Bernard looks at him expectantly. Dan just blinks, clearly unsure how this has all gotten away from him so quickly. “Oh yes,” he agrees. “Yes, we’ll be making changes.”
“Good. I’m off to make some calls, then.” Julia drops a kiss on her father’s cheek and disappears.
The silence in the room is a heavy one.
“Dan, could you give my father and myself a moment, please?” Susan finally requests.
Dan rises slowly and leaves the room. Susan closes the door behind him, then walks over to her father.
“Dad,” she says, lowering herself onto the sofa Dan’s just vacated. “I need you to answer something honestly for me. Do you want to be in charge of the business and its day-to-day running? Because if you do, I need you to say so now, and I’ll go back to London and find another job.”
Bernard’s horrified face is enough answer. But even so, he gasps, “Run the business? We all agreed it was for the best that I not do that. And anyway, I’m busy now: I’ve been asked to serve on the boards of two charities and joined the Malt Whisky Society. This is supposed to be your job, Susan.”
“So we’re agreed I’m in charge, then?” Susan presses. “I need to hear you say it, please.”
“I already have said it! Yes, you’re in charge, all right? And much joy may it bring you!”
“And may I borrow some family funds to pay for the refurbishment?” Bernard looks even more alarmed, so Susan hastily adds: “It’ll disappoint Julia terribly if we called it off. She’s already put in so much effort …”
“Right, of course. Shame to waste all her talents. Yes, all right, Julia can redo the restaurant.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Susan pats her father on the shoulder, then goes out to the front hall, where Dan loiters on an antique bench. Susan can hear Julia on the phone in the study, already interviewing a design firm.
“This is going ahead whether you like it or not,” Susan informs her chef. “Don’t think I don’t know what you were trying to do here. Thought you’d go over my head and convince my father to overrule me? Nice try, but unsuccessful.” She steps a little closer, standing over him, arms crossed. “It’s clear you don’t see us as being on the same team here, Dan, and I need my chef to be on the same team as me. I don’t have time to fight someone every step of the way.”
He smirks. He knew this was coming. If she didn’t fire him, he’d quit. But still, he won’t go quietly. “You think you can just wander up here with your London accent and attitude and just start running this business? You don’t know anything about the restaurants up here—or the suppliers. You’re not part of this clan.”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it,” she coolly replies.
“Who’s going to help you, huh? Gloria?” He snorts. “I know she’s been saying things about the restaurant, and you’ve lapped it up. You think she’s not playing you? You think she doesn’t have ambitions and is using you to get ahead?”
“I don’t fault people for being ambitious if they’re also good at their jobs.”
He shakes his head. “You skirts always stick together.”
“Keep talking, Dan, really. You think we don’t know restaurant people up here? We do. You don’t want us poisoning your well, or you’ll find yourself looking for jobs at B&Bs in the Orkneys because that’s the only place people will still hire you, and that’s because they won’t know your name. I suggest you get up, walk out of here, and go register on S1jobs, because you’re fired.”
* * *
Susan got almost no sleep that night.
Immediately after closing the door behind Dan, she realized her heart rate was reaching alarming levels, and her knees were shaking slightly. With any luck, he hadn’t seen that or sensed it.
And then she realized she’d have to recruit a new head chef. And that chef would need time to give notice at their current place, get acclimated to the new restaurant and the staff, and then set about redoing the menu. This was going to push things back. Way back. It had to be done, of course, but this was not at all ideal. She wondered if Dan guessed that and would hover around for a while, hoping she’d telephone, apologizing, begging him to come back, hence giving him all the power.
Like hell she’s going to do that. He can sit by his phone until he starves. She’ll make this work. Somehow.
Just after five she gives up tossing and turning and goes down to the kitchen to bake something. The bread she made the day before is sitting on a cooling rack on the countertop, its thick crust cracked and lovely, jagged ridges ripping through the neat swirled pattern the proofing basket left on the dough. She cuts a thick slice and pops it in the toaster, makes some tea, and eats the bread spread generously with marmalade. Sour, nutty, sweet, fruity, bright, citrusy—a wake-up and a joy in a single bite.
She polishes off the first piece and, while a second toasts, decides to try out a cake idea she had, which she thinks will work best with a genoise sponge. While she’s watching the eggs beat up into a thick, primrose-colored froth in the stand mixer, Julia comes in, eyes ablaze, hissing:
“It’s six o’clock in the morning, Susan! What the hell are you doing down here?”
“Sorry.” Susan sheepishly turns off the mixer. The sponge will have to wait.
“God! Most people just read books or watch TV when they can’t sleep!” Julia storms out, muttering about how this was going to give her bags under her eyes.
Susan stands in the middle of the kitchen, afraid to make any more noise. It’s been so long since she’s lived with anyone, she’s forgotten how sensitive people can be to it. Chris never minded her late-night baking binges. But then Chris almost never slept himself.
She dumps out the half-whipped eggs and heads out, deciding it’s best to leave the house to her father and sister.
It’s light out already—the sun sleeps as little as she does at this time of the year—and the sky is watercolor-washed in pale pinks and blues. It’s quiet, no one about, and few buses and cars on the road at this hour. She likes the peace. She can think here. Sometimes (like, when her mind wanders to Chris and those memories) she’d rather not be able to think so much, but it’s good today. The day is fresh and, despite the lack of sleep, her mind is too.
She goes to the restaurant because she can’t think of anywhere else to go at this hour, and there’s work to be done anyway. An advertisement for the chef’s position will have to be written up and posted. And Paul will have to be dealt with. She knows instinctively that he’ll feel entitled to the top job. But if he wants it, he’ll have to work for it.
There are other things that will need her attention today. Budgets to be balanced, suppliers to be contacted, jobs to be reviewed. Possibly some tough decisions to be made. And it all has to be done soon.
She unlocks the door and trots down to the kitchen, where she manages to scare the hell out of Gloria.
“Jesus!” Gloria gasps, nearly dropping the foam canister she’s holding.
“Sorry,” says Susan. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be in.” The chefs aren’t due in until around half past eleven, since the restaurant has put a hold on its abysmal mid-week lunch service. “What are you doing here?”