All Stirred Up

by Brianne Moore

  She does try not to think about it, though. None of this is Philip’s fault, and it’s not fair to him to put a damper on the evening just because things seem to be going a bit pear shaped in her life. So, she smiles, takes his hand, and speeds off in a taxi to a little bistro on Broughton Street. She tries not to mind when they’re seated at a table right in the window overlooking the street, which is busy with festival-goers on their way to see Oliver! at the Edinburgh Playhouse just up the road.

  “I don’t suppose there’s a more private table we could have?” she whispers to the waitress who seats them.

  The waitress seems surprised and glances once or twice at Philip as she says, “Sorry. All booked up for tonight.”

  Susan tries not to think about her discomfort at being put on display. She tries not to notice the passersby who do double takes, point, and take photos with their mobiles.

  Philip doesn’t need to try: he seems completely unaware of the attention as he peruses the menu. “What’re you in the mood for? I hear they do really great pasta here. There’s one dish that has garlic and olive oil and chili and parsley that’s really nice. I had it at this place in Rome, where some granny made all the pasta by hand, and I got to go in the back and watch her do it. Amazing! Just these sheets and sheets of paper-thin dough coming out of this machine she cranked by hand. Have you ever made pasta?”

  “Yes.” She tries not to think of her and Chris’s early attempts with a machine they couldn’t get to clamp properly onto the countertop. Chris had to hold the thing in place, leaning most of his weight on it to make sure it didn’t shift all over as she tried to feed in the yolk-yellow dough, turn the crank and catch the smooth, leathery sheets that emerged. There was a lot of trial and error. They ate so much pasta they had to swear it off for a while.

  “I should try making pasta sometime,” Philip is saying. “I’ve got a machine—an electric one. I went out and bought it right after I met that old lady, but never actually got around to using it. I should. Think you could teach me to make pasta?”

  “Um, yeah, maybe.” Susan’s distracted by a clump of teenage girls outside who are posing for selfies with Philip in the background. She tries shifting her chair back a few inches, hoping she can hide her face behind the menu posted in the window.

  “So, what do you think? Should we get that pasta dish? Share it, Lady and the Tramp style?” He grins.

  “I-I think I’d rather try the fish if you don’t mind.” For some reason, eating that dish with someone else feels … wrong.

  “Suit yourself. Think I might just get one of the salads, then.”

  “No, get the pasta if that’s what you want!”

  “Nah. That’s a bit much when I’m about to open in a play where I’m stripped to the waist in three scenes. People have certain expectations, you know, and if you show up with a muffin top, it’s all over Twitter by the time the interval comes around.”

  “I’m sure you could work it off,” says Susan as the wine is brought out and a taster poured for Philip.

  His eyes twinkle over the edge of the glass. “Did you have anything in mind?”

  Susan blushes and he chuckles, nodding for the waitress to go ahead and pour the wine. She does, then takes their orders and leaves them alone.

  “Can I ask a favor of you?” Susan asks.

  “Of course you can!”

  “Will you consider coming to our opening?”

  “I thought you’d never ask. I’d love to.”

  “Thank you.”

  He smiles charmingly, reaches across the little round table, and takes her hand. People outside are going a bit nuts now, and Susan retracts her hand, instead pressing her leg against his under the table, where it’s hidden by the tablecloth. Philip grins and clearly takes that as an invitation, because he leans over and gently kisses her.

  Susan forgets about the people outside. It’s been ages since she’s been kissed—what was it? Eighteen months? Two years? Barry, the forty-something solicitor with the overlapping front teeth she met online?—and it feels so good. It feels lovely to have someone seem to genuinely enjoy her company, to want to be seen with her, to touch her, to talk and laugh and joke with her. And she can’t ignore the fact that the man is gorgeous and a splendid kisser—she can tell that much, even from just a brief embrace. But then, she playfully reminds herself, it’s not as if he hasn’t had plenty of chances to practice.

  Finally, she doesn’t have to try to think about something else.

  Philip leans his forehead against hers and murmurs, “We could just ask them to box up our dinners and skip the comedy show.”

