All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  “Oh, dear,” Helen flutters, sensing a dire hostessing failure. “I wish you’d said something, Julia, I would have gotten you one of those tofu-burger thingies. They have some at Waitrose that Mary next door says are quite edible.”

  “It’s all right,” Julia reassures her, helping herself to some salad.

  “I was thinking about going vegan,” Meg pipes up. “Is it hard? Do you have any recipes you could send me?”

  Julia, realizing this particular lie is about to get out of hand, buys herself some time by stuffing a few bits of rocket into her mouth and chewing far longer than she needs to.

  Susan turns to Lauren. “What other news is there, Lauren? Did I miss anything while I was in the kitchen?”

  “No, I saved some of it because I thought you’d be interested,” Lauren says. “Do you know who’s coming here to do a play during the Festival? The International Festival, that is—and I may actually have to go to this play just because he’s in it.”

  “Philip Simms,” Julia supplies.

  Lauren droops. “How did you know?” she shrieks. “Do you read Arion Nation too?”

  Now all conversation stops. Seven pairs of adult eyes bore into Lauren. Andrew takes the opportunity to spear more potatoes.

  “Sorry, what?” Julia asks.

  “Rufus Arion’s blog,” Lauren clarifies. “What?” she asks the table at large. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Is that seriously the name of his blog?” Susan asks, amazed that, even in an era of shock value and historical ignorance, anyone would consider that appropriate.

  Lauren waves her hand. “Oh, yeah, I know—terrible, right? Part of me feels like I shouldn’t read it just on principle, but he does have a lot of really good information, and he’s a lovely writer, so I just try not to think about it too much, you know?”

  “I think that’s a stance that’s used with that particular name too much already,” Julia mutters, only just loudly enough for Susan to hear.

  “Kids, eh?” Russell chuckles. “Social media.” He reaches over and ruffles his daughter’s hair. “Best not to go bandying about that you read that blog, all right?”

  “Dad, come on.” She ducks away from him, even as she smiles. “I’m not an idiot. I know to be careful so I don’t harm your career. Anyway, how do you know about Philip?” she presses Julia.

  “My aunt told me. She’s in the play as well.” Julia glances at Susan. “It was supposed to be a surprise. Sorry.”

  “Oh, wow!” Lauren’s eyes widen and her face lights up. “Do you think she could introduce me to Philip? My friend Sarah too? Sarah’s a huge fan—practically obsessed! He’ll probably want to take out a non-harassment order against her.” Lauren giggles.

  “Then I’ll make sure she’s the first one he meets,” Julia promises.

  Lauren misses the cool tone of Julia’s voice and chatters about how now she’ll actually see something at the International Festival, because you have to support family, and also Philip Simms! And she doesn’t care that Liam will roll his eyes and tell her she’s so middle class.

  “Now, Lauren, Liam’s a nice boy, and it’s not nice to talk about people when they aren’t there to defend themselves,” her mother chides.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Susan can see the slight tightening of Julia’s jaw whenever Philip Simms is mentioned. Julia’s left off toying with her salad and is now glaring at a cherry tomato so hard Susan half-expects it to combust.

  Years ago, Julia actually met Philip at some fancy club in London. And she made a very hard play for him, only to find herself rebuffed (an extreme rarity for her). And then, outrageously, she was escorted from the club by some polite security who called her a taxi and suggested she call it a night. It was a drama Susan almost certainly never would have been aware of except that, as it unfolded, Julia was energetically texting about it, having mixed up Susan-the-sister with Susan-the-friend. So Susan-the-sister was a rather baffled distant witness to the whole thing. Once she’d sobered up, Julia was mortified to discover what she’d done. Susan was never sure which had stung her sister worse: Philip’s rejection or her own knowledge of it.

  “A matinee might be best,” Lauren muses. “Fewer people, probably. You don’t want to be crowded in with a bunch of old ladies complaining about the weather. Oh, and they do. Everyone complains about the weather here, even when it’s good. ‘It won’t last,’ they’ll snip. Why can’t people just be happy? I can probably get a group of friends to come to the show, and that’ll be fun. Even if the play’s boring, Philip’s pretty yummy, isn’t he? Maybe he’ll take his shirt off or something. That’d be all right, wouldn’t it, Dad? If I take an afternoon off to see the play?”

