All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  “No. We—he and I, we’re cordial, which is good. But he’s not interested in me, and I don’t blame him. I hurt him. I really, really screwed things up, and so he’s moved on. It was a long time ago, and he has a very different life now. I should move on too, and I’m trying to; it’s just a slow process. I’ll get there.” She smiles at her aunt in a way she hopes is reassuring, but Kay does not return it.

  “Dear girl,” Kay murmurs, “don’t force it. Don’t settle, for God’s sake—that would break my heart. You’re not content to give yourself by halves, and I admire that. I should have recognized it better ten years ago.”

  “Well, we were all pretty distracted.”

  “Yes, I suppose we were.”

  “Can we talk about something else now?” Susan begs, still feeling like she’s teetering on the brink of bursting into tears. “Have you got a new role coming up or something?”

  “Oh lord, you’ll never guess! They want me to play Gertrude in a musical version of Hamlet. Can you imagine? Dancing around at my age? I told them I’d only do it if they doubled my salary and gave me top billing, and now they’ve come back and agreed. So now I need to come up with some other excuse not to do it. Don’t suppose you could help me out there, could you?”

  “No,” Susan says, laughing. “I’m a terrible liar. But you’re an actress; surely you can come up with something?”

  “Yes,” Kay muses. “I suppose I can.”

  * * *

  “Chris, we have a live one!”

  Chris’s head snaps up. The distraction makes him pause in his stirring, until Calum bellows, “Watch that—it’ll curdle!”

  Chris yanks the pot off the heat just in time, beating the sauce with redoubled effort, simultaneously hissing to the hostess, “I thought you said we had no bookings at the chef’s table today!” He has nothing prepped for the chef’s table menu, and he’d planned to use this time to get ahead of some work for tonight’s dinner. This is going to throw his whole afternoon off.

  “It was last minute,” the hostess replies. “She just walked in and insisted. Said she knew you and would have whatever you want to cook. You really want me to just turn someone away?”

  Chris shifts to the side to peer around her, frowning. Knew him? God, not another friend of Lauren’s? They come in giggling packs and barely eat a thing, just stare at him, take pictures of the food (and him) with their phones, and whisper among themselves while texting and updating their statuses. And once some right little shite of a boy in frayed jeans and shoes that must have cost five hundred pounds came along and made a point of looking bored and quizzing Chris on the provenance of every. Single. Ingredient.

  “Because it’s very important, you know, to be aware of where your food comes from and to make sure it’s not irresponsibly sourced,” the shite had mansplained, half to the girls accompanying him and half to Chris. “It’s our duty, you know, to protect the environment.”

  Never mind that absolutely everything the kid was wearing was imported. Chris had never in his life taken such an immediate dislike to someone, which is remarkable considering he’s spent his whole career in television and high-end kitchens, both native stomping grounds of obnoxious, pretentious assholes.

  But the woman perched expectantly at the counter at the opposite end of the kitchen is not one of Lauren’s preening friends.

  It’s Kay.

  His teeth clench as she lifts a hand and waves, smiling. Some nerve, he thinks, acting like we’re friends.

  He’d like to tell her in no uncertain terms that she’s not welcome here. That’s the whole point of owning your own place, right? You can decide who stays and who goes?

  Well, that’s the fantasy. The reality is you can’t turn away a paying customer. You definitely can’t turn away a paying customer who’s also famous. So he gathers up his knives in white-knuckled fists and approaches her.

  “Hello, Christopher,” she greets him, folding her hands on the countertop. She’s settled her face into a blandly pleasant expression, and he wonders what she’s really thinking. He figures you can never tell with a gifted actress. It’s disorientating. He never has this problem with Susan.

  “Afternoon,” he responds, unleashing his full Scottish brogue for perhaps the first time since he left for New York. She can have his food, but she isn’t going to get the posh, watered down version of Chris. She’ll get the Full Scottish. “Chef’s menu’s no’ available, I’m afraid. Ye’ll have tae order from the menu or take what I can gi’ ye now.”

