All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  “Ah, Liam again,” says Susan with a teasing look. “He comes up a lot for someone you’re only casual about.”

  “Only because he’s always around.” Lauren huffs. “He was with us in Berlin, and he was all right for a while, but then one night he had about five too many and started going on about the middle classes and how we’re all cows or sheep or something, with our organic allotments and Waitrose grocery deliveries and just not really living or feeling or … I don’t know. I tuned him out after a while. We all did. He’s so boring when he’s like that. Why can’t everyone be a fun drunk?”

  “Life would be so much better if they all were,” Susan agrees. “So you two are through, then?”

  “I don’t know. Suppose so. I mean, I haven’t sat down and had the big talk with him or anything, but who does that anymore? People just sort of go their own way, you know?” She sighs. “Maybe I should talk to him, though, just so there’s no confusion. Do you think I should?”

  “Yeah, Lauren, I think you should,” Susan tells her quietly. “Confusion is … hurtful.”

  “Oh, Liam can’t be hurt. He knows it’s only just casual with us anyway.” Lauren sighs again and kicks her feet against the cabinet. “Mum’ll hate it. Dad too. They were so pleased when I got together with him because Liam’s from setch a good feemily.’” She apes a nasal, cut-glass accent. “But honestly, he took me home with him one weekend, and I nearly wanted to die. His mother’s a pill. She saw me looking at some painting in their breakfast room—that’s what she called it, even though it was really just a dining alcove off the kitchen—and she said that of course the painting came from some ancient relative’s Grand Tour. She thought I would be in awe of that, but really I was just thinking how ugly the thing was. And she’s got some cousin—not even a cousin, a second cousin, or even further away than that—who’s a lord something or other, and she never. Shut. Up. About. It. ‘Oh yes, my cousin, Lord Suchandsuch, don’t you know, he’s very good friends with the prime minister, practically helps run the country, which is why he had to regretfully tell us he won’t be able to have us to the villa in Lake Garda after all, because the PM’s going to be calling an election soon, and my cousin simply must be at the beck and call of Number Ten. The sacrifices we all must make for our country!’” Lauren sticks her nose in the air and waves it around in imitation of this insufferable woman, and Susan laughs.

  “You should go on the stage, Lauren,” she says.

  “Maybe I will. I’m young yet, aren’t I?”

  “Who’s going on the stage?” Kay asks, sticking her head into the kitchen.

  “Lauren, probably,” Susan answers. “She’ll be the most brilliant comic actress of her generation.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” says Kay.

  “Comics, that’s it!” Lauren brightens. “You and Philip should go to a show at The Stand! It’ll be perfect—small, intimate, kinda dark, so you two can cozy up without causing too much of a fuss. If that’s what you want.”

  “That is what I want,” says Susan, who quakes at the idea of people staring at the two of them.

  “There you are, then! If I don’t become a famous actress, I’ll become a famous date organizer. The world is full of possibilities!” Lauren hops down from the countertop. “Have you been sent to drag us in for Dad’s big announcement?” she asks Kay.

  “I have.”

  “Right, then, we’d better go. It’s nothing terribly exciting—like I said, there’s going to be a general election announced soon, and Dad’s decided he’s going to run for a Westminster seat. Sorry if I’ve just ruined the surprise.”

  “It’s all right,” Susan says, getting to her feet. “Guess we’d better put in an appearance, though.”

  “Yes, we’d better,” says Kay, reaching out and patting Susan on the cheek as she approaches. “Smile, darling. I know you’re tired, but you must practice your happy face.”

  “Must I?”

  “Oh, Susan, are you all right?” Kay frowns, concerned. “You don’t seem yourself tonight.”

  “Like you said, I’m tired.”

  “Hmm.” Kay glances at Lauren, hovering nearby, waiting for gossip. “We’ll be along presently, Lauren.”

  Lauren slumps and slinks away.

  “Something you want to tell me, Susan?” Kay asks, drawing Susan farther into the kitchen so they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “No.”

  “Liar. Is this in any way connected with you going to Mr. Baker’s restaurant yesterday?” Off of Susan’s surprised look, she continues, “You know, Lauren can’t hold a thought longer than a goldfish, dear.”

