“Oh, aye, that I surely did. He’ll still be scratching his head, the numpty.”
* * *
Chris leans against the bar, chuckling, and watches her. She’s more made up than he’s ever seen her, and she looks good, but it’s not a look he prefers. He thinks again of that long-ago afternoon in the park, with her Pimm’s-stained lips. And more recently, at the Foodies Festival, the way she looked as she turned away from the effusive judges. She was beaming in a way he hadn’t seen since their earliest days together. Her cheeks were flushed from her exertions, eyes shining, hair curly from the humidity. She was glowing with excitement and success, and he was thunderstruck, thinking, Goddamn, she’s beautiful.
Honestly, he can’t believe that everyone doesn’t find her stunning.
She glances up, catches him staring, and looks away, blushing. Chris clears his throat and takes another sip of his drink, casting about for something to say.
“How’s Rab getting on?” he asks, grateful beyond measure for the kid’s existence.
“Splendidly! He made some delicious macarons and little edible spoons. And learned all about the perils of sugar work.”
Chris groans. “I don’t even allow it in my kitchen. One mucked-up batch and the whole restaurant smells of scorched sugar all day.”
“Ah, the drawbacks of an open kitchen.”
He toys with his glass, then says, “Thank you for taking him on. I know you’ve got a lot on your plate these days, and having someone shadow you probably isn’t the best or easiest.”
“Not at all—I enjoy it! I mean, I did worry that it might be too much, but it’s nice having an apprentice. Makes me feel like I’m accomplishing something.” She smiles self-deprecatingly.
“You are accomplishing something,” he reassures her. “And not just with Rab.”
* * *
Susan feels heat creeping up her neck and across her cheeks. And again, it’s hard to swallow. She shrugs. “If you can take the time to mentor a kid who needs it, then I can too. We all must play our part to bring along the next generation, right?” She sips her drink, then smiles playfully. “But I’m not going to give him that brownie recipe, so if this is some kind of elaborate plan, you can give up now.”
“Aw, dammit!” He slaps the bar in pretend frustration. “You’ve found me out!” He breaks into a grin. “Well, I guess some things are worth working for.”
Susan isn’t sure what to say to that, so she just stares at him. And then an arm snakes around her waist from behind, and Philip is whispering in her ear, “Hey, baby. You look great! How’d you like the play?”
“Oh, hi!” She turns and hugs him. “You were brilliant! Really wonderful!”
“Aw, you’re too kind.” He kisses her and then seems to notice Chris standing there. “Oh, hello, I’m Philip,” he says, extending a hand.
Chris takes it in a firmer grip than is strictly polite. “Chris.”
“Oh, hey, you’re Scottish!” Philip’s face lights up. “You know, I’ve been thinking I might do a Scottish accent in my next role. Been working on it since I’ve been up here. What do you think?” He clears his throat and says, “Ocht, aye, we’ll be off to the loch on a bricht mornin’ eh?” He grins, seeking approval.
Susan wishes she could vanish into the floor.
“Can’t wait to hear that in surround sound,” Chris tells him, somehow—miraculously—straight-faced.
Susan begins to giggle but manages to cover it up as an inelegant snort. Chris glances at her and smiles.
“Aw, thanks, mate. What’d you think of the play?” Philip asks.
“It was good,” Chris allows.
“Just good?”
“I’m no critic. High culture is not really my area, ye ken?”
“Oh, I ken. Huh, ‘ken.’ That’s a good one. I’ll have to remember it. Susan, do you have something I can write that down with?”
“Uh, no,” she answers.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll just remember. ‘Nae bovver,’ as they say up here, right?”
“That they do,” Chris agrees in a tight voice. Susan once again begs the floor to open up and swallow her, remembering the cruel jests of the other chefs in London, all those years ago. Chris’s hands clenching under the table as he struggled to control himself.
Philip is oblivious.
“Hey, what’s that? Champagne cocktail? You mind?” Philip reaches across Susan and finishes her drink. “We’ll get another in a minute, but first, you, milady, need a dance! You don’t mind, Chris, do you?”
