought for a moment they were speaking Gaelic.

  “Good on you, dearie,” Mollie says in both Susan’s and Rab’s general direction.

  “Lunch?” Chris brandishes the plate.

  “Oh, aye, I think I will.”

  Chris leads Mollie to a seat near a window, about as far from the kitchen as the pair can get. He places the plate in front of one seat, then pulls out the chair for her and unfurls the linen napkin, as if he’s a waiter and she the most highly prized guest.

  “Rab,” Susan whispers, as Chris seats himself across from Mollie and begins talking to her in a voice too low to be overheard, “who is that?” Some relative, perhaps? His mother returned from wherever she disappeared to?

  “I think she’s his best mate’s mum,” Rab answers. “She comes for lunch every Tuesday, when there’s nobody about. He makes summat special for her, and they sit and chat. Sometimes she cries.”

  “She cries?”

  Rab shrugs. “His mate’s dead, I think,” he elaborates.

  “Oh.” Susan frowns. “I thought his best mate was his sous chef.”

  “That’s ’is best mate now, but that’s”—Rab jerks a thumb in Mollie’s direction— “the mum of ’is best mate growin’ up.”

  Susan glances back over at the table. Mollie’s talking quite animatedly, waving her knife and fork in between cutting pieces of meat and smearing it with mushy peas. Chris is laughing at whatever she’s saying and then chipping in with something. She guesses they’re trading memories. It strikes her as incredibly sweet that he’d do this for a lonely old lady.

  “She’s nice,” Rab adds, watching them as well. “She talks to me sometimes when I’m here. I told her about my ma bein’ up th’ duff again.”

  “Do you have a lot of brothers and sisters?” Susan asks.

  Rab nodded. “Four ’n all,” he said. “Two each.” He shakes his head. “It’s a lot o’ work, and Dad’s away a lot. He works on the North Sea rigs, you see.”

  “Oh.” Dangerous work that takes people away from their families for weeks at a time. She can feel the pressure on this young man’s shoulders to help his mother while also trying to start a career and a life of his own. She takes her own bowl into the kitchen and pats Rab on the shoulder. “You
must miss him. Must be rough when he’s away.” He lifts his head and she looks him in the eye and says, “You’re doing a great job, Rab. You really are. You should be proud.”

  He nods slowly. “Thanks.”

  She pats him again and says, “Those tart shells should be cool by now. How about we make a ganache?”

  By the time Mollie has finished her lunch, the tarts are filled: some with a decadent chocolate ganache, others with custard and glazed fruit, and the rest with the lemon curd. Susan finds some edible flowers in the refrigerator at the pastry station, and she and Rab carefully place one violet in the center of each lemon curd tart.

  “Rab, you’ve done excellent work today,” Susan compliments. “It’s been a real pleasure working with you. Would you like to do it again?”

  His face lights up and he nods. “Can we?”

  “Of course!” She grabs a small plastic storage box and places one of each of the tarts inside. “Take some of these home—you’ve earned it!”

  He glances toward Chris. “You sure it’s okay?”

  “He won’t mind.”

  “Then … could I just take the chocolate ones? Ma’ll like those best. She likes a chocolate nowadays. It’s how I know she’s ’avin’ a girl. It were the same wi’ my sisters.”

  “Take as many as you like,” says Susan, picking up two other tarts and arranging them on plates. She thought it might be nice to give Mollie a sweet at the end of her meal.

  With a smile, Susan approaches the table, but just as she reaches it, she realizes she’s made a terrible mistake. Something has changed here. Mollie has pushed her plate away and her head is bowed over her hands, folded in front of her on the table. Chris, face contracted in pain, is speaking very quietly, seeming helpless. Susan stops and hovers a few feet from the table, unsure what to do. Turn and run back to the kitchen? That seems … strange. But coming closer feels intrusive.

  After a few excruciating seconds, Chris glances up and notices her. The expression on his face is now plainly What the hell are you doing?

  “I’m sorry, I-I-,” Susan stammers, coming closer. As she does so, Mollie turns her head away and brings one hand up to further shield her face. “I thought you might like something for pudding,” Susan finishes, feeling like a world-class tit.

  “Just leave them,” Chris orders sharply, warning her, with a look, to go. Quickly.

  Susan jumps forward and puts the tarts down so fast the lemon one slides on the plate, tipping right over the side. The delicate pastry cracks in half and the lemon filling begins oozing onto the tablecloth. “Oh!” she reaches out to rescue it, but Chris swoops in first, roughly shoving the tart back onto its plate.

  “Leave it—it’s fine!” he insists.

  “That’s awright, dearie, thank’ee,” Mollie says. A quiver in her voice betrays the emotions she’s trying hard to conceal.

  Susan backs away. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, mortified. “Sorry!” She turns, flees back through the kitchen and bursts out the back door and into the August sunshine.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Too Close for Comfort

  “… so then I said, ‘That’s not on, and you know it, and you’re just being a wanker now—’”

  “Lauren! Little pitchers!” Meg claps her hands over the ears of the son nearest to her.

  “Muuuuuum!” Ali wails, ducking away from her.

  “He always was a wanker,” Lauren’s friend (Kate? Kell? Susan can’t recall now.) responds, ignoring the murderous look Meg shoots her. Kate/Kell nudges a third girl with the elbow of the arm she’s using to text someone. “Remember when we all went to Porty Beach after the Freshers Ball, and he dared Leila to jump off the steps? And she landed on some rocks and fractured her ankle and whacked her head, and then we made him come with us to A&E and he sulked the whole time we were there, even though it was his fault we were there in the first place? What a dick.”