  “It’s not that,” Susan lies. “Not really. I made an ass of myself, that’s all.”

  “Well, if that’s all it takes to make you glum for more than a day, you need to practice it more. I spent most of my twenties and thirties making a complete ass of myself on a regular and daily basis. It helped me learn what not to do, but also made me immune to its effects. Try it, darling. Let go and be an ass!”

  Susan laughs. “I can see why you and Philip get on so well.”

  “I want you and Philip to get on well. He really likes you, dear.”

  “I don’t see why.”

  “Don’t you? Oh, darling, we still need to work on you,” Kay sighs, smoothing Susan’s hair and smiling fondly at her. “You’re wonderful, the best of all my nieces, and I’m not sorry to say so. Any sensible man would be lucky to have you. And an insensible man would be beyond fortunate. But try not to waste yourself on an insensible man. It really would be such a waste.” She sighs again and pats her niece’s hand. “Right, off we go to pretend to be excited that Westminster’s getting another Tory. Happy face?”

  Susan plasters on an enormous, false smile.

  “That’s my girl!

  * * *

  Chris feels like an asshole.

  He tries telling himself that he shouldn’t, that it wasn’t really his fault—seriously, Susan needs to learn how to read a room—but he knows he’s been unfair to her. He can still see her, standing there with her tarts in her hands, just wanting to do something nice.

  And then he had to go and be an asshole about it.

  This is new, the sensation that he’s in the wrong and Susan right. And it kind of makes him wonder: Has he been an asshole to her a lot longer than he thought, and just didn’t realize it? Has it taken the sight of her face falling as she stumbled around, trying to salvage an awkward situation, to make him realize that she isn’t all bad and that he’s been too harsh?

  He was only trying to protect Mollie from embarrassment. The conversation had taken a turn he hadn’t wanted: he tries to keep these lunches light and pleasant. If the subject of Sam comes up, he makes sure to tell a happy story. Something that makes both of them laugh. “Oh, aye, remember the time he tried some of your makeup out on the cat when we were six? The pair of us had scratches all over our arms for weeks, and you were fit to be tied when you found out we’d used all your eyeliner! How about the time he convinced that one fool boy in our class that there was buried treasure in the Meadows, and sent him off with a garden spade to start digging!”

  “Remember how much he loved his lamb chops? Could eat a dozen in one sitting!”

  That’s what did it yesterday. Chris had forgotten about Sam’s favorite food. It just happened that he got some beautiful chops from his meat guy and thought Mollie would like them. Turns out, it was the last meal she ever made her son. And Chris should have remembered because he was there. Not that he ate.

  Yesterday, she ate her lunch, chatting as usual, and then got quiet, staring down at the empty plate, and murmured, “Sam always liked his meat with mash. You remember?”

  He did. And then he remembered that last meal, and it flooded over him, this nauseating guilt and anger and powerful desire to grab the nearest chair and smash it to splinters.

  And that’s when Susan came over. Smiling. With her pastries.

  For nearly twenty-four hours that
anger simmered away, but the rush of service consumed him, leaving little room for anything else, and afterward he felt calmer, more philosophical about things.

  And he felt like an asshole. Feels like an asshole.

  They’re all at the pub now for the post-dinner-service drinks. Most of the staff are gathered at a set of tables in the far corner, but Chris is at the bar, with Ginger lying beside him. He toys with his phone, wondering if he should send Susan an apology text.

  As he considers it, Calum sidles up to him and comments, “You’re about as much fun as a melted ice lolly.”

  “Sorry,” Chris grunts. “A lot on my mind.”

  “Sure seems like it. How did Rab’s lesson with the enemy go yesterday?”

  “Ask him yourself. I was busy.”

  “Have it your way. Oi! Rab!”

  Rab’s head pops up from the mass of staff at the tables.

  “Join us, lad, and tell me how it went yesterday. Did you learn anything we can steal? I mean … use to our advantage?” Calum winks at Chris.