“No, I think she’s done with me,” Chris answers, looking away, drinking his beer.
Susan recoils at the unexpected sting.
“Thanks, mate!” Philip takes her hand and leads her to the dance floor. He pulls her close and murmurs, “I know this goes without saying, but you look absolutely spectacular tonight.” The look in his eyes makes her swallow hard, and she tries to forget his incredible awkwardness with Chris just now. He was only trying to be friendly. She thinks about Julia and Gloria telling her she needs to move on and give someone else a go.
She responds with a sultry smile, shimmies up against him, and tries to put Chris out of her mind.
* * *
Ass. Hole! Why can’t he seem to stop doing that?
Chris watches Susan turn away, face pinched in hurt and confusion. He watches the two of them press close together on the dance floor, a sight that causes a hard yank down in his stomach, until the view is blocked by Kay, who sashays over to the bar and takes the place so recently vacated by her niece.
“Hello, Christopher,” she greets him, voice and smile as smooth and cool as a Siberian lake in wintertime. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
“Lauren asked me. Insisted,” he responds with his own frigid smirk. “And I thought it’d be good to widen my cultural horizons.” Just go ahead and call me some uneducated buffoon, you bitch! You can take your ancient Greek plays and shove ’em!
“I do admire self-improvement,” Kay says after ordering a gimlet. “And you seem to have come quite a long way since I last saw you. Well done.”
“Thanks. I did it all for you.”
“No need for that. I do wonder, however, if you do it for Susan? I hope not.”
“Then your prayers are answered.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Susan has moved on, you know.”
“So I see.” He glances toward the dance floor, where Susan and Philip are twined around one another as if no one else exists. He’s starting to think he’ll need something a bit stiffer than the beer.
“It’s good for her. The poor girl’s been through so much.” Kay sighs. “We all want to see her happy. Don’t we?”
He takes his time answering. “I hate to see her sad.” He’s had a lifetime’s worth of that, and it still hurts to think about.
“Good. Then we’re agreed.” She sips her gimlet. “You really ought to thank me, you know, Christopher. In a sense, I did you a favor.”
He stares at her, incredulous. Does she really believe that?
Kay shrugs. “Where would you be now if I hadn’t done what I did? If I hadn’t taken control of the situation? You’d probably be dead. Or in prison. Certainly not here.” She gestures to the bar—a fancy one, with low lighting and premium booze and deep sofas where you can relax with your drinks and nibbles and trophy date. “And where would Susan be? You know I did what I had to do to protect her because I love her, and if you ever loved her, you’d see that and put it all behind you. I was, in a sense, the making of you both.”
Chris smiles in wonder at the woman’s gall, shakes his head, and finishes off his beer, snapping the empty glass back down on the bar. “Yes, Kay, I’m deeply grateful to you,” he spits out. “I’m deeply, deeply grateful to you for sparing me a lifetime of Christmas lunches with Bernard, and opening nights of your plays, and barbeques with Russell and Helen, and glare-offs with Julia. I am so grateful to you. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart!”
>
Her haughty smirk never wavers. She just stares him down.
Chris spots Lauren in the crowd and waves to her. She dances over, throwing her arms around him and saying, “Here you are! Thought you were going to get me a drink?”
“I would, but they’re lousy,” he says. “Come on, let’s go somewhere else.”
“Oh, definitely! I heard the band on at The Liquid Room is really good! A friend of mine just sent me a video of them. Hang on …” She whips out her phone.
“Never mind, let’s just go,” Chris says. He hooks an arm around her waist, edges around Kay, and is out the door.
Chapter Twenty-One
The Morning After
The room is too perfect. That’s one thing Susan hates about posh hotel rooms: they’re always too perfect. They have no personality to them. They’re cold looking.
From her spot on the bed, she searches for it: that one little imperfection she knows has to be there. But all she can find are the ones created by two people in a hurry to get from door to bed: bright purple accent pillows strewn across the floor. A smear of vibrant lipstick on the snow-white duvet cover. An upended bedside table.