  “Girls, will you please watch your language and—Hermione, I’ve told you time and again not to even look at that chicken! Out! Both you dogs! You are banished!” Helen herds the labs out of the dining room. Both cast mournful looks over their shoulders as they go, begging someone to intervene on their behalf.

  “… Fascinating stuff, theater. I’ve always wondered how people do it. I mean, how do you manage to get so into so many different characters? Don’t you get confused sometimes?” Russell wonders, stepping aside so the dogs can pass.

  “But that’s the genius of it, Russ!” Bernard leans over a platter of cold poached salmon. “That’s what makes her great. It’s why everyone wants to work with her, isn’t that right, Kay? It’s the same with Philip. It’s why this show’s going to amaze everyone—really amaze them, isn’t that right, Kay?”

  “Hermione!” shrieks Helen as one of the dogs streaks back in and makes for the chicken. “Lauren, I told you—”

  “She got away from me, Mum! I told you she’s impossible—you need to bring someone in to train her.”

  Susan can barely hear her own thoughts over the cacophony of the Cox dinner table. It’s Wednesday, an unusual evening for a full-on family dinner, but Kay’s play opens that weekend, and Helen wanted a “welcome to Edinburgh, Kay, dear,” dinner before Kay’s evenings were all spoken for. The weather has not cooperated: the previous day’s sun gave way to a chilly, cloudy morning and then a chilly, rainy afternoon that barely tamped down the masses of people heaving up and down the city’s streets. There’s no crowd relief here either: Helen and Russell have invited loads of people, and they’re all clumped around the buffet-style spread on the table, awkwardly holding plates, no one quite in a position to move them all into another room. So the dining room feels too full and too warm. The windows have steamed up; the children are bored and whiny; and the host and hostess, who should be the ones directing traffic, stand talking with their guests.

  Besides Kay and the Napiers, the guests include Lauren’s two friends, both switching between typing on their phones and eyeing Susan (at least, that’s what they seem to be doing), three sets of neighbors, and a clutch of Russell’s colleagues. Susan’s found herself pinned in front of an immense bowl of three-bean salad, jostled on one side by the florid partner in an important law firm, and on the other by a bony academic, who asked what she knows about golf and the cognitive sciences. When she admitted she doesn’t know the first thing about either, he lost interest and turned to the man next to him, who crowed, “God, Rory, have you seen what they’ve done to the front nine at Machrihanish? Bloody travesty!”

  Susan gazes across the bean bowl and catches her aunt’s eye. Kay looks pityingly back at her, then lays a hand on Meg’s arm and says, “Meg, dear, you poor thing, trying to balance that baby and the plate. Here, let me help you. No, no, dear, I’ll take the plate; you can take the little one. Let’s just go on into the sitting room so you can sit down. Too hot in here for the wee ones anyhow.”

  “Oh yes, of course,” Helen flutters. “Let’s all go! We can spread out a bit!”

  “I’m glad someone’s concerned about me,” Meg growls, shooting daggers at her husband, who only rolls his eyes.

  “Everything okay?” Susan murmurs as William passes her, steering the two older boys ahead of him.

  “Shipshape,” he answers with a tight smile.

  “I think we’re going to go,” Kate/Kell reports to the company in general. “You said Philip Simms was going to be here,” Susan hears her hiss at Lauren as she passes.

  “I said he might come, not that he would,” Lauren flings back. “Oh, go on then. I’ll text you later and we can meet up.”

  “Should we ask Liam?” the other one smirks.

  “Do what you like,” Lauren replies in a tone of studied disinterest.

  As the others flow into the sitting room, Susan branches off and slips into the blissfully quiet kitchen. Hermione the dog follows and sits at her feet, looking up hopefully.

  “Your mum won’t like it if I give you something,” Susan tells her. />
  The dog cocks her head and goes full mournful with the eyes.

  “I won’t tell if you don’t,” she seems to be saying.

  “Oh, go on then.” Susan tosses her a little piece of chicken, just as Lauren comes in.

  “Ah, someone else who needs a moment of peace,” Lauren observes, reaching into a tin on the countertop and retrieving a biscuit for the dog. “Sit!” Hermione’s haunch hovers an inch from the tile. “Good girl!” Lauren tosses her the treat, then pulls herself up to sit on the countertop. “So,” she says, waggling her eyebrows at Susan. “How’re things with Philip?”

  “They’re all right” is Susan’s evasive response.

  “Just all right?”

  “I’m sure Arion Nation will fill you in on all the details, if I won’t.”

  “Oh, don’t be like that! You still going to see him again? Your aunt says he’s been talking about you ever since your date.”

  Susan grimaces, not liking the idea of Kay gossiping about her. To Lauren, of all people. It’s almost making her reconsider agreeing to go out with Philip again, but she has to admit, he’s fun to be around. He fortuitously phoned the night before, when she was still beating herself up about the debacle with Chris and Mollie. Philip had made her laugh, with a couple of stories about awkward fan encounters he’d had that day. They’d made him late and earned him a scolding from Kay that he termed “very maternal. I think she missed her calling as the mother of erstwhile thirty-something actors.”

  “She’s got some erstwhile thirty-something nieces to make up for it,” Susan pointed out before agreeing to a date—a definite date—on Thursday.

  “I wish a movie star would come and sweep me off my feet,” Lauren sighs. “Especially one like him, because he’s both good looking and talented, and most of them aren’t both, you know? I loved him in that last film; he’s the only reason I went to see it. Of course, Liam said it was pretentious, but the critics loved it, so what does he know?”