“If you can’t get in the mood with someone like Philip Simms, I don’t see how you can get in the mood with anyone,” Julia observes.
“You’re quite generous about him, all of a sudden.”
Julia shrugs. “I’ve moved past that. Obviously.” She smirks.
Susan knows her cue. “And how was your night? Fun, I’m guessing.” She glances around the room with a knowing smile.
“Oh, very. And he’s proven himself to be a gentleman.” Julia brandishes the cup of coffee. “Not all of them make you coffee.”
“If he’s such a gentleman, then where is he?”
“Early call at the theater.”
“Ah. You going to see him again?”
Julia responds with a lazy shrug. “I might. We’ll see. I haven’t decided yet.”
Susan watches her sister continue to get dressed, wondering what it’s like to be able to keep sex so separate from deeper feelings. Casual sex never interested her. She needs intimacy in order to want to be intimate, and you can’t go opening yourself up heart and soul to just anyone, can you? She’s been trying to force it with Philip because it seems like she should want him, but Susan is now realizing it takes more than charm and an attractive face to arouse her.
“Right, then,” Julia says, setting her empty cup aside and heading once more toward the bathroom. “Have to dry my hair and put my face on. You can go.”
“Thanks” is Susan’s dry response. “See you at the restaurant?”
“See you!”
* * *
The hotel’s lift seems interminably slow, and Susan practically explodes through the doors and sprints toward the street. She’s nearly there when a hand comes out of nowhere and grabs her wrist, yanking her back as a man’s voice says, “What’s the hurry?”
Susan whirls with a gasp, wrenching her wrist out of his grip, and is face-to-face with Philip. He’s grinning, pleased and playful, apparently unaware of what he’s done.
“That hurt!” she scolds, and the tone of her voice wipes the smile right off his face.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “Let me get you some coffee or something to make up for it.”
“No, I can’t, I really have to go—”
“It’ll just be a minute,” he interrupts, grabbing her hand and almost dragging her into the nearby dining room. He takes her to a table right in the middle of the room, where everyone can see them. “So,” he says, plunking down and spreading a crisp napkin over his lap, “what brings you here so early in the morning? Don’t tell me I’ve been outplayed!” He laughs as if the very thought is a joke.
“Julia,” Susan responds in a tight voice. “She needed a change of clothes.”
“No kidding! Who was it? Oh, wait, don’t tell me—she was practically salivating over Justin last night. Was it him? I’ll bet it was. He can never resist a blonde.”
“I can’t say.”
“Code of the sisters, eh? I admire that. None of my brothers can keep any sort of secret. They’re worse than the press.” He reaches across the table and takes Susan’s hand, stroking it like it was a cat. “Wish it was you calling for a change of clothes this morning,” he murmurs.
“Sorry,” Susan says, glancing around to make sure no one overheard.
It could have been her. Philip was keen last night. “Why don’t we take this party somewhere quieter?” he’d purred in her ear as they danced. And she’d thought about it; tried to convince herself it was what she wanted, but she just couldn’t.
“It’s not too late,” Philip continues. “Why don’t we get together tonight?”
“I don’t know. It’s really busy at the restaurant right now, with the reopening so soon. I’ll probably be pretty knackered,” she answers.
“Oh.” He frowns a little and releases her hand. “Too bad. I mean, we don’t have long before the play closes and then I’m off to London for a boot camp.”
“Boot camp? Are you doing a war movie?”
Philip chuckles. “No, not that sort of boot camp. Singing and dancing. I’m doing a remake of My Fair Lady with Natalie Portman. We start shooting in Czechoslovakia next month.”
“And who’re you playing?”
“Henry Higgins, of course!” He smiles. “Who else?”
Susan tries, unsuccessfully, to imagine Philip as the irascible, middle-aged Professor Higgins. “I didn’t know you sang.”
“I don’t. Not yet. But most of Higgins’s songs are pretty much spoken anyhow. Natalie’s got the really hard job—I wouldn’t want to follow in Audrey Hepburn’s footsteps.” He chuckles. “It’ll be good for us, though. Hollywood loves a musical. Look what Les Mis did for Anne Hathaway!”
Look what it did for Russell Crowe, Susan thinks, but outwardly she smiles. “I’m sure you’ll be great. Listen, I’m sorry—I really do need to go.” She rises and turns toward the door.
Philip springs to his feet and wraps his arms around her. “Say you’ll come tonight,” he insists. “Come on …”
“I can’t,” she tells him, firmly. “I have work to do too.”
He seems surprised and maybe a little put off by her tone. He drops his arms. “Okay, fair enough. Still want me to come to the opening?”
“Of course I do.” His little-boy-hurt look makes her feel equal parts guilty and infuriated. She tries to appease him with a kiss, which seems to work. “I’ll call or text you, okay? We’ll get together before then.”
“I hope so.” He resumes his seat and picks up his menu. “If you see the waitress on your way out, send her my way, will you?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Relaunch
Two weeks pass in a rush: they’re a freight train, and Susan, Gloria, and the rest of the Elliot’s staff are just clinging on for dear life, hoping to avoid a crash.
They’ve been working all hours, all hands on deck. The dining room is finally in good shape, all of Julia’s special-ordered fixtures and chairs and sofas in their appointed places. Food’s been served up for the waitstaff, who are drilled on every last ingredient by the head waiter. He occasionally stops and shouts to one of them, “What wine goes with this course? Name three, at different price points!” If they can’t answer in under twenty seconds, they sit there with him for hours until they know that wine list and that food better than they know their own parents.
In the pastry kitchen, Susan churns out miniature cakes, leaves of crisp puff pastry, ice creams, mousses, breads, and dainty biscuits and chocolates. Chris generously sends Rab full time for the last week, and she’s grateful for the help.
She’s also grateful for the refuge of the kitchen: photographers have actually begun camping out at Moray Place and the restaurant, shouting questions at her as she runs past on her way to work.
“It’s a bit tacky,” Bernard sighs, looking out at them. But he can’t help but strut down the front stairs every time he leaves the house, pausing to tell the press, “Now, now, my daughter’s entitled to some privacy over her love life, is she not? And as a father, of course, I must protect that privacy, and I would never, ever discuss anything like a forthcoming engagement.”