Chris purses his lips and looks away.
“And the things that I know … they aren’t conducive to a healthy, lasting relationship, are they?” She cocks her head and purses her lips. “Can you really blame me for stepping in all those years ago? Susan was a wreck—you know that! And bless you, you tried to help her, but you were a wreck too, and you know it, so please don’t try and play the wronged innocent. Yes, I interfered because I thought that it was best for Susan. Not for me, not for the family—for Susan. She had just suffered a devastating loss. Have you ever been in that position?”
He swallows hard, then nods, still not looking at her. Not trusting himself to. “Aye, that I have.”
“So you know what it’s like. She was in no shape to deal with what you were facing. And you were in no shape to deal properly with her grief. When you suffered your loss, were you truly in any condition to be a rock for someone else?”
He pauses, wishing there could be some other answer, but “No,” he replies.
“There! You see?” She leans back a little in her chair, shaking her head, clucking. “I’ll admit, I may have overdone things years ago. I felt guilty for not being there after her mother died. I was selfish, and when I came back I tried to fix everything as quickly as I could, and I failed to consider all the angles. I failed to realize just how much the two of you meant to each other. I thought it was just your average early-twenties infatuation. I made a mistake, and I want to right it because I want to see my girl happy.”
She sighs. “Chris, no one else will do. Not even a movie star.” She rises just enough to be able to reach across the counter and grab his arm, forcing him to really look at her. There’s a fierceness in her face now that he’s never seen before. It’s startling, and he can’t help but stare. “Listen to me: I see what the two of you are doing. I did it myself once. You’re burying yourself in your work. You’re letting it consume you because if you don’t, then you’ll have time to think about things and those things fucking hurt. Now, believe me, this is great for your career—I got an Oscar and a BAFTA out of it. But it’s absolutely horrible for you and for the people you care about. You can’t bury yourself in some distraction forever. You have to think those awful thoughts and feel those horrible, shitty feelings sometime.”
Chris blinks at her, actually shocked into stillness to hear this woman cursing away, eyes blazing. The memory of it is definitely going to make watching her next refined period film a slightly uncanny experience.
Kay takes a deep breath, releases his arm, and sits back. She’s calmer, but there’s still that fire in her eyes. “Christopher, I need you to think—really think—about what you want. If you love her and are willing to give it another go, then please, please do so—I give you both my blessings a thousand times over. But if you’ve moved on—well, that would be a shame, but I understand, and she does too. She’s already convinced herself that she can expect no more than professional courtesy from you, much as it pains her. But she’ll survive. She’ll find some kind of happiness in other places. A ghost happiness, never quite complete, but she’ll convince herself it’s enough. But please, Christopher, if you don’t want to pursue anything with her again, then I beg you—don’t parade yourself in front of her. Don’t go thrusting yourself into her life unnecessarily. I know the restaurant world is a small one, so you won’t be able to avoid each other entirely, but there are some steps you can take to be less … present in her personal life. I’m talking about Lauren.”
He almost laughs: she need not worry there. He and Lauren seem to have reached a natural endpoint; they haven’t spoken since the night the play opened. The pair of them went off to some club, where Lauren quickly located a group of friends (which included that pretentious little shite who pouted at the sight of Lauren and started to look downright belligerent when she began dancing with Chris. And no wonder: she danced around him like a strip club pole, and when the shite stomped out, she laughed, turned to her girlfriends, and seemed to forget Chris was even there.) Her life and his life did not intertwine well, he realized.
Oh, who’s he kidding? He knew it all along. She’s fun, sure, and she likes to be happy and be around people who are happy, which is nice and the sort of thing he needed. But her flightiness, her lack of direction or ambition, which once made her seem refreshingly carefree, just baffles and annoys him now. He can’t wrap his head around the idea of being her age and having no drive to do anything useful. But then, he never had the luxury of indolence. He had to work, just like everyone else he knew. Except for Susan, and when she was Lauren’s age, she was just as driven as him. She still is, and it makes him proud to see it and to see all her hard work rewarded.
Still, he’s not prepared to yield an inch to Kay. He looks back at her and says, “You really havenae learned not to interfere.”
“Clearly not. I’m sorry to disappoint Lauren, but she’s young and free spirited, and she will recover quickly. And my first loyalty is always to Susan. So just … consider carefully, will you, please?”
He studies her and realizes after a moment that he’s not looking at Kay the actress, but Kay the person. Kay the aunt and surrogate mother. Her face is open, and so like Susan’s in that he knows what she’s thinking and feeling, and that she means every single word of what she’s said.
He can’t process any of this just now. He has a full restaurant. Behind him, the kitchen buzzes, and Calum is issuing a stream of instructions to the other chefs and the apprentices. The phone rings at the hostess stand, and the waitstaff passes to and fro with full trays, empty trays, needing things. And the things he’s tamped down, pushed away, locked up, tried to forget or bury underneath a hard crust of bitterness are seeping to the surface, like oil. Thick and dark, but bringing the possibility of hope. A slow trickle at first, which threatens to become an overwhelming gush.
He can’t process this right now. He needs time. And quiet. A long walk with the dog, perhaps. But he won’t get any of those things because Beth’s coming in tonight, and they’re overbooked for dinner, and he has the Book Festival tomorrow.
The Book Festival! He asked Susan to come. Will she? Or will she duck out, convinced, as Kay says, that she’ll only be bringing more pain on herself? She said she’d be there, but was he, after all, asking too much of her?
Kay sits back down and waits, patient, recognizing someone going through quite a lot in a very compressed amount of time. When his eyes clear and he uncrosses his arms at last, she says, “Right. Am I going to get the rest of my lunch, then?”
Chris blinks. “You still want lunch?” He thought she’d done what she came to do.
“Of course I want lunch! You can’t tease me with that excellent first course and not follow up. I’m a starving artist, my boy, and I can’t wait to see what you have in store for me.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
“I’ve Got a Story for You”
For two weeks every August, the normally private Charlotte Square opens its gates to admit the literary masses. Huge white tents block views of the iron railings that normally keep everyone out, and picnic tables and pastel deck chairs circle the equestrian statue of Prince Albert in the middle of the lawn, inviting readers to relax with their newest signed novel. The tents fill with crowds to see every sort of author: high-flying politicos touting bestselling memoirs; writers of fantasy, chick-lit, sci-fi, young adult (and every possible combination of those). Authors and illustrators enthrall throngs of preschoolers and parents; up-and-comers present their work for appreciative and encouraging audiences. Books are signed by the hundreds and set out for sale in the inviting bookshop tents. People bask in the sunshine, when there is any, or gather in the café tent and grumble good-naturedly about the rain. They shake hands; gush, “I love your work”; add to their “to be read” lists, and leave carrying new hardbacks in handy Book Festival-branded tote bags.