  “Yeah, I learned loads,” Rab calls back, trying to extricate himself from the crowd. “I made a curd that didn’t clump.” He flushes with pride. The pastry chef looks surprised.

  “He did very well,” Chris confirms. “The tarts, Rab, were delicious.”

  Rab blushes even darker, until the rest of his skin almost matches his hair and birthmark.

  “Will you have her back?” Calum asks Chris.

  “I’m going to her place next,” Rab announces. “She’s got things to do in her own kitchen and wants to show me. I’m going on Friday. Is that”—he glances at Chris, shifting nervously—“is that okay?”

  “Of course it is,” Chris answers, patting the boy on the arm, hoping nobody notices he’s cringing a little. Of course she’d want to have the lessons at her place now. Why would she want to come back to Seòin after how he treated her? And making that pasta dish, he now realizes, was almost cruel. Like he was trying to throw their failed relationship right in her face. It was just that he couldn’t imagine making anything else for her. “Do what you like, lad. I want you to learn.”

  Rab looks equal parts relieved and uncertain.

  “Ah, Christ,” Calum mutters, gesturing toward the door.

  Chris glances up and sees that Dan has just swaggered in. “Is there no other pub he can go to?” he wonders out loud.

  “None other where he might find you,” Calum points out, giving a fake smile to Dan, who waves enthusiastically and calls out, “All right, partner?”

  “Not your partner,” Chris murmurs as Dan saunters over, carelessly treading on Ginger’s back paw. She yelps in protest and backs up against Chris’s legs.

  “Watch it!” Chris scolds the man.

  “Ah, sorry, didn’t see you there, boy,” Dan says to the dog.

  “Girl,” Chris corrects.

  “Oh yes, of course she is.” Dan makes stupid faces at the dog, who glances up at Chris with a “how long do I need to put up with this idiot?” look before lying down again.

  “What brings you all the way down to Leith tonight?” Chris asks him. “Thought you’d be busy getting your restaurant ready to open. Opens next week, right?”

  “Oh, uh, we’ve decided to push the opening back a bit,” Dan answers, trying to get the barman’s attention. “Oi! Belhaven, please!”

  “Have you now? You know what a pop-up is, right, Dan?” Chris asks. “It’s only there for a little while. Time’s a-wasting.”

  “It’s all right—we’ve got it covered! We’re just pushing it back a week so we can get ourselves sorted. Two weeks from Monday.” He receives his beer and takes a swig.

  Chris stares him down until Dan starts looking uncomfortable.

  “The same night Elliot’s reopens?” Chris confirms.

  “Oh, is that their reopening?” Dan fidgets with the beer bottle and avoids all eye contact. Calum and Rab are now watching this interplay as if it’s history’s closest Wimbledon final.

  “Come off it—you know it is,” Chris snaps. “You did that on purpose.”

  “What do you care?” Dan asks, finally looking up, eyes flashing. “You said yourself you don’t care about the place anymore. You’re not still doing the daughter, are you?”

  In another life, perhaps, Chris would have smashed that bottle (and maybe a few others) in that douchebag’s face, then dragged him by his hair out into the street while his mates hooted encouragement in the background. He’s sorely tempted to do so—and more! But he’s keenly aware of the dozen of his employees watching, waiting to see how this’ll go down. How their boss will handle the situation. He can’t be splashed all over YouTube beating some fellow chef to a pulp, even if the guy does seem to deserve it. He can’t mess all this up. Not again. A second chance is one thing, but a third?

  So instead, he places his glass of beer down on the bar, very slowly rotates to face Dan full-on, and says in a low, even, absolutely deadly tone: “You’re a right piece of shit, and you know it. Rest assured, that pop-up is the only restaurant in Edinburgh you will ever own or work in. You won’t be able to get seasonal work in the most desperate chippie. So you’d better pack your bags and think about where else you want to live and work, and it better not be Scotland, London, or New York if you plan on staying in this business.”

  A long silence follows, and then Calum leans across Chris toward Dan and says, “This, I think, is the point where you piss off.”

  Dan drains his beer and hurries out.

  Everyone watching collectively exhales as Chris picks up his phone and starts searching the contacts.

