Those guests, Susan assumes, are the actors and actresses. They’re uniformly beautiful, tall, dangerously lacking in body fat, and dressed in clinging, expensive clothes and uncomfortable shoes. They keep to their own little cluster.
Inside—right next to the kitchen—are the nonactors. They’re less glossy, and they greet one another with big hugs and laugh loudly at their inside jokes. They load up every time an hors d’oeuvre tray passes, as if they’re hoping this will be their dinner. (It seems Kay realized this would be the case: the hors d’oeuvres are more substantial than one would expect at a cocktail party, and there’s a small mountain of bacon rolls at one end of the bar.)
Kay flits between these two groups, air-kissing the actors, joking with the crew, and stopping in the middle to speak to the non-theater people, such as Susan’s family, who seem uncertain whom they should approach, or how. Only Bernard and Julia have made an attempt to sidle up to the people on the terrace. One actor easing into his dignified salt-and-pepper years smiles tolerantly and nods at whatever Bernard is saying, even as he shoots one of his fellows a “save me” look. Julia has apparently run out of things to say to an actress with waist-length blonde hair, so she joins Susan at the bar, to have her glass refilled.
“I was starting to think you weren’t coming,” Julia says as the bartender hands Susan her glass of white wine.
“Lost track of time,” Susan explains, reaching out to snatch a miniature sausage roll from the waiter’s passing tray. She hasn’t eaten all day; it vanishes in an instant.
Julia wrinkles her nose at the sausage rolls and then wrinkles it further, sniffing. “God, Susan, you reek of the kitchen!” she hisses. “You couldn’t be bothered to shower before you came?”
“I didn’t have time!” Susan answers plaintively as she lifts a corner of her shirt and sniffs. Does she really stink? All she smells is sweet: cake batter and sugar and fruit. But maybe she can’t smell the worst of it?
Julia rolls her eyes. “I hope you find a new pastry chef soon; this isn’t dignified.”
“Don’t hold your breath,” Susan says. Their search for a pastry chef has been suspiciously futile, and she suspects someone out there has been poisoning the well.
Julia accepts her champagne cocktail from the bartender and leans against the bar, sipping and watching Kay as she stops to have a word with Meg and William.
“Aunt Kay is not aging well,” Julia declares in a whisper. “I mean, just look at her skin. And that hairstyle! And what is she wearing?”
“I think she looks amazing,” Susan answers. She can only hope to age as gracefully as her aunt, though she seriously doubts she will. She’ll certainly never have her style: tonight Kay is wearing a long white caftan with bell-shaped sleeves, embellished along the neckline with blue beads and embroidered white flowers. It flows as she walks and delicately lifts with every breeze that comes through the open windows. On most other women her age it might have looked a bit much, like Norma Desmond trying out beachwear, but somehow Kay makes it work.
“You would think she looks amazing,” Julia sniffs.
“What’s got under your skin tonight? Ohh,” Susan grimaces sympathetically. “Is Philip Simms here?”
“He is,” is Julia’s clipped response. “I said hello.”
“That was nice of you.”
“He acted like it was the first time he’d ever seen me.”
“Well, Jules, it was a long time ago. He may have forgotten.”
Julia’s face clouds over at the very thought she might be forgettable, so Susan hastily adds, “Or it may be that he’s just embarrassed by what happened. Maybe he’s trying to cover up. Awkwardly.”
To Susan’s relief, at that moment Kay looks up, sees her, and beams.
“Didn’t hear you come in, darling!” Kay abandons Meg (who pouts), floats over, and folds Susan into a hug. “Oh, you smell delicious! What’ve you been baking today?”
“Roasted strawberries and rhubarb for a mascarpone ice cream. Lemon tart pastry, mint meringues, sundried tomato rolls, honey cake.” Susan reels off each item, counting them on her fingers and feeling like she must have forgotten something.
“Sounds divine!” Kay grins and gestures to the waiter, who comes over with his tray of miniature quiches. Kay helps herself to two.
“I was just saying to Susan, Aunt Kay, that I really love your dress,” Julia simpers, taking a quiche and setting it on a napkin on the bar.
Kay smiles. “That’s sweet, dear, but no you weren’t. If you’re going to lie, at least be good at it.” She slips an arm through Susan’s and pats her niece’s hand. “Susan, I want to introduce you to someone. You don’t mind if I steal you away, do you?”
Susan, halfway through a quiche of her own, shakes her head and tries to swallow. Kay steers her toward the crowd on the terrace, which has bunched around one man in particular. He has wavy brown hair, a lean frame that’s just muscular enough to be fashionable, and an easy, brilliantly white smile. This is Philip Simms: actor, face of Versace watches, and recent Academy Award nominee. (He lost, alas, to someone who played a former POW who picks up the pieces of his life by helping a polio-crippled boy train a troubled horse to win the Kentucky Derby. Nobody can beat that.)
As Kay and Susan approach, Philip sniffs the air and his eyes widen in delight.
“Who brought cake?” he asks.
“Oh, sorry, that’s me,” Susan mumbles, dying a little inside but also thinking how hilarious Gloria will find this exchange when Susan tells her about it in the morning.
Philip’s smile broadens, and he says, “You smell like cake? That’s amazing!”
“It’s because I’ve been baking all day,” Susan explains, noticing that the actresses clumped nearby are eyeing her. They back away slightly, as if she’s oozing calories and they’ll put on half a pound every minute they’re within her range.
“Philip, this is my niece Susan,” Kay introduces. “The one I was telling you about.”
“Yeah, yeah! The one with the restaurant.” Philip hops forward and shakes Susan’s hand. “I’ve heard loads about you. Glad you could make it tonight—you sound super busy.”
“I am,” Susan admits.
“Well, we are honored.” Philip puts a hand on his chest and inclines in a slight bow.
Susan smiles, unexpectedly charmed. “Well, you should be,” she rejoins. “I’ve abandoned weeping meringues for this.”
“Weeping meringues—the tragedy! Do tell me how one moves a meringue to tears.”
“I wish I knew,” Susan sighs.
Philip smiles again, and Susan has a sudden sense that she’s seen him before. In person, not on a commercial or poster at the cinema. It takes her a few moments, but then she realizes he was the man Gloria claimed had been checking Susan out at the bar not too long ago. How could she not have recognized him then? Was seeing someone out of context really that confusing?
She blushes and feels foolish, but he leans against the railing and gestures for her to join him.
“I love a good pudding, but I’m hopeless at baking,” he admits. “Kay says you’re amazing. What’ve you been baking today?” He cocks his head, waiting for her answer. He isn’t just being polite—he seems genuinely interested. Or he’s an excellent actor. Either way, Susan finds herself slipping easily into a conversation with him, detailing her adventures with the meringues and the sea buckthorn and the pudding she served Rufus.