“No, no, it was totally right!” she snorts. “I’m not glamorous, and I’m fine with that. I’m perfectly happy to wear loose jeans and smell like cake.”
“Good. You make loose jeans and cake pretty sexy.”
Startled, Susan looks up at him, wondering if he’s having her on. He must be because who would honestly think something like that?
Judging from his warm smile and the look on his face, Philip Simms does. Philip Simms, movie star and lauded actor. Possessor of perfect hair and sculpted body. Philip Simms, with his million-plus Twitter and Instagram followers and his NSFW Google Image Search results (Photoshopped, of course) is interested in her. Despite what Kay said, Susan genuinely hadn’t thought this was a date. No one except for Chris has ever overlooked Julia in favor of Susan. That’s just not how the world tends to work.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to make things awkward there,” Philip says.
“You—you didn’t,” she lies, telling herself she’s being utterly ridiculous. After all, can you really trust what a talented actor says to you? They can make you believe anything; it’s their job. “Cake. We talked about having cake.” Susan tries to collect herself, grasping for something familiar and comforting. “Mimi’s Bakehouse is near here. They do a nice tea and cake. Or a scone, if that’s more your thing.”
His smile remains in place, and it makes her feel less flustered. “Sounds delicious.” He reaches out and takes her hand.
Susan smiles back and tries to ignore the passersby. And the strange, nagging tug in her belly, which she’s not quite naive enough to believe are the first pangs of love.
Chapter Seventeen
Queen of Puddings
On Tuesday, Susan’s heading back to Leith, swaying as she clings to a strap on a packed double-decker bus. She’s heading to Seòin for her first session with Rab, wondering if that awkward tension she felt from Chris at the end of the Foodies Festival will still be there. She still can’t account for that—she asked Kay about it, but Kay just shrugged and said, “He didn’t take to me when we first met, I suppose.” Susan knows there’s more to it than that, but she certainly isn’t going to get any more out of her aunt. Probably won’t get anything out of Chris either.
All Kay wants to talk about is the date with Philip. It’s all anyone wants to talk about—even Lauren telephoned to breathlessly ask what it was like.
“I’m so jealous!” she gushed. “I go away for a couple of weeks and look what happens—you and a movie star!”
“It’s not as exciting as it all sounds,” Susan mumbled into the phone, warily watching Julia, who was pouring herself a cup of coffee. Holding her mug with just the tips of her fingers, Julia leaned against the countertop and raised an eyebrow as she sipped her drink. “It was just a walk,” Susan continued, as much for her sister’s benefit as for Lauren’s.
“Along the Waters of Leith! And there was cake too! What kind of cake did he get? I couldn’t tell from the pictures.”
“I—pictures?”
“Yeah, it’s all over Arion Nation. Didn’t you see?”
As Lauren spoke, Julia tapped away on her phone, then held it up for Susan to see. There she was, photographed through the window at Mimi’s Bakehouse with Philip seated across from her, laughing. Pots of tea and thick slices of cake between them.
“Who the hell took that?” she wondered, aghast, taking the phone and staring at the picture.
Simm-er down, ladies! the caption read. Looks like this one’s off the menu! Is it any wonder that a man who clearly loves his cake would go for Susan Napier, pastry chef/owner of Elliot’s on the Royal Mile?
“Not exactly Shakespeare, is he?” Susan had grumbled, returning the phone.
“Does he have to be?” was Julia’s rhetorical response.
Susan couldn’t help but notice the high—very high—share count underneath the picture. She was grateful she didn’t do social media now. “Lauren, I have to go.”
“But wait! Are you and he going to—”
Bleep! Susan cut off her sister-in-law mid-sentence, facing instead a pristine kitchen filled with a heavy silence.
“You going to see him again?” Julia asked, seemingly nonchalant, coolly staring down her sister.
“Yes,” Susan admitted. “He asked to take me to dinner sometime soon.” She sighed. “Listen, Jules …”
“Don’t worry about it.” Julia tossed her mostly undrunk coffee in the sink and put the mug in the dishwasher. “I mean, it all makes sense now. Obviously I’m not his type.”