The shower’s going, and a moment later the sound of Julia’s tuneless humming begins to accompany the summer-rain sound of the water. Susan sets down the overnight bag she’s brought and wonders if she should just go. She has things to do. Someone from the council is coming by to do a final sign-off on the building works (God help them all if anything isn’t approved by this stage). Three ice cream bases need churning and flavoring, she’s working out some kinks in a crème caramel recipe, and she needs to get Rab started on choux pastry.
The relaunch is just over two weeks away. Two weeks! And she still needs to finalize their pastry offerings, run interference with the press, and make all the tarts, cakes, mini pavlovas, jellies, and sauces they’ll be serving. And here she is, sitting in a hotel room with her sister’s clothes, like a porter!
“Jules, I’m gonna go,” she calls.
“No, wait a sec,” Julia sputters, turning off the water. She opens the bathroom door a moment later, releasing a cloud of steam into the room, wrapping herself in a thick, white hotel robe. She leans down, picks up the bag, and begins rummaging around in it. “Just want to make sure you brought the right things,” she mumbles.
“Jules, I have things to do,” Susan says, hand on the doorknob.
“I said just wait a second.” Julia looks up at her sister and frowns. “What’s up with your eyes?”
“I couldn’t get the eyeliner off,” Susan answers. She’d scrubbed and scrubbed and removed some, but she’d also irritated her eyelids and eyes so badly it looked like she had conjunctivitis.
Julia clucks and shakes her head. “We really need to work on you,” she says, returning to the bag. “Oh, Susan, for heaven’s sake!” She yanks out a pair of high heels. “What were you thinking?”
“You said you wanted the gray ones.”
“Not these gray ones!”
“Julia, you literally have a dozen pairs of gray shoes. How was I supposed to know which ones you wanted?”
“Use your sense! These are suede, Susan, and look at the weather!” She flaps her hand in the general direction of the windows. Just beyond the sheer curtains, low, sulky silver clouds hover over the city. The roads and sidewalks are already slicked and shimmering with rain. “These will be ruined! Ugh!” She thrusts them back in the bag. “Never mind, I’ll take a cab.” She withdraws some lingerie from the bag and starts getting dressed.
“Whatever. Can I go now?” Susan asks, wondering if this faux pas will get her out of future walk-of-shame wardrobe summons.
“No, you may not. You’re going to tell me about your night.” Julia slips panties on underneath her robe, then goes to fetch a cup of coffee from the complicated-looking machine in the corner. She gives her sister a knowing look as she sips. “You and Philip seemed very cozy last night.”
Susan blushes. She’d been trying to have fun, and she might have overdone it. Hard to say, really. She’d been pretty drunk. Her head is not thanking her for that today.
“So, did you and he finally …?” Julia smiles coyly.
“Obviously not, Julia, since I was home when you called me this morning.”
“Well, not every guy lets a girl spend the night.” Julia’s smile is now a little smug as she goes back to her coffee.
“I wouldn’t know how Philip feels about that.”
“Oh God. You’re just determined to be miserable and alone, aren’t you?”
“What? No, of course not, I just … I don’t know. I just wasn’t in the mood.” Susan toys with a photo on the wall; she’s convinced it’s crooked. A couple kissing under a bright red umbrella. Everything in black-and-white, aside from the umbrella.
“If you can’t get in the mood with someone like Philip Simms, I don’t see how you can get in the mood with anyone,” Julia observes.
“You’re quite generous about him, all of a sudden.”
Julia shrugs. “I’ve moved past that. Obviously.” She smirks.
Susan knows her cue. “And how was your night? Fun, I’m guessing.” She glances around the room with a knowing smile.
“Oh, very. And he’s proven himself to be a gentleman.” Julia brandishes the cup of coffee. “Not all of them make you coffee.”
“If he’s such a gentleman, then where is he?”
“Early call at the theater.”
“Ah. You going to see him again?”
Julia responds with a lazy shrug. “I might. We’ll see. I haven’t decided yet.”
