She draws back, just a little, and something—a trick of the light, surely—makes Philip, just for a moment, look exactly like Chris, and it gives her a start.
He feels her movement, like a flinch, and frowns ever so slightly. “Something wrong?”
“No, just … no.” She reaches up, pulls his head down, and kisses him again, but it isn’t quite the same. She can’t get caught up in it. Oh, it’s nice. Really lovely, but different. And when they break apart this time, she only smiles sweetly in response to his suggestive grin, takes his hand, and steers them home.
Chapter Twenty
The Evening Ended with Dancing
“You naughty girl, you!” Gloria greets Susan the following morning.
“What do you mean?” As if she doesn’t know!
“You’re a meme!” Gloria crows, holding up her mobile phone. Lighting up the screen is a gif of Susan, clinched together with Philip the night before, hands all over each other. Susan can feel the blush creeping up her neck. What was she thinking?
It’s more than a gif, of course. She woke that morning to a text message from Lauren:
OMG, Susan, you’re all over Arion Nation!
There was a link, which Susan was reluctant to click, but curiosity got the better of her. There were half a dozen pictures of her and Philip, accompanied by some very nudge-nudge-wink-wink text. Was that—she squinted at one of the pictures—was that Philip’s hand on her breast? She didn’t even remember that. But now everyone else would!
And it has spread beyond Rufus Arion’s blog, of course. She’s already ignored a phone call from Hello! magazine, and she’s sure the Daily Mail will come knocking soon. Philip seems amused by the whole thing (Oops! We were a bit naughty, weren’t we? he texted), but Susan is mortified. And she feels something else too, down deep in the pit of her stomach. Something she can’t identify but definitely doesn’t like.
“If I double your salary, can you forget you ever saw that?” she asks Gloria, only partly joking.
“Oh, come on! It’s good you’re getting out and having some fun,” Gloria reassures her, tucking the phone into her pocket. “I’m not even going to ask how it was.”
“I don’t think you need to. You’ve got a front-row seat.” Susan gestures to the phone. “You and the rest of the world.”
“The price of fame.” Gloria hoists a plastic tub filled with marinating chicken breasts and disappears in the direction of the walk-in.
Susan puts her things away and retreats to the pastry kitchen. She needs to get things in order before Rab comes and—Oh God. Susan freezes. What if Rab’s seen all of this? What will he think? Will she be able to look this kid in the eye and teach him about the difference between the soft-ball and hard-ball stages of candy making without him losing it?
If he’s seen any of the photos, gifs, or articles, he doesn’t mention it, bless him. He’s delivered downstairs by Julia, who waves to Susan through the pastry kitchen window, points to Rab, and says, “I think this one’s for you?”
“Yeah, thanks, Jules,” Susan says, coming out with a smile. “Hey, Rab, thanks for coming. I’ll introduce you around. That’s Gloria, our head chef—”
“Welcome!” Gloria calls back, waving with a pork chop she’s working on.
“… and our sous chef, Rey—”
“Word!”
Susan finishes the introductions, then shows Rab into the pastry kitchen. The boy, who responded to the greetings with fleeting smiles and kept ducking his head, seems relieved to be in a somewhat more private space.
“Today, we start with macarons,” Susan announces. “The divas of the pastry world. They need a bit of careful, special handling, and they go to pieces at the least provocation, but when they turn out right, they’re amazing and everyone loves them. I thought we’d do a batch of chocolate ones—what do you think?”
Rab grins. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
They work away at it, the pair of them, Susan stepping back and letting him do most of the work, just as before. Once the macarons are mixed, piped out in neat little circles, and set aside to rest before baking, they move on to candy. Susan loves the miniature, multicolored, spade-like spoons that are often served with takeaway ice creams, and she got it into her head to cast some edible ones for the restaurant. She has no idea if it’ll work—they might be too fragile to scoop properly—but figures they’ll give it a go. While Rab keeps an eye on the melting sugar, she turns to other things.
“How’s your mum doing, Rab?” she asks after a brief silence.
“Oh, she’s awright. Gettin’ big, so it’s harder for her to keep up with the wee ’uns.”
“Does it fall to you, then, to look after them?” she asks, thinking it must be a strain for him to do so after long days in the kitchen.
“Some.” He goes quiet for a little while, then admits, “Mum worries a lot. About money ’n’ that.”
“Can’t be easy with a large family,” Susan sympathizes.
“Yeah. She wishes we could afford to move. She don’t like some of the kids ’round us. One of ’em’s got his eye on my younger brother. Not a good lot.” He frowns at the bubbling sugar.
Susan watches and wonders if Chris knows all this. But then she thinks, Of course he does. This was the whole idea: taking on a kid who needs help. Giving a boost to those who’ll most benefit from it, just as Elliot had.
“Maybe your brother can work for Chris too, when he’s a little older,” she suggests.
“Naw, not ’im. He’ll be a mechanic, or summat. He’s brilliant with cars and the like.”
“Ah.” Susan wonders if she can persuade her father to have a word with the man who owns the garage that takes care of his car. Then again, she’d probably have better luck with Russell. Surely he must know someone, and he’d probably be delighted to be able to say he helped a kid out.
“Rab, I want you to know that you’re doing really well with me, and I’m glad to have your help.” Susan smiles and pats him on the arm before sliding the first tray of macarons into the oven. “You can take some of the macarons home with you tonight, as a treat for your mum and siblings, if you like,” she offers. “Only fair, since you helped make them.”
Rab looks up at her with an expression so nakedly grateful she wonders if he’s unaccustomed to even basic generosity. “Thanks,” he says. “Thanks, that’s really nice. They’ll like that. They loved the tarts, you know.” He smiles and Susan feels an incredibly strong urge to hug him. She doesn’t because that’d probably be weird and teenage boys don’t usually like to be hugged, do they? Even her eldest nephew doesn’t seem to like it. Or, at least, he pretends not to. She grins back at Rab instead, but then the pastry kitchen begins to fill with the acrid smell of burning sugar.
“Oh, Rab, the sugar!” she cries, rushing over and yanking the pot off the burner. The entire bottom is now crusted with black gunk.
Rab backs away a few paces, wide-eyed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he gabbles. “I should’ve paid attention! I ruined it!”