“I’m sorry he hurt you,” he murmurs.
“He didn’t,” Susan responds. “I have nobody but myself to blame. And I probably always will.”
They stand like that for another moment or two, and then Philip steps back and clears his throat.
“I know it’s cliché, but I hope we can stay friends. Seriously.”
She can tell he means it, and she’s pleased. “I’d really like that.”
He leans forward, pecks her on the cheek, and jerks his head toward the door. “I think I’ll head out, if that’s all right? Maybe out the back, so I don’t draw attention by going?”
“Sure,” says Susan. “I’ll show you.” She opens the office door and jumps when she finds Chris there, poised to knock.
“Hi,” he says, looking embarrassed. “Sorry, I was being nosy and came down to see the kitchen. Gloria said you were in here. I wanted to congratulate you.”
“Oh, thanks,” Susan says, trying to pull herself together and wondering how much, if anything, he heard of her conversation with Philip.
Philip slips out of the office. “I’ll find the way out,” he says. “Take care, Susan. We’ll talk soon.”
“Good luck with My Fair Lady,” she says.
“Oh,” he responds with a roll of his eyes and self-deprecating smile, “thanks—I’ll need it!”
He disappears into the kitchen, and Susan and Chris face each other in silence for a moment.
“You should probably go up,” he finally says. “Take the kitchen staff; they deserve their moment in the spotlight. You all did great tonight.”
“Thank you,” she says, trying hard to read his face. Is it her imagination, or does he seem to be having trouble keeping eye contact?
“I’ll see you up there,” he says. He turns and walks away without another look.
* * *
Susan gathers the staff, brings them up to the dining room, and leads the guests in a round of applause. Then there are more handshakes, more smiling, pleased journalists promising write-ups, and guests promising to be back.
Bernard clasps her hand, smiles genuinely, and says, “You’ve done really well, my dear. Your mother and grandfather would be pleased, and so am I.”
Susan blinks at him for a moment, then manages to say, “Thanks, Dad.”
He releases her as Kay sweeps in, pulling Susan into a hug so tight Susan can barely breathe.
“You’ve done it, Susan! You’ve really done it!” she gushes. “Your mother would be so proud!” She looks around. “Where’s Philip disappeared to?”
“He had to go,” Susan replies, turning to embrace Meg and William, whom she notices for the first time are looking very sullen. “Everything okay?” she whispers to Meg, who just shakes her head and steps away. Susan holds onto her hand. “Let’s get together soon, okay?” she says, frowning. “We’ll have lunch or coffee or something, and a good talk.” She can’t help but feel like she’s been neglecting her sister lately, with everything else that’s been going on, and that worries her. Meg looks haggard, and William is refusing to make eye contact with anyone or stand within two feet of his wife.
The family drifts away, and Susan looks up and sees Chris standing at the bar with a half-drunk glass of beer in one hand. She tenses a little, remembering the awkwardness downstairs. But he lifts the beer in her direction, inclining his head in a sort of bow, and has a word with the bartender, who promptly pours a glass of champagne.
“You look like you need something to make you giggly,” Chris says, approaching and handing over the drink. He seems more himself now, and she thinks, It was all in your head, that awkwardness. He didn’t hear anything.
“Do I?” She takes the champagne and clinks the edge of his glass.
“You should be pleased—you had a great night,” he says. “But you look like someone just kicked your dog and then ran it over.”
Susan can’t help but snort. “Thank you. That was … graphic.”
“Well, if anyone should be looking unhappy right now, it should be me. I’m the one who’s got bigger competition now.” He grins. “And I couldn’t be more pleased.”
“Thanks,” she says warmly. “That means a lot, coming from you.”
He chuckles ruefully. “Yeah, guess I haven’t been the nicest. I’m really sorry about that. Sorry I snapped at you the day you came to Seòin—I know you were just trying to be nice. And that comment at the party after the play …” He clears his throat. “It was uncalled for.”
“Don’t worry about it,” she reassures him. “We all do hurtful things without meaning to. If anyone knows that, I sure as hell do.”
“Well, you’re not the only one who turns things over and over and over in their head long afterward,” he says.
Oh my God, he did hear, Susan thinks, blinking up at him, trying to think of what to say next. He seems embarrassed, though, realizing what he’s just blurted out. He’s looking down at his beer, fiddling with it. So she decides it’s best to let the comment lie.
At last, he clears his throat and asks, “At the risk of pushing my luck, would you be willing to consider trading support for support?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m going to be appearing at the Book Festival next week, and I was wondering if you’d come.” He drops his voice. “My publicist says I shouldn’t worry, but I keep having nightmares about nobody showing up.”
“I doubt that’ll be a problem,” Susan reassures him, remembering how the crowd cheered when he arrived that night, though he hadn’t seemed to notice. Too busy talking to that journo he spent the next hour with at the bar. “But yes, I’ll come.”
He grins. “Thanks.” He sips his beer. “So, are you all right?” His forehead is puckering in concern. “You didn’t look … happy, when I saw you earlier. Or just now.”
“I’ll be fine,” she reassures him. “Just a little tired, and overwhelmed.”
“Yeah, I know how that is.” He gestures to her now-empty glass. “Another?”
She wants to. She’s tempted. She wants to get giggly with him. She wants it to be like it was, but at the same time, she reminds herself that this would just be a tease. It’s a stolen moment, and things can’t be like they used to be. They can be courteous; friendly, even. It’s certainly an improvement over the hostility he used to show. But she can’t get her hopes up—it would only crush her. He’s just being polite; this is a professional courtesy, one chef congratulating another on a job well done. And it would be best for her not to try to make this more than it is.
“Thanks, but I think I’m all right with just the one,” she answers.
He nods and polishes off the last of his beer. “Well, I’d best be off, then. Restaurant life is a busy one, and we both need our sleep, hey?”
“Yeah.”
With one last smile, he turns away and is swallowed up by the remaining crowd.
And she is alone.