“As you can see this is a fine … lilac,” Susan says, gesturing to the bush.
Kay smirks. “I hate lilacs. The smell reminds me of old ladies, and I don’t like old ladies, even though I am one. Now, my dear, I want to know how you are.”
“I’m well,” Susan answers. “As well as can be. Working all hours, but it’s good. It keeps me busy, keeps my mind working.” Her mind’s been working overtime the past few days. She’s been firing on all cylinders, her brain churning out new ideas faster than she can write them down. It’s exciting. She’s going to be doing a lot of experimenting this week.
“And keeps your mind occupied, I take it?” Kay asks with a knowing look.
“Oh, don’t worry about Chris—that was ages ago.” Susan hopes she sounds convincing.
“It was ages ago, dear, but it was such a tumultuous time, and I know how upset you were over the whole thing.” Kay sighs and contemplates the bush for a little while. “I may not have handled things the best way I could. I hope you know that I only wanted to help you and make sure you were all right.”
“Of course I know that,” Susan says warmly, taking her aunt’s hand and squeezing it. “Why wouldn’t I think that?”
Kay smiles and pats Susan’s hand. “Have you seen him?”
“Once. He happened upon me in the park when I was out with Meg’s boys. It was … fine. A little awkward, but that’s to be expected.”
“And now you two are competing against each other? How did that come about?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Usually is. Are you nervous?”
“A little.”
“Good. Nerves drive you on. I try to get myself good and terrified before I go on stage. That way I’ll overcompensate and be great instead of just good enough. But you were never satisfied with just good enough. I’ll bet anything you’ve been turning yourself inside out over the desserts at the restaurant.”
“Inside out and back again. You should have seen me with this stupid sea buckthorn.”
Kay laughs. “You’ll knock everyone’s socks off, my dear,” she declares. “Fear not! But do leave yourself some time for fun, all right? I was serious about inviting you all to meet Philip. I think he’d rather like you.”
“I’m hardly the type movie stars go for, Aunt Kay.”
“Oh, nonsense! I’m a movie star, and I adore you.”
Susan chuckles and gives her aunt a fond pat on the arm.
“Really, though, Susan, don’t sell yourself short. Just because you don’t look like Julia doesn’t mean you don’t have merit. And I’ll be honest with you: I think you’re really blooming up here. You look and seem …” Kay steps back, shaking her head, searching for the words. “I don’t know—happier. Brighter. It’s good, it really is. I was starting to be afraid you’d never recapture that, and it broke my heart. I’m so glad to see it back again.” She glances back toward the house and sighs. “Oh, here comes your father now. Our time is done. Hello, Bernard!”
“Still examining the lilac?” he asks, looking at the bush as if it confuses him.
“No, we were talking about this food festival Susan’s going to be competing in. Of course, we’ll all be there to cheer her on?”
“Yes, yes, of course!” Bernard agrees. “But I thought you’d have rehearsal?”
“Don’t be silly: they can rehearse a scene without me that afternoon. This is important! Is there any of that wine left, or has Julia drunk it all? Come on, you two, those tasty nibbles won’t eat themselves.”
* * *
Kay was serious about that cocktail party. With the same efficiency she’d displayed when rescuing Susan from her grief many years before, she has a date set, hors d’oeuvres ordered, and a waiter and bartender lined up to make sure nobody has to bother doing anything for themselves. The entire cast of the play is coming, and some of the crew, and Kay’s theater and film friends who are in town, ahead of the opening of the festivals in just a week’s time. Bernard is beside himself.
“She said David Mamet might be there!” he gushes to his daughters over breakfast the day of. “And Kenneth Branagh has practically promised to poke a head in!”
Susan has too much on her mind to get excited about theoretical Branagh sightings. The Foodies Festival is just a few days off, and she needs a perfect sweet for it.
“Pastry is not Chris’s strong suit,” she informed Gloria, recalling with a smile the time Chris attempted to make a quiche for their dinner. The crust was so tough it was almost impossible to cut, and when she tried driving a fork through it, she managed to shoot the bite halfway across his flat. It smacked his roommate’s sullen cat in the rump, and the thing leapt a good four feet in the air, yowling indignantly as they laughed. They wound up ordering a curry that night, and binned the quiche.
“He might have improved,” Gloria pointed out. “Or he might bring his pastry chef.”
“He isn’t. Rey told me he’s bringing one of his apprentices.”
Gloria was clearly impressed by Susan’s use of the kitchen underground. “Look at you, spy girl!”
Susan shrugged. “We need to win this, Gloria.”
“Yeah,” said Gloria. “I know. Believe me.”
So, the day of Kay’s party both women have been chained to their stations, tweaking and swearing when something goes wrong, allowing little gasps of delight when it doesn’t. Upstairs, the last of the dry rot is being removed and the contractor promises the walls will be finished by the following week, at the latest. Susan can’t wait for the restaurant to stop echoing with the pounding of work boots and hammers and the shriek of saws, though the workmen have helped her add considerably to her swear vocabulary. And they’re nice guys: she regularly bakes them biscuits and brownies, which they receive with a “Cheers, luv!” and down in a gulp with their massive mugs of builder’s brew during their morning break.
No biscuits today, though. Susan’s too busy trying to solve the mystery of a weeping meringue, one that is still unsolved when Gloria lifts her head and shouts, “Hey! Suze! Don’t you have to be somewhere?”
“Damn it!” Susan hastily dumps mixing bowls and spatulas in the sink at the dishwashing station, stashes fruit and tarts in her reach-in, slaps on some mascara and lipstick, and decides it’ll just have to do.
“Have fun!” Gloria calls as Susan skitters past her station, takes the stairs two at a time, and rushes to Kay’s flat.
Kay has taken a penthouse in a new building not far off the Royal Mile. The building has the antiseptic, colorless feel of a place that’s meant for people just passing through, but Kay’s decorated her flat with gorgeous wall hangings made from embroidered silk she bought in India, and the dull gray furniture is livened up by Moroccan cushions in poppy red and saffron yellow. There’s a terrace with a spectacular view of the monuments on Calton Hill, and since it’s a mild night, the French doors opening onto it are thrown open and guests with drinks are already mingling out there, leaning oh so casually against the railings.