* * *
The play is a triumph, an absolute triumph if Bernard is to be believed. He certainly claps the loudest at the curtain call, and shouts, “Bravo! Bravo!” when Kay and Philip step forward, away from the rest of the cast, and take a bow together.
“It’s so marvelous having someone so talented in the family, isn’t it?” Bernard says as they drift toward the exits. “We really are so fortunate the way such people seem to find their way to us.” He smiles at Susan, which startles her a little. Is this the first time her father’s been proud of her? It seems like it.
As they make their way to the chic bar where the opening night celebration is being held, Bernard chatters on about Kay and Philip and what a shame it was that Philip’s last girlfriend seemed to have let herself go. “Used to be such a lovely, slender girl and then …”
Susan peels off from her family and makes for the bar as soon as they arrive.
“Champagne cocktail, please,” she says to the bartender, who hands one over. A few sips and she’s starting to feel like the bubbles are going right to her head, a delightful effervescence that brings on a smile and more relaxed stance. Another sip, and then she turns and sees Rufus standing beside her, dressed in a purple satin smoking jacket and yellow silk tie, grinning and looking her up and down, almost as if he knows what she looks like naked.
Her good mood evaporates.
“Didn’t know you were on the guest list,” she mumbles.
“It’s my job to be on guest lists, Susan. Martini, please!” he calls to the bartender. “Stir, don’t shake—bruises the gin.”
Susan doesn’t bother to hide her eyeroll this time. Not that Rufus seems to mind. He sidles right up to her as if they’re friends, and props his chin up in both hands.
“You’ve been a busy little bee,” he says, nudging her. “If I’d had an inkling of what a little wildcat you were, I’d have gone a very different direction with my interview.”
“What? And missed out on having one over on both me and Chris Baker?”
“Oh, don’t be like that—it was for your own good! You’d never have done that competition on your own, and he wouldn’t have either, and it’s done you good. You got loads of publicity. Don’t lie—I saw the features.”
He has her there. The win at the Foodies Festival has shone a greater spotlight on Elliot’s. Two magazines have been in touch about doing features, and a travel blog asked Gloria for summer recipes. A national publication that Susan has been hounding has finally started to seem a little bit interested in covering them as well. And the journalists and critics invited to the reopening have responded very enthusiastically indeed. (Of course, that was before Dan introduced their conflict, so who knows what will happen now?) Still, she isn’t going to give Rufus Arion the upper hand if she can help it.
“You don’t know anything about me,” she responds. “Maybe if you’d been honest, I’d have surprised you. But I can hardly expect above-board behavior from someone who takes his naming cues from the Nazis.”
She expects him to be embarrassed by that, but instead he grins and says, “Stays with you, though, doesn’t it, that name? You remember it. And that’s the whole point, isn’t it? We all just want to be memorable in a sea of other things clamoring for everyone’s attention.” He accepts his martini from the bartender. “If anyone should know that, you should. Don’t think I don’t know what this whole business with Philip Simms is. Cheers, my dear.” He clinks her cocktail with the base of his glass and takes a sip.
Susan blinks at him. “What are you talking about?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Wow, is it really genuine, then? I figured you were after publicity. I mean, the way you were acting in that park …” He chuckles. “Naughty girl! You do surprise me.”
“Do I?”
“A little.” He looks down at his drink and bites his lip, and his usual expression—half smug, half bemused—disappears suddenly. “Listen, since you say this is some genuine thing, and because you did me a favor with that Foodies Festival event, I’m going to do you one and give you a wee warning. Philip Simms is not quite what he seems.”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “He’s an imposter or a jewel thief, or he’s got a secret family stashed somewhere—is that what you’re going to say?”
“No, nothing like that. He’s just not a particularly good person. He puts it on, I’m sure, but he’s not. Just … be careful.”
“And how would you know? Are you two close friends?”
He snorts. “No, certainly not. But I’d like for you and I to be friends. Shall we? If you say yes, I’ll give you some good news.”
“Will you, indeed?”
“I will. And you know what? I’ll give it to you no strings attached, just so you know I’m capable of being decent. Seems your former chef’s stunt with the opening has ruffled some feathers. He’s been trying to gather backers to open somewhere permanently, but now no one will give him the time of day. Unless he makes an absolute splash at that opening, he’s done. And I think we both know who you can thank for that.” He glances toward the door, and Susan notices that Chris has come in.
She swallows hard around a lump that’s suddenly climbed up her throat. She saw him in the theater, walking in with Lauren, who hung off his arm and chattered away. (Bernard muttered something about having a word with Russell about Chris and his daughter, which disgusted Susan.) But Susan convinced herself Chris wouldn’t come to the after-party. Surely he would want to go back to the restaurant, at least to check in and see how service is going?
But no, he’s here, and something about her face has given her away, because Rufus’s slithering smile makes a reappearance. “I think I’ll be off now. Ta, luv!” He kisses her on the cheek, so quickly she doesn’t even have time to react, and is gone.
Chris strides toward the bar, looking after Rufus’s vanishing figure, and says, “Sorry to interrupt.”
“Not at all, you’re my savior,” says Susan, scrubbing at her cheek with a bar napkin and taking a huge swig of her cocktail, finishing it off. “Better.” She gestures to the glass when the bartender glances her way. “I’m surprised to see you taking a Friday night away from the restaurant.”
“I have a sous chef I can rely on,” he responds. “Also, CCTV in every corner of the kitchen, so I can watch their every move.” He brandishes his phone. “Technology is a wonderful thing.”
She giggles. “You’re joking, right?”
“Maybe.” He holds up the phone so she can’t see the screen. “Ah no, not those microgreens, the purple ones. The purple ones!” he bellows dramatically, running a hand through his hair in mock frustration.
Susan laughs as she takes delivery of her cocktail, and he asks for a pint of lager.
“Seriously, though,” he continues, accepting his beer with a nod of thanks to the bartender, “spending three hours watching a bloke sleep with his own mum and then gouge his eyes out is so much better than microgreens.”