“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.
“See you got some Edinburgh sun!” she says, tossing Susan a kitchen towel.
“Thanks,” says Susan, drying her damp face and setting the bag of cardamom buns on a prep table. “Some breakfast pastries, if you want.”
“Aye, I do!” Gloria helps herself to one, taking a moment to appreciate the beautifully knotted little bread before taking a bite. “Ooh, someone stopped by Soderberg Bakery.”
“No, I made them.”
“A baker! Ace!” Gloria grins and goes back to checking the deliveries.
“Are you the only one in?” Susan asks, glancing around the curiously quiet kitchen, as if that would somehow make chefs appear.
Gloria shrugs. “It’s like this most mornings. The apprentices are here. In the walk-in, putting things away.”
“And Dan?”
“Office.”
“Paul?”
“Gets in later.”
“He should be checking in supplies,” Susan mutters, lifting the lid on a box of onions.
Gloria smirks. “He and Dan agree that this is good for my career development.”
Susan looks up with a raised eyebrow. She’s read Gloria’s CV: she doesn’t need this kind of career development. She’s spent more than a decade working in some of the best kitchens in Scotland and the North of England. “And what do you think?”
Gloria lowers her clipboard and looks Susan right in the eye. “I think I’m doing this so Paul can sleep in and Dan can update his Tinder profile.”
Susan nods. “How does everything look?” She gestures to the food Gloria’s checking.
“I sent back some of the fish, but the rest of it’s all right.”
Two of the apprentices appear, and Gloria directs them to some boxes filled with produce.
Susan reaches into a large plastic bag lying on one of the prep tables, and pulls out a roll. Just by looking at it, she can tell it’s going to be lousy. It has no crust to speak of, and the sides are wrinkled, which suggests there’s no structure inside. Sure enough, when she tears it in half, the interior is gummy and underdeveloped. “You should have sent these back too,” she grunts.