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 …”