“That is what I want,” says Susan, who quakes at the idea of people staring at the two of them.
“There you are, then! If I don’t become a famous actress, I’ll become a famous date organizer. The world is full of possibilities!” Lauren hops down from the countertop. “Have you been sent to drag us in for Dad’s big announcement?” she asks Kay.
“I have.”
“Right, then, we’d better go. It’s nothing terribly exciting—like I said, there’s going to be a general election announced soon, and Dad’s decided he’s going to run for a Westminster seat. Sorry if I’ve just ruined the surprise.”
“It’s all right,” Susan says, getting to her feet. “Guess we’d better put in an appearance, though.”
“Yes, we’d better,” says Kay, reaching out and patting Susan on the cheek as she approaches. “Smile, darling. I know you’re tired, but you must practice your happy face.”
“Must I?”
“Oh, Susan, are you all right?” Kay frowns, concerned. “You don’t seem yourself tonight.”
“Like you said, I’m tired.”
“Hmm.” Kay glances at Lauren, hovering nearby, waiting for gossip. “We’ll be along presently, Lauren.”
Lauren slumps and slinks away.
“Something you want to tell me, Susan?” Kay asks, drawing Susan farther into the kitchen so they wouldn’t be overheard.
“No.”
“Liar. Is this in any way connected with you going to Mr. Baker’s restaurant yesterday?” Off of Susan’s surprised look, she continues, “You know, Lauren can’t hold a thought longer than a goldfish, dear.”
“It’s not that,” Susan lies. “Not really. I made an ass of myself, that’s all.”
“Well, if that’s all it takes to make you glum for more than a day, you need to practice it more. I spent most of my twenties and thirties making a complete ass of myself on a regular and daily basis. It helped me learn what not to do, but also made me immune to its effects. Try it, darling. Let go and be an ass!”
Susan laughs. “I can see why you and Philip get on so well.”
“I want you and Philip to get on well. He really likes you, dear.”
“I don’t see why.”
“Don’t you? Oh, darling, we still need to work on you,” Kay sighs, smoothing Susan’s hair and smiling fondly at her. “You’re wonderful, the best of all my nieces, and I’m not sorry to say so. Any sensible man would be lucky to have you. And an insensible man would be beyond fortunate. But try not to waste yourself on an insensible man. It really would be such a waste.” She sighs again and pats her niece’s hand. “Right, off we go to pretend to be excited that Westminster’s getting another Tory. Happy face?”
Susan plasters on an enormous, false smile.
“That’s my girl!
* * *
Chris feels like an asshole.
He tries telling himself that he shouldn’t, that it wasn’t really his fault—seriously, Susan needs to learn how to read a room—but he knows he’s been unfair to her. He can still see her, standing there with her tarts in her hands, just wanting to do something nice.
And then he had to go and be an asshole about it.
This is new, the sensation that he’s in the wrong and Susan right. And it kind of makes him wonder: Has he been an asshole to her a lot longer than he thought, and just didn’t realize it? Has it taken the sight of her face falling as she stumbled around, trying to salvage an awkward situation, to make him realize that she isn’t all bad and that he’s been too harsh?
He was only trying to protect Mollie from embarrassment. The conversation had taken a turn he hadn’t wanted: he tries to keep these lunches light and pleasant. If the subject of Sam comes up, he makes sure to tell a happy story. Something that makes both of them laugh. “Oh, aye, remember the time he tried some of your makeup out on the cat when we were six? The pair of us had scratches all over our arms for weeks, and you were fit to be tied when you found out we’d used all your eyeliner! How about the time he convinced that one fool boy in our class that there was buried treasure in the Meadows, and sent him off with a garden spade to start digging!”
“Remember how much he loved his lamb chops? Could eat a dozen in one sitting!”
That’s what did it yesterday. Chris had forgotten about Sam’s favorite food. It just happened that he got some beautiful chops from his meat guy and thought Mollie would like them. Turns out, it was the last meal she ever made her son. And Chris should have remembered because he was there. Not that he ate.
Yesterday, she ate her lunch, chatting as usual, and then got quiet, staring down at the empty plate, and murmured, “Sam always liked his meat with mash. You remember?”
He did. And then he remembered that last meal, and it flooded over him, this nauseating guilt and anger and powerful desire to grab the nearest chair and smash it to splinters.
And that’s when Susan came over. Smiling. With her pastries.
For nearly twenty-four hours that anger simmered away, but the rush of service consumed him, leaving little room for anything else, and afterward he felt calmer, more philosophical about things.
And he felt like an asshole. Feels like an asshole.
They’re all at the pub now for the post-dinner-service drinks. Most of the staff are gathered at a set of tables in the far corner, but Chris is at the bar, with Ginger lying beside him. He toys with his phone, wondering if he should send Susan an apology text.
As he considers it, Calum sidles up to him and comments, “You’re about as much fun as a melted ice lolly.”
“Sorry,” Chris grunts. “A lot on my mind.”
“Sure seems like it. How did Rab’s lesson with the enemy go yesterday?”
“Ask him yourself. I was busy.”
“Have it your way. Oi! Rab!”
Rab’s head pops up from the mass of staff at the tables.
“Join us, lad, and tell me how it went yesterday. Did you learn anything we can steal? I mean … use to our advantage?” Calum winks at Chris.
“Yeah, I learned loads,” Rab calls back, trying to extricate himself from the crowd. “I made a curd that didn’t clump.” He flushes with pride. The pastry chef looks surprised.
“He did very well,” Chris confirms. “The tarts, Rab, were delicious.”
Rab blushes even darker, until the rest of his skin almost matches his hair and birthmark.
“Will you have her back?” Calum asks Chris.
“I’m going to her place next,” Rab announces. “She’s got things to do in her own kitchen and wants to show me. I’m going on Friday. Is that”—he glances at Chris, shifting nervously—“is that okay?”
“Of course it is,” Chris answers, patting the boy on the arm, hoping nobody notices he’s cringing a little. Of course she’d want to have the lessons at her place now. Why would she want to come back to Seòin after how he treated her? And making that pasta dish, he now realizes, was almost cruel. Like he was trying to throw their failed relationship right in her face. It was just that he couldn’t imagine making anything else for her. “Do what you like, lad. I want you to learn.”