“It’s nice, Dad,” Susan agrees.
“‘Nice,’ she says.” Julia snorts. “There’s gratitude. You know part of the reason we got this place was because I thought you might like the kitchen. You just think it’s ‘nice.’” She sighs as she crosses her arms.
Bernard gives Susan a “fix this” look she remembers well from her childhood.
She takes a deep breath, then smiles. “It’s wonderful, Julia. And the kitchen is very … roomy.”
That seems to appease her. Julia unwinds her arms and begins exploring the rooms, muttering about paint and wallpaper and new throw pillows.
“Good girl.” Bernard pats Susan on the shoulder, then smiles proudly after his eldest. “She’ll do the place up right. I heard all about her plans on the way up. It’s good for her to stay busy, I think. Idleness does no one any good. So, what’ve you been up to these past few days?”
“I’ve been at the restaurant mostly.”
Bernard blinks in such a way that Susan wonders if he forgot they even have a restaurant in Edinburgh. “Ah, right! Of course! Good. Everything shipshape, I assume?”
“Not quite.” She’s been trying her damnedest to unscramble the books while Dan hovers nearby, sighing loudly and telegraphing annoyance.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll manage to sort it.” Bernard’s examining the crown molding in the hall, then poking his head into the nearest room.
“And I’ve been spending time with Meg, of course,” Susan adds.
Bernard drags himself away from the woodwork. “How is little Bambi?” he asks. “Still taking fright at every loud noise?” He chuckles.
“She’s …” Susan wonders if it’s worthwhile telling Bernard about Meg’s anxiety, which has begun to concern her. She finally settles on, “She seems tense.”
“Oh?” Bernard has strolled over to the window and stands looking at the quiet street outside. “Well, it’ll be nice for her to have you and Julia around, then. She can talk to you.”
“And you,” Susan suggests.
Bernard chuckles softly. “Oh, I don’t know about that. I’m rubbish at comforting. That was your mother’s—” His shoulders sag, almost imperceptibly, and he clears his throat, still staring out the window.
Susan joins him and says quietly, “You know what they say about practice making perfect.”
“Hmm.” Bernard turns his face away from her just a little, and Susan realizes she’d better change the subject.
“We’ve all been invited to Sunday lunch at Russell and Helen’s.”
Bernard turns to her, his usual pleasant expression back in place. “Ah! Good! Nice to catch up with family.”
Julia reappears, rolling her eyes. “Do we have to go? There’s so much to do here and … Russell.” She huffs. “He’s so … Tony Blair-ish.”
“Now, now, Julia, of course we’ll go. They are family, after all. And if we’re to live here, we really must establish ourselves with the right sort of people. I wonder if Russell knows of a good replacement for Keegan? Surely a man in politics gets a little brightener every now and again? And if we’re meant to be economizing, I feel I shouldn’t be dashing down to London too often.”
Julia’s eyes slide toward her sister, as if she’s waiting for Susan to explode, but Susan’s smile only tightens a little as she replies, “That’s an excellent plan, Dad.”
Julia wanders off toward the dining room and kitchen, and Susan joins her father at the window. “It’s a beautiful city, Dad,” she says, her smile returning to a genuine level as the two of them look out. “I don’t know how you were ever able to leave it.”
“Yes, I suppose it’s all right here. But, well … London.” Bernard sighs, drooping a little at the thought of what he’s left behind.
Susan pats him on the arm. “It’ll be better here,” she promises. “The festival season is coming. You and Julia will be in your element.”
Julia’s shriek carries all the way from the kitchen. “Are these brown IKEA mats? Oh, Susan, what am I going to do with you?”
* * *
At two o’clock on Sunday, bearing bottles of wine and wearing mostly forced smiles, the Napiers arrive at Russell and Helen’s for lunch. William’s parents live right around the corner from their son and daughter-in-law, in an enormous house the color of digestive biscuits that overlooks Inverleith Park.
Russell answers their ring with a hearty “Bernie! Girls! Come in, come in!” Red-cheeked, paunchy in the way of well-cared-for middle-aged men, dressed in khaki trousers and a pink windowpane-check shirt with the top button undone, Russell Cox, Member of the Scottish Parliament, is the very picture of upper-middle-class comfort. He speaks in a soft Scottish burr, which he apparently had to learn before he went into politics. Although he was born in Scotland, he went to the kind of schools that rigorously train regional accents right out of their pupils, leaving them all speaking like members of the royal family. But Scottish voters would almost certainly reject anyone with a posh English accent, so now he speaks like, well, a member of the Scottish royal family.
Russell claps Bernard (who tries not to flinch both at the manhandling and the nickname he never asked for) on the shoulder and bellows over his shoulder, “They’re here!”
A pair of Labradors gallop in from the kitchen, and Lauren, the twenty-year-old daughter of the house, races down the stairs, shouting, “Hiya!”
Susan notices that Lauren, as usual, is experimenting with her hair. Last time they’d met, it was a pixie cut, but now it’s grown past her shoulders and is dyed a red so dark it’s nearly purple.
The dogs launch themselves at the new arrivals, barking and wriggling and wagging. Julia shrinks from the threat of hair or slobber on her pristine silk blouse. Susan hands Julia the tart she brought and diverts the dogs’ attention by kneeling down and scratching them each behind one ear. They both lean into it, groaning in pleasure, and Julia is forgotten.
Helen Cox—blonde, smiling, fit in the way of well-cared-for middle-aged women—follows the dogs. Wiping damp hands on a floral-patterned tea towel, she leans over the animals to kiss everyone on both cheeks, greeting each with, “You all right?”
“How was the trip up? Not too bad, I hope?” Russell is asking Bernard, while Lauren raises her voice above the din of parents and pets to tell them all how lucky it is that they came just before the summer got into full swing.
“You’ll have time to settle in and get to know the city before all the craziness,” she says, hauling the dogs away. “But the Festival! If you want my advice, don’t bother with the International Festival—it’ll be stuffy. Well, there’s one show at the International I’ll go see, but we’ll talk about that later. But the Fringe! It’s amazing! Oh, and I’ve got all sorts of news—Julia, I love your boots!—and I know all about how to get the best tickets. See the free comedy shows, they’re fab—the comedians haven’t gotten all full of themselves yet, you can see it all really raw. Oh, come on, you two!” She begins hauling the dogs away, herding them, with little success, toward the door open to the back garden.