Susan watches her sister continue to get dressed, wondering what it’s like to be able to keep sex so separate from deeper feelings. Casual sex never interested her. She needs intimacy in order to want to be intimate, and you can’t go opening yourself up heart and soul to just anyone, can you? She’s been trying to force it with Philip because it seems like she should want him, but Susan is now realizing it takes more than charm and an attractive face to arouse her.
“Right, then,” Julia says, setting her empty cup aside and heading once more toward the bathroom. “Have to dry my hair and put my face on. You can go.”
“Thanks” is Susan’s dry response. “See you at the restaurant?”
“See you!”
* * *
The hotel’s lift seems interminably slow, and Susan practically explodes through the doors and sprints toward the street. She’s nearly there when a hand comes out of nowhere and grabs her wrist, yanking her back as a man’s voice says, “What’s the hurry?”
Susan whirls with a gasp, wrenching her wrist out of his grip, and is face-to-face with Philip. He’s grinning, pleased and playful, apparently unaware of what he’s done.
“That hurt!” she scolds, and the tone of her voice wipes the smile right off his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Let me get you some coffee or something to make up for it.”
“No, I can’t, I really have to go—”
“It’ll just be a minute,” he interrupts, grabbing her hand and almost dragging her into the nearby dining room. He takes her to a table right in the middle of the room, where everyone can see them. “So,” he says, plunking down and spreading a crisp napkin over his lap, “what brings you here so early in the morning? Don’t tell me I’ve been outplayed!” He laughs as if the very thought is a joke.
“Julia,” Susan responds in a tight voice. “She needed a change of clothes.”
“No kidding! Who was it? Oh, wait, don’t tell me—she was practically salivating over Justin last night. Was it him? I’ll bet it was. He can never resist a blonde.”
“I can’t say.”
“Code of the sisters, eh? I admire that. None of my brothers can keep any sort of secret. They’re worse than the press.” He reaches across the table and takes Susan’s hand, stroking it like it was a cat. “Wish it was you calling for a change of clothes this morning,” he murmurs.
�
��Sorry,” Susan says, glancing around to make sure no one overheard.
It could have been her. Philip was keen last night. “Why don’t we take this party somewhere quieter?” he’d purred in her ear as they danced. And she’d thought about it; tried to convince herself it was what she wanted, but she just couldn’t.
“It’s not too late,” Philip continues. “Why don’t we get together tonight?”
“I don’t know. It’s really busy at the restaurant right now, with the reopening so soon. I’ll probably be pretty knackered,” she answers.
“Oh.” He frowns a little and releases her hand. “Too bad. I mean, we don’t have long before the play closes and then I’m off to London for a boot camp.”
“Boot camp? Are you doing a war movie?”
Philip chuckles. “No, not that sort of boot camp. Singing and dancing. I’m doing a remake of My Fair Lady with Natalie Portman. We start shooting in Czechoslovakia next month.”
“And who’re you playing?”
“Henry Higgins, of course!” He smiles. “Who else?”
Susan tries, unsuccessfully, to imagine Philip as the irascible, middle-aged Professor Higgins. “I didn’t know you sang.”
“I don’t. Not yet. But most of Higgins’s songs are pretty much spoken anyhow. Natalie’s got the really hard job—I wouldn’t want to follow in Audrey Hepburn’s footsteps.” He chuckles. “It’ll be good for us, though. Hollywood loves a musical. Look what Les Mis did for Anne Hathaway!”
Look what it did for Russell Crowe, Susan thinks, but outwardly she smiles. “I’m sure you’ll be great. Listen, I’m sorry—I really do need to go.” She rises and turns toward the door.
Philip springs to his feet and wraps his arms around her. “Say you’ll come tonight,” he insists. “Come on …”
“I can’t,” she tells him, firmly. “I have work to do too.”
He seems surprised and maybe a little put off by her tone. He drops his arms. “Okay, fair enough. Still want me to come to the opening?”
“Of course I do.” His little-boy-hurt look makes her feel equal parts guilty and infuriated. She tries to appease him with a kiss, which seems to work. “I’ll call or text you, okay? We’ll get together before then.”
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