  “Lauren’s helping out in Russell’s office for the summer,” Helen explains. “We thought it would be good for her to have some real-world experience. And to stay busy over the break,” she adds with a slightly strained smile.

  “Course it’s all right, sweetheart,” Russell answers. “You see as many shows as you like; you’re only young once. Besides,” he adds, noting the subtle raise of his wife’s eyebrow, “it’s educational. Cultural education. Broadens the mind, like travel.”

  “I totally agree,” Bernard chips in. “Did I ever tell you about that wonderful little museum I stumbled across the last time I was in Mallorca? Changed my life, let me tell you—”

  “I’ve got some other news,” Lauren interrupts. “You might be interested in this one, Susan. You know Chris Baker, the chef?”

  Susan goes hot and cold in quick succession, and her heart thumps hard. Now it’s Julia’s turn to give her a side-eye.

  “Chris Baker?” Susan squeaks. Does Lauren know about her and Chris? She can’t possibly—that was long before Meg married William.

  Lauren nods. “Yeah, the chef. You know, he had that television show in America? And oh, talk about yummy!” She giggles. “He’s opening a restaurant. Here, in Edinburgh.”

  Susan’s body repeats the hot-cold-thump. She blinks at Lauren. Act normal. Act normal. Actnormalactnormalactnormalactnormal!

  “Oh?” she manages to respond, before turning her attention back to her plate.

  “Yeah! Isn’t that great?” Lauren beams.

  “Did you read that on Arion Nation as well?” Julia asks.

  “No, I got it from the man himself. Well, sort of. Dad heard through someone that Chris was coming back to Edinburgh to open a restaurant, so he asked about Chris doing the food for some political event thing in two weeks—”

  “‘Political event thing’ indeed,” her father chuckles. “I’m only entertaining the top Westminster Tories, including the Chancellor of the Exchequer.”

  “Are you really?” Bernard breathes.

  “Yes. Oh, and you must come, all of you. Going to be a good time, I promise.”

  “No one knows a good party like the Tory inner circle,” Julia observes.

  “Whatever.” Lauren flaps her hand at Russell, who pipes down so she can continue her story. “His publicist didn’t think he’d do it because he’s super busy just now, of course, and he’s only just arrived, but then the other day he telephoned and said he’d do it after all. And I took the call and had a really nice talk with him. He sounds sexy.”

  “Didn’t he used to work for us or something?” Meg wonders, wrestling a roll out of Alisdair’s hand and jamming it into Ayden’s. “The name’s familiar.”

  “If he did, I certainly don’t remember,” Bernard replies sharply. Susan frowns at him across Julia, puzzled. She’d brought Chris home to dinner. Had her father really forgotten that? And even if he had, Chris is famous and good looking, which means he ticks two of her father’s most important boxes. Surely Bernard, of all people, would remember and cling to a connection with a now-famous chef.

  But Bernard is staring down at his plate, lips pursed in a way that would only encourage wrinkles. Susan’s never seen him look like that.

  Julia closes her eyes in one long blink, then
says, “Of course you remember him, Dad. He was Granddad’s pet.” She glances meaningfully at Susan. “Wasn’t with us long, though.”

  Bernard clears his throat and runs his fingers across his lips, smoothing them. He looks back up at Russell. “Well, then, Russell, does this mean we can expect you to make a run for Westminster soon? Surely you’re not going to waste your talents up here forever?”

  “Oh, now, now.” Russell grins and taps the side of his nose with his forefinger.

  “You know what? I forgot to bring out the peas!” Helen cries, half-rising.

  Susan springs out of her chair, grateful beyond measure for the forgotten veg. “I’ll get them.”

  In the kitchen, she finds the peas, still in the strainer, fetches a bowl for them, and then decides to get some mint from the pots just outside the back door. Once out in the air, with the noise of the dining room reduced to an indistinct murmur, she leans against the wall of the house, closes her eyes, and breathes. Rubs her palms against the rough stone, gathering herself.

