“Oh, you’ve not bought your book yet,” the blonde observes.
“It’s fine—this one’s hers,” Chris says, plucking a display copy from a Pyrex stand near his right elbow. He scrawls something on the title page, closes it, and holds it out. “I hope you like it,” he says, swallowing hard.
Susan accepts the book, still tongue-tied, and scurries off to the side. She closes her eyes, opens the book, and looks at what he’s written.
I love you. I’m sorry. Have I ruined it?
And then Susan does laugh. A choking, relieved, nearly hysterical giggle that she can’t control any more than she can control the tears stinging her eyes and pouring down her cheeks. She doesn’t care that people are staring at her, some even backing away, apparently thinking she’s crazy (which is fair enough). She only cares that Chris is looking at her, ignoring the hovering blonde and the poor man waiting for his signature. His face has an open, yearning expression that begs her for an answer. She grins, shakes her head, and mouths, “I love you too.”
A massive smile erupts across his face, and she feels that flood of warmth again. Her own grin widens in response until she feels like her face might split, but she doesn’t care, and she can’t seem to stop smiling. Almost without looking, Chris signs the last book; then, ignoring his publicist’s pleas, he leaps off the dais and grabs Susan’s hand. Together, they duck through the side door and find themselves back where Susan last spoke with Lauren. Tucked away, among the tarpaulin-draped crates of books, slick with rain.
“I know we need to talk about things, lots of things,” he chokes, “but I just—”
Susan grabs his face, pulls his head down, and devours him.
And that kiss is everything. It’s love and regret and apology. Passion and sex, friendship and promise. It’s want and need and yearning and heat and shivers that they both feel shuddering through their bodies. It’s ten years’ worth of kisses, all crowding into one embrace as the pair of them rediscover each other: the curves of their mouths and bodies pressed close, the insistence of hands and tongues, the hearts hammering in concert, and the silent, mutual promise that there is more—so much more! and better!—to come.
When they finally part, Susan looks up at him with a teasing smile and says, “You’re not just doing this for the brownie recipe, are you?”
“Ah, you caught me!” He laughs, then kisses her again and again and again, and when they pause once more, she notices the flush creeping up his neck, the mixture of frustration and desire in his eyes.
Clinging to him, she says, in a throaty voice: “Your place or mine?”
“Well,” he answers, with a devilish smile, “yours is closer, but mine doesn’t have your father or Julia in it.”
“Right,” Susan laughs. “Yours, then.”
Together, they hurtle through the crowd, through the gates of Charlotte Square, bellowing in unison, “Taxi!”
Epilogue
So, this is it, Susan thinks in satisfaction.
Cupping her mug of early-morning tea, she looks around the flat: the walls newly painted a sunny yellow, which compensates for the misty day outside. Fat pillows and a warm blanket and Ginger, snoring on the sofa. Photographs hung, a vase of daffodils on the counter—the place looks like a home now. She loves returning to this every day, and Chris does too. She can tell.
It was such a relief to leave Moray Place, which emptied surprisingly quickly. First her, then Julia, and now Bernard’s leaving. He announced, over the end-of-Christmas-dinner port, his intention to sell.
“It’s just a bit too much,” he sighed. “Especially now Julia’s gone. She and I talked it over, and I think I might take a little pied-à-terre in London. So many people have been inviting me to stay with them on holidays—did I tell you Sir Miles Cadogan has asked me on a skiing week in January? Anyway, it seems a bit silly to keep such a big house when I’ll only be there a few weeks out of the year, don’t you think? And it’s just so quiet. I long for a bit of life about me. Julia knows a place near Canary Wharf she thinks will suit. Of course, I’ll miss you two terribly,” he added with a mournful look at Russell and Helen, who smiled tolerantly back, “but I’m sure when the next election comes around, you’ll be joining me down south. The voters will have come to their senses by then, surely?”
“One can only hope,” Russell agreed. “If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again!”
“Hear, hear!” Bernard cheered.
“How nice you’ll be near Julia again,” Helen commented. “Though I’m sure you’ll miss Meg and Susan and your grandchildren terribly.” She looked meaningfully at the girls. Susan returned a wry smile.
“That goes without saying, of course,” Bernard said, turning to his girls. “But you’re all so grown up now, you don’t need dear old dad, do you? I must find some way to fill my time, and we must do what’s best for everyone, eh?”
It was for the best. Bernard does not love Edinburgh. He whines about the weather and the slippery cobblestones and the crowds of people who are “such a bother. All these tourists everywhere!” He wonders why Meg’s boys aren’t better behaved. He doesn’t shoot or play golf or read, so he has nothing to speak to anyone about, and no one invites him on any recreational excursions. He’s better off in London.
Susan didn’t mind putting a bit of extra distance between herself and her father. He barely spoke to her for days after he heard she broke up with Philip, and when she told him she was back together with Chris, he looked horrified. Though, it seems that wasn’t entirely down to snobbery.
“Oh, Susan, are you sure?” he asked as she prepared to move out of Moray Place. “Is he really the best person for you? He has … weaknesses, you know.”
“I know all about that, Dad. It’s not a problem for him now.”
Bernard’s face pinched, the most expression she’d seen him make in years, and Susan was shocked to realize her father was actually concerned about her.
“It’ll be fine, Dad,” she reassured him, reaching out to embrace her father for the first time in … she didn’t even know how long.
He was surprised by it and took a moment to react, but then patted her on the back, and when they parted, he blinked quickly, looked away, and said, “Well, at least he was on television. And perhaps he’ll do it again soon. Why just be a chef when you can be a celebrity chef?”
And just like that, he went right back to being Bernard.
It’s March now. A dreary month almost anywhere. Susan sips her tea, contemplating the weather. It’s not raining, really; it just looks like the rain clouds have descended, leaving everything perpetually damp. The cobblestones are slick and treacherous. Meringues are off the menu indefinitely because they turn into a soft, sticky mass within minutes of coming out of the oven. But no bother, Susan has plenty of other ideas.
Today is a workday. Tomorrow, Julia comes up from London, so she and Susan can sift through what remains at Moray Place and decide, at last, what they each want to keep and what can go. Bernard has already had the things he wants sent to his new place in London. Julia did it up for him and had it photographed for a spread in Elle Decor.