  Susan laughs throatily and is a little startled by how much she’s tempted. But then the sound of someone’s camera shutter going off (inside the restaurant this time) snaps her back to some sort of reality.

  “Not tonight,” she whispers back. “I’m starving, and to be honest, I could really do with a good dose of comedy.”

  * * *

  They eat, then stroll up Broughton Street to The Stand, a close, bunker-like comedy club on York Place. With its low ceiling and basement location, it’s a claustrophobic’s nightmare, but Susan finds some relief in the knowledge that nobody will be able to get a mobile signal down here.

  The backdrop on the tiny stage features the grim image of a grinning young boy dressed up as a cowboy, pointing a gun to his head, which Susan really hopes isn’t going to set the mood for the rest of the night. Small, round tables around the stage are already fully occupied with people drinking beers and eating burgers and chips. The employee who checks their names against the ticket reservations list at the door tries not to look too surprised to see Philip and reassures them that more seats will be set up soon.

  It turns out not to matter because a middle-aged couple with extra chairs at their table wave to Philip and shout, “You can join us, if you like!”

  “Oh no, it’s fine,” Susan starts to say, even as Philip calls back, “Thanks!” and steers her over.

  “I’m Bob; this is Sheila,” the man introduces, reaching over to shake Philip’s hand.

  “Grand to meet you. Thanks for sharing with us,” says Philip as he and Susan take their seats.

  “Oh my God! I cannae believe it!” Sheila squeals. She has bleached blonde hair, an orange tan, and so much false eyelash on that Susan’s amazed she can still comfortably blink. “I’ve seen every one of your movies,” she breathes at Philip. “They’re amazing! You were robbed at those Oscars, you were. I was ragin’.”

  “That’s really kind, but Geoffrey put in an amazing performance,” Philip demurs.

  “Nah, never did like him much,” Bob chimes in. Like his wife, his skin is an electric tangerine color. He laces his fingers behind his head and leans back in the chair. “Next year’ll be your year, my lad.” He reaches over and claps Philip on the shoulder. “Yer overdue.”

  “And what do you do?” Sheila asks Susan, turning toward her with a pleasant smile. Susan wonders if she’s really thinking, “What the hell are you doing here with him?”

  “I own a restaurant,” she answers.

  “You’re not an actress, then? Oh, that’s nice, you spend time with ordinary people,” Sheila says to Philip. “Not snobby, like.”

  “Susan’s an amazing pastry chef,” Philip says. “She owns Elliot’s, you know. It’s reopening soon. You should try it.”

  “Oh, aye, we will,” Bob promises with a polite smile that indicates he’s only saying that because he has to.

  “What do you like to bake?” Sheila asks. “I’ve been known to do a cracking summer pudding.”

  “I bake all sorts of things,” Susan answers, relieved to actually be in a conversation she can contribute to (Bob is asking Philip about filmmaking). “How do you do your summer pudding? I sometimes put a little elderflower cordial in with the fruit when I’m cooking it, and use a good, stale brioche loaf.”

  “Do you? I’ll have to try that. I usually just use a bloomer from Aldi.” Sheila see
ms genuinely interested, and Susan feels guilty for having judged her.

  “Did someone say summer pudding?” Philip asks, glancing over. “That’s my absolute favorite. I’ll bet you make a great one too,” he adds, smiling at Sheila in a way that makes her giggle and blush right through that tan.

  “Aye, she makes a good ’un, my Sheila,” Bob confirms, patting his wife on the leg, making her smile and blush even more. “’s why I married her!”

  “I married him because he can mend things,” she says. “We met when ’e came over to sort out my plumbing.”

  “That’s what she said!” he guffaws. Sheila laughs along with him. He reaches across the table and takes her hand. “Twenty years ago to the day, and I’ve never wanted to look anywhere else, eh?”

  Susan hovers halfway between wanting to squeal like Lauren and tear up. She settles for a smile and an “Aw” as the lights dim and a spotlight illuminates the tiny stage.