  She keeps her eyes on him, and her mouth edges upward in the very start of a smile. “That’s fine. Surprise me.”

  Without looking away, he reaches for a whole rainbow trout and, in one swift movement, whacks the head off it with his knife. Kay’s smile widens and turns wry.

  “Your restaurant’s beautiful,” she compliments, looking around as Chris gets to work.

  “Oh, aye,” he agrees.

  “You must be very proud of all you’ve accomplished.”

  He grunts instead of answering.

  She watches him work, then says, “I should have come in earlier, but the play kept me so busy. Still, I do love watching artists work. And you, young man, certainly are an artist.”

  He concentrates on arranging some sea bass sashimi, fanning the fish—sliced translucently thin—over the plate so it resembles whitecapped ocean waves. He finishes it off with an equally artistic arrangement of trout and delicate sauces, and hands it over. Kay spends a few moments silently admiring the plate, then takes her first bite.

  “Oh yes,” she murmurs, “you are an artist.”

  An apprentice appears to remove the tools he used for the fish, and Chris gets started on the meat course.

  “I can see now,” Kay continues a little louder, so he’s sure to hear her, “why she’s so enthralled by you. You understand.”

  He can’t help it. He pauses in his cutting, and his shoulders tense. Enthralled?

  Kay notices, but instead of commenting, muses, “It’s astonishing, really, how food can turn one’s head. I used to wonder what on earth my sister ever saw in that puddle of a man she married, and then I tried Elliot’s food.” She chuckles. “I think he wooed her far better than Bernard did. And while Bernard was a disappointment, I was never sorry that Elliot was such an important part of my sister’s life. And Susan’s. And yours.”

  Without raising his head from the meat he’s working on, Chris looks her way. She’s toying with a fork, blinking a little too rapidly, and tensing her lips.

  “I wish you could have known Marie better, before she was so ill,” she murmurs. “I wish a lot of things had been different. I think we both do.” She looks at him now, and he returns his eyes to the food, swallowing hard and trying to distract himself.

  “My niece is very important to me, Christopher. The most important person in the world. You know that, don’t you?”

  He laughs, a short, sharp bark. “I dinnae know any such thing,” he says, jerking his head up to look at her. He forgets that he’s still holding his chef’s knife, which glitters in the flickering light from the grill. Kay’s eyes drift toward it, and she gives him a look that seems to say, “Really?” He sets the knife down and walks over to the counter, leaning over it to hiss, “I think you are important to you. You are the most important person in the world. You care about you. And your image. You’re just like the rest of ’em.”

  Kay actually cringes. “You cut me to the quick, young man. Please do not put me in the same league as Bernard.” She spits the name. “And you’re very wrong. I would have been happy—delighted—to have Susan stay with you if I’d really thought you were the best thing for her. Why do you think I’m here today?”

  “I dinnae ken why you’re here today.” He crosses his arms. “So maybe ya’d better get tae your point, so I can get on wi’ my work.”

  Kay sighs. “You are a prickly one, aren’t you? All right, then. Susan is in love with you, Christopher. Very much so. There mig
ht have been a chance that she’d move on, but with the two of you sharing the same city, same circles … well …” She throws up her hands. “No hope for it now. Not even Philip Simms could tempt her! Imagine! Now, I must confess that I tried to steer her away from you because I know things about you, don’t I?”

  Chris purses his lips and looks away.

  “And the things that I know … they aren’t conducive to a healthy, lasting relationship, are they?” She cocks her head and purses her lips. “Can you really blame me for stepping in all those years ago? Susan was a wreck—you know that! And bless you, you tried to help her, but you were a wreck too, and you know it, so please don’t try and play the wronged innocent. Yes, I interfered because I thought that it was best for Susan. Not for me, not for the family—for Susan. She had just suffered a devastating loss. Have you ever been in that position?”

  He swallows hard, then nods, still not looking at her. Not trusting himself to. “Aye, that I have.”