  “Excuse me.” A pretty brunette appears at his elbow, tossing back her hair so he can get a good view down the front of her tube top. “Really sorry to bother you, but my friend and I have a bit of a bet on. Are you the guy from Outlander?”

  “No,” crows Calum, “he’s better! You should see what happens when you put a hand on his old stones!”

  “Excuse me.” Chris shoulders his way out of the pub, Ginger in tow, hastily texting Susan.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Trick of the Light

  “That asshole!” Gloria bellows. She immediately follows that with a stream of Polish that needs no translation.

  “I know,” Susan sighs. “I hear you.”

  “That manky prick.” Rey hands Susan her phone back. Chris’s message still lights up the screen: Dan has rescheduled his opening for 2 wks Monday. Thought you should know. I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS.

  This is important enough to have brought even Julia to the kitchen, and now she shakes her head and crosses her arms. “He did this on purpose.”

  “Gee, you think?” says Gloria, driving a chef’s knife viciously through a head of cauliflower.

  “It’ll suck away all our press,” Julia continues, ignoring Gloria. “All those journalists we invited—even if they go to both events instead of just choosing one, the story will be about pitting us against each other, not our reopening. All of our publicity becomes his.”

  I know! I know! Susan desperately wants to scream. Nobody’s saying a single thing that didn’t flash through her brain within twenty seconds of receiving that text. She probably moved through all the stages of grief in record time. (“No, this can’t be right.—What an asshole!—Maybe there’s some way I can fix it. Can we reschedule?—Shit, no, we can’t. We’ll just have to soldier on and hope for the best.”)

  “What about rescheduling?” Gloria suggests. “Move it up a night. Rey and I can manage, can’t we, Rey?”

  “Sure. What’s twenty-four hours less of prep time?” He shrugs, as if that isn’t actually a fairly significant ask.

  “We can’t reschedule. We’ve got press notices out, and Sunday’s the last night of our aunt’s play,” Julia explains. “We need her and the other celebrities there if we’re going to have any chance of getting coverage.” She glances at Susan. “Philip’s coming, right?” Her face says: He’d better be, or I’m going to dra
g him here myself. I’ll be damned if nobody sees all the work I’ve put into this place.

  “I think so,” Susan answers evasively. She hasn’t asked him yet. It feels a little bit like using him, especially now. But she does actually want him to be there, and not just for the obvious reasons, so … she’ll ask tonight.

  “We’ll stick to the set date,” she agrees. “But maybe we’ll move it forward an hour. Start it at half five, and maybe we can get the journalists a bit tipsy before they go elsewhere. Or stuff them so full of food they won’t want to go.”

  Julia rolls her eyes. “Half five? Nobody eats at that hour except toddlers and geriatrics. They won’t show up, Susan!”

  “Well, you suggest something then!” Susan snaps. “This is just how it has to be, Julia. I’m sorry. I can’t force Dan to open on a different night, can I? Unless you can, this is what we’re doing.”

  Julia shakes her head and huffs back upstairs, muttering about all her hard work going to waste.

  “Are we agreed on the earlier time?” Susan asks Gloria and Rey.

  “You’re the boss,” says Gloria.

  “Your support is overwhelming,” Susan grumbles, heading toward the pastry kitchen. Thankfully, it’s bread day. She really needs to punch something for a while.

  * * *

  It takes about half a second for Philip to notice something’s wrong when they meet for their second date.

  “You all right? You look like your cat died,” he comments, making a joking pouty face to mirror her own glum look. “Oh, shit, your cat didn’t actually die, did it?”

  Susan can’t help but chuckle. “No.”

  She tells him about the reopening clash, and Philip cringes and comments, “Dick move. Seen it a dozen times with film premieres. I’m really sorry about that, Suze, but it’ll probably be alright. Quality wins, right? Try not to think about it.”

  As if it’s that easy. As if it’s that easy to not think about the restaurant that might fail, or the fact that Meg spent the past forty minutes wailing over the phone about a sharp pain in her toe, or the ex-boyfriend who served her favorite pasta and alerted her to Dan’s move but also seemed so angry when she tried to give his lunch guest a tart.