  Stand shows are a mixed bag of newcomers and more established comedians, four in all, doing brief sets, ushered along by a master of ceremonies. As the MC comes out, Susan tenses, wondering if he’ll mention Philip, sitting right there in front of him, smiling, waiting to be entertained. But Philip goes unnoticed or, at any rate, is not singled out. She starts to relax, but then the first act comes out, points to Philip, and crows—“What’s this? Am I being scouted? You’d better watch out, mate—I’ll have your job!” He strikes a bodybuilder pose, which is meant to be funny because he’s built like a beanpole. The audience titters encouragingly, recognizing a nervous newcomer, but that just serves to encourage him, and throughout his set he keeps coming back to Philip and making comments about all the famous actresses he must have slept with and was it really true what Gwyneth Paltrow said she did to her vagina? It gets so rough that people start grumbling.

  It finally ends and the MC comes back out, rolling his eyes, and saying, “Well, all right, yes, there’s a movie star–shaped elephant in the room tonight, and aren’t we all just agog! But it’s Festival time, people, and frankly, a movie star is the least interesting thing you’re likely to see, right? There are a thousand shows put on by people so desperate for your patronage they’ll balance a hippo holding a giraffe on the tip of their little finger while break-dancing on a high wire with no net. For free! Let’s get excited about that instead, all right? This bloke doesn’t need your attention; he’s already buried in adoration and money.”

  Philip laughs and inclines his head. The room relaxes a bit, and the rest of the acts are much better.

  Afterward, most of the audience rushes out (probably to update their social media feeds as soon as they hit the pavement, Susan guesses) while Philip, Susan, Bob, and Sheila follow more slowly. Bob and Sheila are chattering about the merits of a week in Magaluf and this really cracking resort they stayed in that Philip should look into, because it was beautiful and not at all pretentious, and people really did just leave you alone.

  “I’ll definitely have to look into it next time I’m down that way,” Philip promises, sounding sincere. It gives Bob and Sheila a thrill, and they say good night and hug both Philip and Susan as if they’re old friends, before wandering off, arms around each other’s waists, in the direction of the garishly lit Omni Centre. Susan watches them go, a little wistfully, thinking of the genuine love and ease the two seem to share.

  Philip reaches over and takes her hand, and they stroll in the opposite direction, taking the first left up North St. Andrew Street. It’s just past eleven o’clock at night, so finally fully dark out, which means it’s the perfect time to see the light installation in St. Andrew Square.

  As they cross the tram tracks and enter the square, Susan gasps, “Will you look at that?”

  The entire square is softly aglow from hundreds of spherical bulbs planted on stiff stems, like luminescent poppy seed heads. They cover every last inch of grass in the square, and the lights slowly change from white to blue, to green, and back to white, the change staggered by section, so the square seems alive with rippling bands of light, like a tiny aurora borealis come down to earth.

  It isn’t the comedy show that makes Susan forget about all the things that are worrying her: it’s this. This beautiful little oasis in the middle of a crowded city, the sight of which hushes the other people in the square and makes it easy to forget they’re there. She looks up at one point and sees Philip, standing behind a section of lights that make him glow. He grins at her, clearly delighted by her delight. Swept up in it—the beauty of the lights and his smile and a need to feel wanted in an uncomplicated way—Susan rushes over and kisses him. Not a brief, soft kiss like at the restaurant, but like she really means it. She rakes her fingers through his hair and pulls his head down and feels his arm wrap around her waist and jerk her right up against him. She pushes the onlookers in the square from her mind, just for a moment, and concentrates instead on the feel of his hands and mouth. She wills a warm glow into being in her chest and tries to force it outward, to tingle in her fingertips and toes the way it used to, when she was young and …

  She draws back, just a little, and something—a trick of the light, surely—makes Philip, just for a moment, look exactly like Chris, and it gives her a start.

  He feels her movement, like a flinch, and frowns ever so slightly. “Something wrong?”

