All the skills that won Kay two BAFTAs and four London Evening Standard Theatre Awards had gone into that little speech. And it worked. Bernard beamed, agreed that the business was a terrible burden, and all right, then, Susan could have it. Kay shot Susan a triumphant look over her brother-in-law’s head and later, as they said good night, hugged her tightly and whispered, “Make your mother proud, my dear.”
And now they’re going north, where Susan will run the only Napier restaurant still holding its head above water: The original Elliot’s, on the Royal Mile. For financial reasons, it’s been decided that Susan’s father and her older sister, Julia, should go as well. Edinburgh’s not cheap, but it’s much more affordable than London.
One last stand.
A fresh start, Susan tells herself. It’s a relief, in many ways, to be leaving London.
Her cozy flat has been sold along with the townhouse where Susan and her sisters grew up. There will be one last night there for her, Julia, and Bernard before Susan catches a morning flight, and her father and sister take a more leisurely trip by car.
When Susan arrives at the house, she finds Julia watching movers wrap the last of their furniture in plastic and cushioned covers.
“Be careful with that—it’s Chippendale!” Julia barks at one of them before turning to her sister. “How’d it go?”
Susan shrugs. “It went. Like all the others.”
“Unpleasant, but someone has to do it,” Julia sighs. “Nice of you to take it on. You know how uncomfortable Dad is with confrontation.”
“Nice” had nothing to do with it. Susan had asked—or, rather, very strongly suggested—that her father come with her to address the staff today. But he just shook his head and said he couldn’t possibly, because he had so much to do ahead of the move and people he had to see and so many of the men at the club wanted to stand him one last drink … And so Susan stopped arguing about it, because it was useless and even if he did come, he’d probably just sulk and make it all worse.
“Where is Dad? Still at the club?” Susan asks Julia.
Julia shakes her head. “One last appointment with Dr. Keegan.”
“To say his sad farewells, I’m sure.” Susan rolls her eyes. “He sees more of Dr. Keegan than he does of us.”
“Now, now,” Julia murmurs, “you can’t blame him for wanting to look good. And he does. Keenan’s the best.”
Bernard should look good, she thinks, considering what Keegan charges. He should look spectacular. His wrinkles should be filled with platinum. His face alone could have saved two restaurants.
Just thinking about it ignites a hot little jet of anger in Susan’s chest. Her father could have done more. Done anything. Could, at least, have acknowledged that his idiotic friend caused this whole mess, with his insane expansion plans, disastrous cost-cutting attempts, and line of ready-meals that raised the blogosphere to new heights of poetic condemnation (“Excellent for those who find airplane food a little too posh and flavorful,” ran a particularly memorable one.).
Susan would never have done any of that. And she would never have hired that dishwasher who turned out to be a journalist working on a story about unfair pay practices in high-end London restaurants. He got so much more than he expected because he also discovered that the organic, imported, Wagyu beef Elliot’s was selling at eye-watering prices wasn’t organic at all. Most of it wasn’t even beef. And then there were investigations and boycotts and petitions and reporters phoning constantly or turning up at the house, looking for a comment. Even Julia got tired of all the attention.
But then, to be fair, Bernard himself admitted he had no sense for the business. And any work ethic he might have had was probably ruined by the incredible spoiling he received, growing up as the only child of successful parents who had both had to go without when they were children. Bernard was under no illusions about his abilities. It’s why he handed things over to his wife right after his father died. Things might have been all right if she hadn’t …
I should have done more, Susan thinks. I should have fought harder all those years ago. Pulled myself out of my mess faster and stepped into Mum’s shoes before Sozzy ever got a chance.
But there’s no use crying about it now.
“Maybe I should have gone to Dr. Keegan too,” Julia frets, turning away from the movers and running her fingers over a cheek. “I swear all the strain is giving me worry lines.”
“You’re fine,” Susan reassures her, trying to keep her voice bright. The salon Julia frequents is bad enough without piling on more Keegan fees. Though, like Keegan, the salon does a great job: you’d never guess Julia wasn’t a natural blonde. She’s forever after Susan to do something with her own hair, but Susan can’t be bothered to spend hours in foils at a salon. She’s content with her natural brown, which curls to her shoulders.
Julia drops her hand from her cheek and goes back to watching the movers work. Susan notices her eyes flickering over the room, and the one adjoining it. Julia’s spent nearly a decade redoing this place. She started just after she climbed out of her alcoholic haze, following their mother’s death. Buying new rugs and curtains and paintings and ripping down wallpaper. Over and over, until there was nothing left of the home Susan once knew. “Can’t you leave anything alone?” Susan once implored, after seeing what her sister had done to Susan’s childhood bedroom.
“We need change, Susan,” Julia responded. “I can’t bear to look at any of it anymore!”
This house is Julia’s magnum opus, just as Regent Street was their grandfather’s, and now they’re losing it. Her grand project, handed off to strangers who will probably bring in a new decorator to undo it all.
Susan sees her sister’s chest rise as she takes a deep, silent, steadying breath. She wraps an arm around Julia’s shoulders and gives her a quick squeeze. “You’re handling all this very well.”
Julia shrugs. “Well, there’s no use making a fuss. Anyway, a change of scenery is good, right? Edinburgh’s on the up and up. And I’ll have a new house to do over.”
Oh God. Susan cringes, thinking of the expense. And thinking about the new house.
“A five-bedroom townhouse in the City Centre?” Susan screeched when Julia first told her about the purchase. “What were you thinking? We’re supposed to be cutting back! You were supposed to find a nice flat somewhere. What do we need five bedrooms for? There are only three of us.”
“But we’ll have guests, Susan,” Julia responded in a voice that bit. “Well, you probably won’t,” she added.
But now Susan puts aside her irritation and smiles thinly. “Right. So I’ll pick up the keys from the solicitor’s office, then?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Julia side-eyes her, waiting for further judgment over the extravagance of the house. Susan keeps her face studiously neutral. She and Julia have to live together for the time being. Best to get started on the right foot.
“I’ve ordered you a takeaway from that place around the corner you like,” Julia continues, grimacing as the movers manhandle an Eames chair.
“Thanks.” Susan isn’t hungry at all. The memory of those blank faces and the dead, empty restaurant still haunts her. She wishes her baking supplies weren’t already packed and sent ahead—this was just the time to make a batch of biscuits. Or, even better, bread. Something she could manhandle. “Are you having anything?”