“Okay.” Susan tried not to be offended. “So, we’re all right, then?”
“Course we are. All publicity is good publicity, right?” Julia flicked her hair back over her shoulder and headed out of the kitchen. “Oh, the contractor says they should finish plugging all the holes in the walls today, and they can pick back up the cosmetic work by the end of the week, once the plaster’s dry. And it turns out the wallpaper I’d originally gone for has been discontinued, so I had to order the more expensive choice. I’m meeting a friend for coffee; I’ll be by the restaurant later. Byeeee!”
There seems to be a tenuous peace in the house now, though Susan is careful not to mention the date or give Julia a hard time about the wallpaper. Let her have her bloody wallpaper; Susan already has enough on her hands and mind.
The bus to Leith jerks to a stop and disgorges Susan, along with a mass of camera-clutching tourists and exasperated locals. It’s August now, and the city is bloated with people. Tourists, performers, actors, authors, critics, artists, and harried daily commuters all jamming in, flooding and clogging the roads, the trams, the buses and trains. The visitors have a bad habit of drifting down the streets in clumps, stopping unexpectedly to take pictures of who-knows-what, oblivious to the fact they’re blocking everyone’s way. Those with places to be dodge past them as best they can, and weave past street performers, theatrical groups begging for audiences, and the ubiquitous bagpipers, who seem to quadruple in number this time of year. The Royal Mile, epicenter of the Fringe, hums with shouts, soliloquies, taglines, confusion, and piped renditions of “We Will Rock You,” competing with the more traditional “Amazing Grace.” Every night, at half past ten, the crack of the fireworks that close the Military Tattoo at the castle echoes across the city.
The Royal Mile gets the worst of the crowds, but no part of the city remains untouched: in typical Edinburgh fashion, everyone wedges into whatever space they can find, making it work as best they can. Shows are staged in enormous tents in the city’s parks, in gardens, clubs and function rooms; in proper theaters, museums, bars, restaurants, and elaborate spiegeltents brought over from mainland Europe. It means you can find yourself attending events in some very incongruous surroundings: a series of free shows for small children, for instance, is held in rather dark, grubby rooms belonging to a pub in the Cowgate.
Susan has mixed feelings about the Festival season. She finds the daily struggle through the throng draining, and she’s already been whacked on the head twice by carelessly wielded selfie sticks. But as a business owner, she recognizes the visitors as a gift, and she wants to scream at how slowly the work at Elliot’s seems to be going. She glares at the plasterers, who take their time, and why shouldn’t they? They’re paid by the hour. Meanwhile, just outside, hundreds of prospective customers pass by their locked door, drifting down the cobblestones toward Holyrood.
Escaping to Leith for a little while is something of a relief despite the packed bus. The tourist crush is slightly less up here, and she’s always liked being near water. It was Chris’s idea to have Rab’s first lesson at Seòin. “Rab’s comfortable here,” he explained. “He’ll be less tense. And the restaurant is closed on Tuesdays, so it’ll be quiet.”
She agreed, telling herself it would be good to get away from the frustrating slowness of the workmen. Anyhow, it’s good to get out of your usual surroundings. Stimulates the mind. That’s what she tells herself as she takes a deep breath and pushes through t
he back door of Seòin, ready for whatever might lie on the other side.
“Morning,” Chris greets her, glancing up from some prep work with a welcoming smile. “Not too much trouble getting up here, I hope?”
“No. There was enough room on the bus to breathe, which is all I need,” she replies.
His smile shifts to one of gratitude. “Thanks for coming. I know how busy you are.”
“I’m sure you do, having just opened a place of your own.” Unable to help herself, Susan has a look around. She’s seen pictures of the restaurant in features that ran in local magazines, but hasn’t seen it in person.
Seòin is housed in an old stone factory. Not a huge one, but it’s definitely larger and more open than Elliot’s. There are immense windows along the two longest sides of the building, filling the place with light, which helps soften the look of the exposed stone walls. Near the entrance is a circular bar with a base of river stone and a polished top in warm, honey-colored wood that matches the tables. The floor is stained a slightly darker color, and the chairs are all upholstered in cream, with cozy red-and-yellow tartan wool blankets slung over the backs, inviting a chilly diner to snuggle down.