  “So you know what it’s like. She was in no shape to deal with what you were facing. And you were in no shape to deal properly with her grief. When you suffered your loss, were you truly in any condition to be a rock for someone else?”

  He pauses, wishing there could be some other answer, but “No,” he replies.

  “There! You see?” She leans back a little in her chair, shaking her head, clucking. “I’ll admit, I may have overdone things years ago. I felt guilty for not being there after her mother died. I was selfish, and when I came back I tried to fix everything as quickly as I could, and I failed to consider all the angles. I failed to realize just how much the two of you meant to each other. I thought it was just your average early-twenties infatuation. I made a mistake, and I want to right it because I want to see my girl happy.”

  She sighs. “Chris, no one else will do. Not even a movie star.” She rises just enough to be able to reach across the counter and grab his arm, forcing him to really look at her. There’s a fierceness in her face now that he’s never seen before. It’s startling, and he can’t help but stare. “Listen to me: I see what the two of you are doing. I did it myself once. You’re burying yourself in your work. You’re letting it consume you because if you don’t, then you’ll have time to think about things and those things fucking hurt. Now, believe me, this is great for your career—I got an Oscar and a BAFTA out of it. But it’s absolutely horrible for you and for the people you care about. You can’t bury yourself in some distraction forever. You have to think those awful thoughts and feel those horrible, shitty feelings sometime.”

  Chris blinks at her, actually shocked into stillness to hear this woman cursing away, eyes blazing. The memory of it is definitely going to make watching her next refined period film a slightly uncanny experience.

  Kay takes a deep breath, releases his arm, and sits back. She’s calmer, but there’s still that fire in her eyes. “Christopher, I need you to think—really think—about what you want. If you love her and are willing to give it another go, then please, please do so—I give you both my blessings a thousand times over. But if you’ve moved on—well, that would be a shame, but I understand, and she does too. She’s already convinced herself that she can expect no more than professional courtesy from you, much as it pains her. But she’ll survive. She’ll find some kind of happiness in other places. A ghost happiness, never quite complete, but she’ll convince herself it’s enough. But please, Christopher, if you don’t want to pursue anything with her again, then I beg you—don’t parade yourself in front of her. Don’t go thrusting yourself into her life unnecessarily. I know the restaurant world is a small one, so you won’t be able to avoid each other entirely, but there are some steps you can take to be less … present in her personal life. I’m talking about Lauren.”

  He almost laughs: she need not worry there. He and Lauren seem to have reached a natural endpoint; they haven’t spoken since the night the play opened. The pair of them went off to some club, where Lauren quickly located a group of friends (which included that pretentious little shite who pouted at the sight of Lauren and started to look downright belligerent when she began dancing with Chris. And no wonder: she danced around him like a strip club pole, and when the shite stomped out, she laughed, turned to her girlfriends, and seemed to forget Chris was even there.) Her life and his life did not intertwine well, he realized.

  Oh, who’s he kidding? He knew it all along. She’s fun, sure, and she likes to be happy and be around people who are happy, which is nice and the sort of thing he needed. But her flightiness, her lack of direction or ambition, which once made her seem refreshingly carefree, just baffles and annoys him now. He can’t wrap his head around the idea of being her age and having no drive to do anything useful. But then, he never had the luxury of indolence. He had to work, just like everyone else he knew. Except for Susan, and when she was Lauren’s age, she was just as driven as him. She still is, and it makes him proud to see it and to see all her hard work rewarded.

  Still, he’s not prepared to yield an inch to Kay. He looks back at her and says, “You really havenae learned not to interfere.”

  “Clearly not. I’m sorry to disappoint Lauren, but she’s young and free spirited, and she will recover quickly. And my first loyalty is always to Susan. So just … consider carefully, will you, please?”

  He studies her and realizes after a moment that he’s not looking at Kay the actress, but Kay the person. Kay the aunt and surrogate mother. Her face is open, and so like Susan’s in that he knows what she’s thinking and feeling, and that she means every single word of what she’s said.