  Chris is not in Edinburgh for a visit, as she’d hoped. He’s going to live here. He’s opening a restaurant here.

  The high-end restaurant world is a small one, and incestuous, especially in a city this size. Staff move between a handful of places, go to the same events, drink at the same bars. Everyone knows one another, or has at least one friend or acquaintance or former colleague in every other restaurant of note in the city, and even beyond. There’s no way Susan will be able to avoid him. Jesus, she’ll be eating his hors d’oeuvres at Russell’s party in two weeks! How awkward will that be? She supposes she can plead off, but that seems disloyal. Sometimes, you have to do things you don’t want to, for family.

  Julia sticks her head out the door. “You’re taking a very long time with those peas. Helen’s starting to think you got lost.”

  “Sorry.” Susan bends down and snatches a handful of mint out of the nearest pot. “Just came out for some mint and air.”

  Julia narrows her eyes. “You all right?” she asks. “You seemed a little strange when Lauren brought up Chris Baker.”

  “God, Julia, that was years ago,” Susan replies, slipping past her, back into the kitchen, hoping she sounds convincing. “I’m just not happy to hear we’ll have more competition, that’s all.” She grabs a knife and begins shredding the mint.

  Julia watches her for a little while, arms crossed, then says, “I know you saw the photo in that album.”

  Susan pauses in her chopping but doesn’t look up. “Is that why you were going to get rid of it? To protect me?” It surprises her that Julia should be so considerate, even in a fairly misguided way.

  “No.” Julia’s voice is a little strangled. “There were a lot of other pictures in there, and I—” She clears her throat and Susan looks up, startled, remembering all the photos of them as children. And their mother. Happy, sunny days.

  Julia’s concentrating on a ring on her right hand, centering the stone just so on her middle finger. “Anyway,” she shrugs, “with that, and now him being here … just thought it might have thrown you off. But you say you’re fine, so I’ll just go tell Helen you’re still in one piece, then. Oh, and Meg says could you please mash some of those peas up for the baby? Apparently peas and bread are almost all he’ll eat.”

  Chapter Six

  How the Sausage Is Made

  The furniture placement has displeased Julia, and so new movers are brought in early on Monday to spend the day getting Moray Place just as she wants it. Susan guesses they’ll be returning in a week to start shifting it all again. And then again in a month, once Julia has decided on new wall colors and window treatments.

  Bernard takes one look at the chaos of men and furnishings and decides: “I think it’s best I not be underfoot. Julia, darling, phone my mobile when peace is restored, will you?”

  Julia issues instructions and then heads to the kitchen to make coffee. Susan is already there, piling some freshly baked cardamom buns on a cooling rack.

  “Don’t worry—they’re not for you,” Susan reassures her, noticing Julia’s wary look. “I thought the movers might appreciate some elevensies.” It’s a likely enough excuse. In truth, Susan’s been on a baking binge ever since they returned from the Coxes’ the previous day. The biscuit tin is now full of cranberry-pecan biscotti, and a sourdough loaf is enjoying a nice, slow rise in the fridge.

  “What is that?” Julia wonders, prodding at the fleshy bulge of dough swelling above its bowl.

  “Don’t poke it, please—you’ll let all the air out,” Susan warns.

  Julia snatches a bag of ground coffee from the top shelf of the fridge and goes to fill the kettle. “Suppose I should start ordering paint samples,” she muses, measuring coffee into a large cafetière. “Or maybe I’ll wallpaper this time …”

  “Julia, I want to run something past you,” Susan says, sidling up to her sister and offering her a cup of tea.

  Julia looks guarded. “Do you?”

  “I do. I’m planning to refurbish the restaurant and then do a full relaunch with a new—well, fairly new—look and menu.”

  Julia sips her tea. “Sounds expensive. I thought we were meant to be tightening our belts.”

  “I don’t want to spend money unnecessarily, but this is necessary, I think. The place is floundering; we have to do something big to kick it back on track.”

  “And how is this going to be paid for?”

  Susan takes a deep breath. “That’s the thing. I’m going to have to dip into the family funds for it.”