  “No, just … no.” She reaches up, pulls his head down, and kisses him again, but it isn’t quite the same. She can’t get caught up in it. Oh, it’s nice. Really lovely, but different. And when they break apart this time, she only smiles sweetly in response to his suggestive grin, takes his hand, and steers them home.

  Chapter Twenty

  The Evening Ended with Dancing

  “You naughty girl, you!” Gloria greets Susan the following morning.

  “What do you mean?” As if she doesn’t know!

  “You’re a meme!” Gloria crows, holding up her mobile phone. Lighting up the screen is a gif of Susan, clinched together with Philip the night before, hands all over each other. Susan can feel the blush creeping up her neck. What was she thinking?

  It’s more than a gif, of course. She woke that morning to a text message from Lauren:

  OMG, Susan, you’re all over Arion Nation!

  There was a link, which Susan was reluctant to click, but curiosity got the better of her. There were half a dozen pictures of her and Philip, accompanied by some very nudge-nudge-wink-wink text. Was that—she squinted at one of the pictures—was that Philip’s hand on her breast? She didn’t even remember that. But now everyone else would!

  And it has spread beyond Rufus Arion’s blog, of course. She’s already ignored a phone call from Hello! magazine, and she’s sure the Daily Mail will come knocking soon. Philip seems amused by the whole thing (Oops! We were a bit naughty, weren’t we? he texted), but Susan is mortified. And she feels something else too, down deep in the pit of her stomach. Something she can’t identify but definitely doesn’t like.

  “If I double your salary, can you forget you ever saw that?” she asks Gloria, only partly joking.

  “Oh, come on! It’s good you’re getting out and having some fun,” Gloria reassures her, tucking the phone into her pocket. “I’m not even going to ask how it was.”

  “I don’t think you need to. You’ve got a front-row seat.” Susan gestures to the phone. “You and the rest of the world.”

  “The price of fame.” Gloria hoists a plastic tub filled with marinating chicken breasts and disappears in the direction of the walk-in.

  Susan puts her things away and retreats to the pastry kitchen. She needs to get things in order before Rab comes and—Oh God. Susan freezes. What if Rab’s seen all of this? What will he think? Will she be able to look this kid in the eye and teach him about the difference between the soft-ball and hard-ball stages of candy making without him losing it?

  If he’s seen any of the photos, gifs, or articles, he doesn’t mention it, bless him. He’s delivered downstairs by Julia, who waves to Su
san through the pastry kitchen window, points to Rab, and says, “I think this one’s for you?”

  “Yeah, thanks, Jules,” Susan says, coming out with a smile. “Hey, Rab, thanks for coming. I’ll introduce you around. That’s Gloria, our head chef—”

  “Welcome!” Gloria calls back, waving with a pork chop she’s working on.

  “… and our sous chef, Rey—”

  “Word!”

  Susan finishes the introductions, then shows Rab into the pastry kitchen. The boy, who responded to the greetings with fleeting smiles and kept ducking his head, seems relieved to be in a somewhat more private space.

  “Today, we start with macarons,” Susan announces. “The divas of the pastry world. They need a bit of careful, special handling, and they go to pieces at the least provocation, but when they turn out right, they’re amazing and everyone loves them. I thought we’d do a batch of chocolate ones—what do you think?”

  Rab grins. “Yeah. Sounds good.”

  They work away at it, the pair of them, Susan stepping back and letting him do most of the work, just as before. Once the macarons are mixed, piped out in neat little circles, and set aside to rest before baking, they move on to candy. Susan loves the miniature, multicolored, spade-like spoons that are often served with takeaway ice creams, and she got it into her head to cast some edible ones for the restaurant. She has no idea if it’ll work—they might be too fragile to scoop properly—but figures they’ll give it a go. While Rab keeps an eye on the melting sugar, she turns to other things.

  “How’s your mum doing, Rab?” she asks after a brief silence.

  “Oh, she’s awright. Gettin’ big, so it’s harder for her to keep up with the wee ’uns.”

  “Does it fall to you, then, to look after them?” she asks, thinking it must be a strain for him to do so after long days in the kitchen.