The open kitchen is toward the back of the building, opposite the bar and behind a stainless-steel counter with eight chairs arranged in front of it. The chef’s table.
“How do you like having this?” Susan asks, indicating the chef’s table.
Chris glances up again and shrugs. “Depends on who’s sitting there. Some people just want to watch me work and that’s great—I just get on with things—but others keep asking idiotic questions or just want to talk and talk about the show and New York, and ‘Oh, do you know so-and-so? I’m sure he used to work in New York at some restaurant, sometime. Or maybe it was Brooklyn? Or New Orleans?’” He chuckles. “Everyone always thinks all chefs know one another.”
“To be fair, it is a fairly small club, especially at your level. No wonder Dan went to you when he wanted a business partner.”
Chris frowns. “He didn’t come to me. Not for that, anyway. Just after you fired him, he tried to convince me to hire him as my sous chef, as if I would just replace Calum. But you know a group of us chefs bought a restaurant to offer as a pop-up to up-and-comers?”
Susan nods, recalling the tidbit from Chris’s radio interview.
“Well, he put in an application with the group. And I’ll have you know I voted against giving him our funding and restaurant, but I was overruled by the majority.” He shakes his head. “You really think I’d go into business with him and put him just around the corner from you? That’s daft, that is.” He sounds both hurt and incredulous.
“Is it?” Susan wonders aloud.
He puts his work down and looks right at her. “It is. That’s … mean.”
“Some might say that’s business.”
“Not how I want to do business.” He shakes his head. “You think I don’t know about him? About how he treats staff members and how lazy and uninspired he is? Like you said, it’s a small world, the restaurant one. And did I mention he tried to convince me to fire my best friend?”
“He’s a dick,” Susan agrees with a smirk.
“A right fannybaws, as my sister would say.”
Susan bursts out laughing, and after a moment he joins in.
“She’s got the best insults now, Beth does,” he adds. “What was that one she used when someone cut her off in traffic? Ah, right—a ‘boaby-faced, lavvy-heided bum splatter’!”
Susan laughs herself helpless. Laughs far more than the line actually deserves, but she’s just so relieved this is turning out to be less tense than she was expecting.
“I was tempted to use it on that Arion git at the Festival,” says Chris, dashing away a laughter tear with the palm of his hand. “I hate being played.”
“Who doesn’t? But I have to confess, the competition was sort of fun.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, smiling. “It was, actually. Mostly.” His smile falters and he turns to slide the tray of prepped food into the refrigerator, shutting the door a little harder than is necessary. Susan feels a chill seep in and struggles to banish it.
“Rab did amazing work on Saturday,” she says. “It was a good idea to bring him.”
“Thought it might do him some good,” says Chris, taking his time turning around. “Get him away from the kitchen, maybe build up his confidence a bit.”
“Did it work?”
“I think so. He kept throwing ideas at me all the way home. Most I’ve heard him talk since he started here.”
“How did you find him?”
Chris finally returns to his prep table. There’s still an expanse of stainless steel between them, but at least he’s facing in her direction, which is an improvement. “Beth, actually,” he explains. “Rab’s gran is her neighbor, and when Beth told her I was coming back to Edinburgh to open a restaurant, his gran asked if I’d be willing to take him on as an apprentice. I wasn’t going to say ‘no’ to Beth”—he smirks—“but it turns out it was a good thing. The boy has talent, as you saw.”
“And you’re continuing a grand tradition of nurturing new talent,” says Susan. “My granddad would be proud.”
Chris looks up and smiles at her in a way she hasn’t seen since their days together. It’s the sort of smile that goes right to the core of her and hurts in a deep, longing, achy way.
They stare at each other, and a thick mist of unsaid things rises between them as they both struggle to think of a way to disperse it.
And then the back door flies open and Rab tumbles in, jabbering apologies for being late as he tries to tie on an apron while running toward Susan.