  “The family funds! What’re we going to live on? We’re already cutting right back to the bone as it is. Practically on bread and water!”

  Hardly, Susan thinks, eyeing the specialty coffee from Artisan Roast, and her sister’s Stella McCartney dress.

  “Jules,” she implores, “you’ve been really great about all this, and I appreciate it. It won’t have to be too much. And if the restaurant recovers, then so will the investment.”

  Julia leans against the countertop, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. “How much?”

  “That depends on you.”

  “How so?”

  “I want you to take charge of the refurbishment.”

  Eyes un-narrow. Julia now blinks at her. “Me? You want me to redo the restaurant?”

  “I do. If you’re not too busy with the house, that is.”

  “No, no, the house can wait!” It’s been so long since Julia had anything other than her own sitting room to do over. A restaurant is a whole new challenge. Susan can practically see the ideas ticking over behind her sister’s bright blue eyes.

  Susan smiles. “So you’ll back me up with Dad, then, when I ask for the money?”

  “Of course!” Julia nibbles her bottom lip for a moment, then says, “You know, it might be best if I ask him.” She pats her sister on the shoulder. “You know how hard it is for him to say ‘no’ to me.”

  “Oh, I know,” says Susan. “We’ll both talk to him. In the meantime, why don’t you come by the restaurant and have a look around? Start making plans.”

  “Yes, all right. I’ll see how things go here and let you know.”

  The teakettle starts whistling for attention. Julia turns back to the coffee, and Susan packs up some of the buns.

  “Where’re you off to?” Julia asks her.

  “Thought I’d take a walk and then get to the restaurant early,” Susan explains. “See you later.”

  * * *

  Susan hikes up Calton Hill, a curious, monument-dotted rise with spectacular views, located at the east end of Prince’s Street. On the northern side, you can stand in the shadow of the unfinished National Monument (modeled on the Parthenon, the project ran out of funds before more than a series of columns could be erected. It looks like a very large, very heavy piece of theatrical scenery). From there, you can look across Leith and the Firth, to Fife, hazy in the distance.

  To the east, the tall tower of the Nelson Monument provides
an exclamation point termination to Prince’s Street. Beyond that, Arthur’s Seat, an ancient, long-dormant volcano, rises high over Edinburgh. A grassy giant lying in great humps, jutting its rocky chin at the city, it reminds the genteel Georgian terraces that this used to be a much more violent and dangerous place. Now it’s frequently dotted with tourists and furred with mustard-yellow flowers on the gorse bushes that grow wild on its slopes.

  To the south is the gracious, temple-like memorial to Dugald Stewart. It enjoys one of the most iconic views of the city, overlooking the Castle, the old and new towns, the Balmoral Hotel’s commanding clocktower, and the mist-topped peaks of the Pentland Hills in the distance.

  Susan makes a full circuit of the hill, absorbing the views, stopping by the National Monument and spreading her arms. Stretching, expanding her lungs, she breathes Scotland in and London out and hopes—believes—convinces herself—that things will be better here.

  She looks over the city, toward Leith, and thinks of all the work ahead of her. And the uphill battle she’s facing with her chef.

  She has no time for that.

  Out there is a city crowded with restaurants, from fast-food takeaways to Michelin-starred destinations. Elliot’s needs to elbow its way back in, find its place. Compete.

  Somewhere down there, in Leith, yet another restaurant is poised to open. She imagines Chris is already in the kitchen. He will be—she knows he will be—hard at work. Perfecting recipes, teaching them to his fellow chefs, finalizing details. Ready to leverage his fame and his incredible talent into creating the sort of restaurant that will crush places like Elliot’s.

  The clock is ticking. She can’t play nice forever. There’s work to be done.

  While she considers her next move, scattered clouds over the Forth suddenly clump together, race to Calton, and dump rain, as Scottish clouds are wont to do. Susan laughs—Scotland, after all!—descends, and walks the short distance to the restaurant.

  The blonde chef (Gloria Przybylski, Susan has now learned—a name that seems at odds with her very Edinburgh accent) is checking in some orders when Susan arrives. She takes one look at Susan and laughs.