“Along the Waters of Leith! And there was cake too! What kind of cake did he get? I couldn’t tell from the pictures.”
“I—pictures?”
“Yeah, it’s all over Arion Nation. Didn’t you see?”
As Lauren spoke, Julia tapped away on her phone, then held it up for Susan to see. There she was, photographed through the window at Mimi’s Bakehouse with Philip seated across from her, laughing. Pots of tea and thick slices of cake between them.
“Who the hell took that?” she wondered, aghast, taking the phone and staring at the picture.
Simm-er down, ladies! the caption read. Looks like this one’s off the menu! Is it any wonder that a man who clearly loves his cake would go for Susan Napier, pastry chef/owner of Elliot’s on the Royal Mile?
“Not exactly Shakespeare, is he?” Susan had grumbled, returning the phone.
“Does he have to be?” was Julia’s rhetorical response.
Susan couldn’t help but notice the high—very high—share count underneath the picture. She was grateful she didn’t do social media now. “Lauren, I have to go.”
“But wait! Are you and he going to—”
Bleep! Susan cut off her sister-in-law mid-sentence, facing instead a pristine kitchen filled with a heavy silence.
“You going to see him again?” Julia asked, seemingly nonchalant, coolly staring down her sister.
“Yes,” Susan admitted. “He asked to take me to dinner sometime soon.” She sighed. “Listen, Jules …”
“Don’t worry about it.” Julia tossed her mostly undrunk coffee in the sink and put the mug in the dishwasher. “I mean, it all makes sense now. Obviously I’m not his type.”
“Okay.” Susan tried not to be offended. “So, we’re all right, then?”
“Course we are. All publicity is good publicity, right?” Julia flicked her hair back over her shoulder and headed out of the kitchen. “Oh, the contractor says they should finish plugging all the holes in the walls today, and they can pick back up the cosmetic work by the end of the week, once the plaster’s dry. And it turns out the wallpaper I’d originally gone for has been discontinued, so I had to order the more expensive choice. I’m meeting a friend for coffee; I’ll be by the restaurant later. Byeeee!”
There seems to be a tenuous peace in the house now, though Susan is careful not to mention the date or give Julia a hard time about the wallpaper. Let her have her bloody wallpaper; Susan already has enough on her hands and mind.
The bus to Leith jerks to a stop and disgorges Susan, along with a mass of camera-clutching tourists and exasperated locals. It’s August now, and the city is bloated with people. Tourists, performers, actors, authors, critics, artists, and harried daily commuters all jamming in, flooding and clogging the roads, the trams, the buses and trains. The visitors have a bad habit of drifting down the streets in clumps, stopping unexpectedly to take pictures of who-knows-what, oblivious to the fact they’re blocking everyone’s way. Those with places to be dodge past them as best they can, and weave past street performers, theatrical groups begging for audiences, and the ubiquitous bagpipers, who seem to quadruple in number this time of year. The Royal Mile, epicenter of the Fringe, hums with shouts, soliloquies, taglines, confusion, and piped renditions of “We Will Rock You,” competing with the more traditional “Amazing Grace.” Every night, at half past ten, the crack of the fireworks that close the Military Tattoo at the castle echoes across the city.
The Royal Mile gets the worst of the crowds, but no part of the city remains untouched: in typical Edinburgh fashion, everyone wedges into whatever space they can find, making it work as best they can. Shows are staged in enormous tents in the city’s parks, in gardens, clubs and function rooms; in proper theaters, museums, bars, restaurants, and elaborate spiegeltents brought over from mainland Europe. It means you can find yourself attending events in some very incongruous surroundings: a series of free shows for small children, for instance, is held in rather dark, grubby rooms belonging to a pub in the Cowgate.
Susan has mixed feelings about the Festival season. She finds the daily struggle through the throng draining, and she’s already been whacked on the head twice by carelessly wielded selfie sticks. But as a business owner, she recognizes the visitors as a gift, and she wants to scream at how slowly the work at Elliot’s seems to be going. She glares at the plasterers, who take their time, and why shouldn’t they? They’re paid by the hour. Meanwhile, just outside, hundreds of prospective customers pass by their locked door, drifting down the cobblestones toward Holyrood.
Escaping to Leith for a little while is something of a relief despite the packed bus. The tourist crush is slightly less up here, and she’s always liked being near water. It was Chris’s idea to have Rab’s first lesson at Seòin. “Rab’s comfortable here,” he explained. “He’ll be less tense. And the restaurant is closed on Tuesdays, so it’ll be quiet.”
She agreed, telling herself it would be good to get away from the frustrating slowness of the workmen. Anyhow, it’s good to get out of your usual surroundings. Stimulates the mind. That’s what she tells herself as she takes a deep breath and pushes through the back door of Seòin, ready for whatever might lie on the other side.
“Morning,” Chris greets her, glancing up from some prep work with a welcoming smile. “Not too much trouble getting up here, I hope?”
“No. There was enough room on the bus to breathe, which is all I need,” she replies.
His smile shifts to one of gratitude. “Thanks for coming. I know how busy you are.”
“I’m sure you do, having just opened a place of your own.” Unable to help herself, Susan has a look around. She’s seen pictures of the restaurant in features that ran in local magazines, but hasn’t seen it in person.
Seòin is housed in an old stone factory. Not a huge one, but it’s definitely larger and more open than Elliot’s. There are immense windows along the two longest sides of the building, filling the place with light, which helps soften the look of the exposed stone walls. Near the entrance is a circular bar with a base of river stone and a polished top in warm, honey-colored wood that matches the tables. The floor is stained a slightly darker color, and the chairs are all upholstered in cream, with cozy red-and-yellow tartan wool blankets slung over the backs, inviting a chilly diner to snuggle down.
The open kitchen is toward the back of the building, opposite the bar and behind a stainless-steel counter with eight chairs arranged in front of it. The chef’s table.
“How do you like having this?” Susan asks, indicating the chef’s table.
Chris glances up again and shrugs. “Depends on who’s sitting there. Some people just want to watch me work and that’s great—I just get on with things—but others keep asking idiotic questions or just want to talk and talk about the show and New York, and ‘Oh, do you know so-and-so? I’m sure he used to work in New York at some restaurant, sometime. Or maybe it was Brooklyn? Or New Orleans?’” He chuckles. “Everyone always thinks all chefs know one another.”
“To be fair, it is a fairly small club, especially at your level. No wonder Dan went to you when he wanted a business partner.”