“Oh God, that sounds amazing, and I don’t even like bananas. Will you make it again soon, so I can try it?” Philip says after she describes it.
“Sure,” she finds herself promising.
The party continues to buzz around them as the sun inches toward the horizon. It won’t really set until after ten at this time of year, but the light dims enough for Kay to begin lighting strategically placed pillar candles.
Susan and Philip drift toward a rattan sofa on the terrace, talking about food and traveling and the new play. They do not discuss the television role that made him famous or the Oscars or his upcoming film, which hasn’t even opened yet but is already being touted as the one that will surely, surely sweep the awards next year. And before they know it, the terrace is nearly empty, the actors having departed (taking Julia with them, Susan assumes, judging from her sister’s absence).
The crew members, too, are gone; the platter of bacon rolls now completely empty; and only one solitary, half-squashed mini-quiche remains of the hors d’oeuvres.
Bernard has deflated onto a chair: apparently neither Branagh nor Mamet came, and he failed to make a friend of the salt-and-pepper actor.
Meg and William are sighing and making noises about having to go relieve the babysitter, but yes, all right, just one more drink, they’re taking a cab home anyway because parking in the city center is the worst, isn’t it?
Philip, having just finished up one of his funnier stories about researching a role as a Maine lobsterman, realizes it’s time to make a graceful exit. He looks around and murmurs, “Well, we’ve shut the place down.”
Susan chuckles, realizing she’s sorry to have to say good night. The two of them rise as one from the rattan sofa and wander inside.
“Kay, I can’t thank you enough for a beautiful night,” Philip says, warmly embracing his costar. “And you know what? I don’t think you’ve even begun to do Susan justice. I expect better from you, Kay.”
“Well, I thought I should let her personality speak for itself,” Kay says, as Susan stands there, blushing.
“And it certainly did,” says Philip, turning back to Susan. Kay discreetly pulls out of hearing range. “Listen,” Philip murmurs to Susan, “I know you’re incredibly busy, but if you ever get some time off, I’d really like to continue our chat. It’s been fun.”
“I’d like that,” Susan replies, grinning. “I’ve got a thing on Saturday, but how about Sunday? If it’s nice we can take a walk along the Waters of Leith.”
“Yeah, that’d be great.” He whips out his phone. “What’s your number?”
Susan tells him, and he thumbs it into his contacts, puts the phone away, and takes her hand, gallantly kissing the back of it.
“Until Sunday, then,” he says. “Good luck with the sad meringues!”
“Oh,” Susan sighs, rolling her eyes, “thanks. I’ll need it.”
Chapter Fifteen
The Competition
Saturday is clear but windy. High gusts buffet people out walking their dogs in Inverleith Park, where the Foodies Festival takes place. The huge tent where the main events are held snaps and sways alarmingly with the wind.
“Hope it doesn’t come down on us,” Gloria comments as she and Susan unload large plastic tubs full of ingredients.
Honestly, Susan wouldn’t mind if the tent was carried off, because then they’d have to cancel this thing and she wouldn’t be risking humiliation. Because she knows that if she and Gloria lose, they’ll just be proving Chris right, publicly. Elliot’s is behind, and they’re not catching up. Their relaunch will be sunk before it even happens.
This competition is a stupid idea.
She watches Chris as he sets up, assisted by a teenager with very bright red hair, the blindingly white skin that typically accompanies it, and a startling birthmark that covers half his face. He’s lanky in the extreme and has a certain sunken-faced, bug-eyed look that speaks of several generations worth of struggle and poor nutrition. Every now and again, he glances warily at Susan and Gloria, before Chris gets his attention and directs him where to place cutting boards and mise en place. Chris, too, occasionally casts an eye Susan’s way, with a look so chilly she actually shivers, despite the fact the tent is warm to the point of stuffiness.
“What’s the other table for?” Gloria wonders, jerking her head in the direction of a third table, set between theirs and Chris’s. Ingredients and utensils are already set up; clearly someone’s going to be cooking there.
Chris seems to be curious about it too, because he calls over one of the organizers and has a few words with her, gesturing to the table. Susan continues unpacking, until she hears Chris bellow, “That’s not what we agreed!”
She jumps and both she and Gloria freeze. Barbara, the woman in charge of organizing the event, is talking fast, trying to manage a situation here, as Chris stands back, arms folded over his chest, shaking his head.
“What’s up?” Gloria calls.
“There’s a third competitor,” Chris spits. “A mystery.”
“No. No, no, no. It’s bad enough we got roped into this in the first place,” says Susan, putting her boxes down and joining him. “What’s the plan? A big reveal? Trot this person out once the audience is in place?”
“I—um,” Barbara stammers. Clearly this actually was the plan.
“Forget it,” says Chris. “I’ve already been forced into this, and when we spoke, Barbara, I made it very clear this was a straightforward head-to-head. No last-minute tricks.”
“Wait, please, wait just a minute!” Barbara sprints away and gathers a few of her fellow officials for a quick chat at the far end of the tent.
“What do you mean you were forced into this?” Susan murmurs. “I thought this whole thing was your idea.”
“Why the hell would I suggest it?” he asks through clenched teeth. “You think I don’t have enough to do, I need to waste time with nonsense like this?”
“Oh, thank you very much,” she hisses.
“I don’t mean you—I mean the whole thing. It’s just a silly bit of theater, and I have enough on my plate without taking time out for it.”
“And yet, you did,” she points out.
“Only because it felt like I didn’t have much choice. I was told you’d already set the whole thing up, so if I refused to play along, I’d be the bad guy.”
“Well, I didn’t set this up,” she informs him.
“Yes, I realize that now. And I sure as hell didn’t set it up either!”
The two of them glare at each other for a second, and then something changes. Some pressure releases suddenly, like a small balloon popping, and she can see a tiny smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. She, too, wants to burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation and the stupidity of the two of them for believing Rufus Arion, of all people.
Just then, the organizer group breaks up and Barbara returns.
“I’m really sorry,” she pants. “Poor decision on our part, we realize that. It’s okay— we’ll bring the third team out now. Just, please, don’t leave! We’ve already issued tickets for this and it’s a sellout.”