  He can’t process any of this just now. He has a full restaurant. Behind him, the kitchen buzzes, and Calum is issuing a stream of instructions to the other chefs and the apprentices. The phone rings at the hostess stand, and the waitstaff passes to and fro with full trays, empty trays, needing things. And the things he’s tamped down, pushed away, locked up, tried to forget or bury underneath a hard crust of bitterness are seeping to the surface, like oil. Thick and dark, but bringing the possibility of hope. A slow trickle at first, which threatens to become an overwhelming gush.

  He can’t process this right now. He needs time. And quiet. A long walk with the dog, perhaps. But he won’t get any of those things because Beth’s coming in tonight, and they’re overbooked for dinner, and he has the Book Festival tomorrow.

  The Book Festival! He asked Susan to come. Will she? Or will she duck out, convinced, as Kay says, that she’ll only be bringing more pain on herself? She said she’d be there, but was he, after all, asking too much of her?

  Kay sits back down and waits, patient, recognizing someone going through quite a lot in a very compressed amount of time. When his eyes clear and he uncrosses his arms at last, she says, “Right. Am I going to get the rest of my lunch, then?”

  Chris blinks. “You still want lunch?” He thought she’d done what she came to do.

  “Of course I want lunch! You can’t tease me with that excellent first course and not follow up. I’m a starving artist, my boy, and I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “I’ve Got a Story for You”

  For two weeks every August, the normally private Charlotte Square opens its gates to admit the literary masses. Huge white tents block views of the iron railings that normally keep everyone out, and picnic tables and pastel deck chairs circle the equestrian statue of Prince Albert in the middle of the lawn, inviting readers to relax with their newest signed novel. The tents fill with crowds to see every sort of author: high-flying politicos touting bestselling memoirs; writers of fantasy, chick-lit, sci-fi, young adult (and every possible combination of those). Authors and illustrators enthrall throngs of preschoolers and parents; up-and-comers present their work for appreciative and encouraging audiences. Books are signed by the hundreds and set out for sale in the inviting bookshop tents. People bask in the sunshine, when there is any, or gather in the café tent and grumble go
od-naturedly about the rain. They shake hands; gush, “I love your work”; add to their “to be read” lists, and leave carrying new hardbacks in handy Book Festival-branded tote bags.

  To Chris, it feels strange to find himself in the midst of all this. He’s never once been to the Book Festival. This rarefied square, surrounded by investment firms and the First Minister’s official residence, never felt like a place where he belonged. Growing up, he and his friends always dismissed this festival as a place for posh folk. But now, looking around from a spot just in front of the café, he has to admit it’s pretty nice, and friendly, though the Irn-Bru is definitely overpriced. It’s a grizzly day, but there are still kids running around, clumps of people chatting over coffee and pastries, and one man in a navy jumper, doing a very Scottish thing and plunking himself down in one of the deck chairs, despite the weather, to read his new book. This change in perspective startles Chris. Is it because he’s so different from that rough lad he used to be, or has he, as he has with other things, judged the festival a little too harshly? Hard to tell. Maybe both.

  * * *

  Inside the café, unaware of Chris outside, taking the measure of his future audience, Susan wonders if a slice of millionaire’s shortbread is what she needs to really perk up. It was a full day at the busy restaurant yesterday, and today she spent the morning with her nephews, so Meg and William could have some time to talk, which they’ve been doing a lot of lately. Susan tells herself this is a good thing, even if it means she spent hours shepherding three excitable boys between Julia Donaldson and Barry Hutchison events. She saw the boys get their books signed, then handed them back to their parents (who returned from their brunch holding hands and looking like they had not been shouting, which is an improvement) and went in search of coffee. And sugar. She needs something because Chris’s event is in an hour, and she doesn’t want him to think she’s bored when all she really is is exhausted. That’s if he can even see her, from his spotlit perch at the front of the tent. He probably won’t. All the same …