“Easy, lad, take your time—she’s not rushing off,” Chris reassures him. “You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, just got held up and missed the bus.” Rab is red-faced, wheezing from having run full-tilt from the bus stop. “Dad’s offshore and Mam needed help gettin’ all the bairns fed and dressed and—”
“I only just got here. It’s fine,” Susan chimes in. “Go ahead, catch your breath while I get myself situated.” This thing with Chris will have to wait.
She wanders over to the pastry station, tying on a clean apron, taking a few moments to orient herself and find the tools and ingredients she needs. By the time Rab joins her, still apologizing, ducking his head in an ashamed sort of way, she has butter, flour, sugar, ice water, lemon juice, a bowl, and a pastry cutter laid out before her.
“Before we do anything, here’s the first lesson in dessert making: don’t stint on any of the good stuff. Fill it up with butter, and cream, and sugar, and fruit. All the things we want loads of but really shouldn’t have. It should feel decadent.”
That’s her grandfather talking, of course. “Pudding is an indulgence; it should feel like it,” he used to say. She could recall one day, in the kitchen of their house in London, when she was maybe nine or ten, helping her mother frost a birthday cake for one of her sisters (Meg, surely; Julia had given up cake, by that point). Elliot sat on a stool at the kitchen island, watching them, guiding Susan’s technique: “Take off just enough of the frosting to give a smooth appearance, but don’t scrape it all off. The whole point of cake is the frosting, isn’t it? You don’t want a bare cake.”
“Julia would,” Susan commented with a wry smile.
“Julia doesn’t appreciate things like this” was Elliot’s response.
“Now, now,” Susan’s mother gently remonstrated with a warning look at her father-in-law.
“Well, I worry about Julia,” he said. “If you can’t indulge in a little cake now and again, what sort of joy do you have in your life? Can you indulge in anything? And yes, cake is an indulgence. You don’t need it, but you want it. It should feel celebratory and just a little delightfully naughty when you have it. It’s the same with any dessert.”
“We want it because it’s full of fats and simple carbohydrates,” Mum chimed in, handing Susan a small bowl full of
hundreds and thousands and indicating, with a smile, that she should feel free to sprinkle them over the cake. “All the things that trigger pleasure centers in the brain. We want them because, back when we had to be ready to flee from predators or keep from freezing to death in our caves, quick sources of warmth and energy were useful. We haven’t quite evolved past that caveman ideal. Pudding is primal.”
“Rule number two,” Susan now tells Rab, “you don’t need to make it too complicated to make it amazing. Most times, something fairly simple, something that taps into your childhood, will be the winner. Now, ready to get started?” Rab nods. She gestures to the table. “Lesson one: pie crust.”
She guides the boy through her recipe, which she learned in France. It produces a crust so flaky it’s almost like puff pastry. Chris works quietly at his prep, glancing up every now and then to smile at them. While the pastry’s resting in the fridge, they move on to fillings: lemon curd and vanilla custard, both of which make Rab anxious. She can see it on his face as he stirs and stirs, and she knows what he’s thinking: Why isn’t it thickening? What’ve I done wrong? I screwed it up!
“Patience,” she murmurs, reaching out and slowing down his hand, which is starting to whisk the curd a little too frantically. A froth of fine, glossy bubbles is gathering on the surface. “Rule number three: Take your time. Rushed pastry is sloppy pastry and wasted ingredients. You’ve done it right; it just takes time for the eggs to cook enough to thicken the liquid. It always takes much longer than I expect it to,” she adds, with a bright smile. “Ah, there, you see?” She points at the sunny, viscous liquid in the pot, which has, in the space of a moment, gone from a runny juice to a thick spread that holds back for just a moment when she drags a spoon through it. Susan holds the spoon up, marveling at the alchemy one can produce in kitchens. “See how it’s coating the back of this spoon? That’s ready now. Through the sieve and into the bowl it goes, and now you’ve got your lemon curd.”
A grin—the first smile of the day—breaks out across Rab’s face. “I never done it before!” he says, dumping the curd into a fine-mesh sieve set over a bowl. “It always clumped up and I got lemon scrambled eggs.”
All Stirred Up Page 20
