“That asshole!” Gloria bellows. She immediately follows that with a stream of Polish that needs no translation.
“I know,” Susan sighs. “I hear you.”
“That manky prick.” Rey hands Susan her phone back. Chris’s message still lights up the screen: Dan has rescheduled his opening for 2 wks Monday. Thought you should know. I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS.
This is important enough to have brought even Julia to the kitchen, and now she shakes her head and crosses her arms. “He did this on purpose.”
“Gee, you think?” says Gloria, driving a chef’s knife viciously through a head of cauliflower.
“It’ll suck away all our press,” Julia continues, ignoring Gloria. “All those journalists we invited—even if they go to both events instead of just choosing one, the story will be about pitting us against each other, not our reopening. All of our publicity becomes his.”
I know! I know! Susan desperately wants to scream. Nobody’s saying a single thing that didn’t flash through her brain within twenty seconds of receiving that text. She probably moved through all the stages of grief in record time. (“No, this can’t be right.—What an asshole!—Maybe there’s some way I can fix it. Can we reschedule?—Shit, no, we can’t. We’ll just have to soldier on and hope for the best.”)
“What about rescheduling?” Gloria suggests. “Move it up a night. Rey and I can manage, can’t we, Rey?”
“Sure. What’s twenty-four hours less of prep time?” He shrugs, as if that isn’t actually a fairly significant ask.
“We can’t reschedule. We’ve got press notices out, and Sunday’s the last night of our aunt’s play,” Julia explains. “We need her and the other celebrities there if we’re going to have any chance of getting coverage.” She glances at Susan. “Philip’s coming, right?” Her face says: He’d better be, or I’m going to drag him here myself. I’ll be damned if nobody sees all the work I’ve put into this place.
“I think so,” Susan answers evasively. She hasn’t asked him yet. It feels a little bit like using him, especially now. But she does actually want him to be there, and not just for the obvious reasons, so … she’ll ask tonight.
“We’ll stick to the set date,” she agrees. “But maybe we’ll move it forward an hour. Start it at half five, and maybe we can get the journalists a bit tipsy before they go elsewhere. Or stuff them so full of food they won’t want to go.”
Julia rolls her eyes. “Half five? Nobody eats at that hour except toddlers and geriatrics. They won’t show up, Susan!”
“Well, you suggest something then!” Susan snaps. “This is just how it has to be, Julia. I’m sorry. I can’t force Dan to open on a different night, can I? Unless you can, this is what we’re doing.”
Julia shakes her head and huffs back upstairs, muttering about all her hard work going to waste.
“Are we agreed on the earlier time?” Susan asks Gloria and Rey.
“You’re the boss,” says Gloria.
“Your support is overwhelming,” Susan grumbles, heading toward the pastry kitchen. Thankfully, it’s bread day. She really needs to punch something for a while.
It takes about half a second for Philip to notice something’s wrong when they meet for their second date.
“You all right? You look like your cat died,” he comments, making a joking pouty face to mirror her own glum look. “Oh, shit, your cat didn’t actually die, did it?”
Susan can’t help but chuckle. “No.”
She tells him about the reopening clash, and Philip cringes and comments, “Dick move. Seen it a dozen times with film premieres. I’m really sorry about that, Suze, but it’ll probably be alright. Quality wins, right? Try not to think about it.”
As if it’s that easy. As if it’s that easy to not think about the restaurant that might fail, or the fact that Meg spent the past forty minutes wailing over the phone about a sharp pain in her toe, or the ex-boyfriend who served her favorite pasta and alerted her to Dan’s move but also seemed so angry when she tried to give his lunch guest a tart.
She does try not to think about it, though. None of this is Philip’s fault, and it’s not fair to him to put a damper on the evening just because things seem to be going a bit pear shaped in her life. So, she smiles, takes his hand, and speeds off in a taxi to a little bistro on Broughton Street. She tries not to mind when they’re seated at a table right in the window overlooking the street, which is busy with festival-goers on their way to see Oliver! at the Edinburgh Playhouse just up the road.
“I don’t suppose there’s a more private table we could have?” she whispers to the waitress who seats them.
The waitress seems surprised and glances once or twice at Philip as she says, “Sorry. All booked up for tonight.”
Susan tries not to think about her discomfort at being put on display. She tries not to notice the passersby who do double takes, point, and take photos with their mobiles.
Philip doesn’t need to try: he seems completely unaware of the attention as he peruses the menu. “What’re you in the mood for? I hear they do really great pasta here. There’s one dish that has garlic and olive oil and chili and parsley that’s really nice. I had it at this place in Rome, where some granny made all the pasta by hand, and I got to go in the back and watch her do it. Amazing! Just these sheets and sheets of paper-thin dough coming out of this machine she cranked by hand. Have you ever made pasta?”
“Yes.” She tries not to think of her and Chris’s early attempts with a machine they couldn’t get to clamp properly onto the countertop. Chris had to hold the thing in place, leaning most of his weight on it to make sure it didn’t shift all over as she tried to feed in the yolk-yellow dough, turn the crank and catch the smooth, leathery sheets that emerged. There was a lot of trial and error. They ate so much pasta they had to swear it off for a while.
“I should try making pasta sometime,” Philip is saying. “I’ve got a machine—an electric one. I went out and bought it right after I met that old lady, but never actually got around to using it. I should. Think you could teach me to make pasta?”
“Um, yeah, maybe.” Susan’s distracted by a clump of teenage girls outside who are posing for selfies with Philip in the background. She tries shifting her chair back a few inches, hoping she can hide her face behind the menu posted in the window.
“So, what do you think? Should we get that pasta dish? Share it, Lady and the Tramp style?” He grins.
“I-I think I’d rather try the fish if you don’t mind.” For some reason, eating that dish with someone else feels … wrong.
“Suit yourself. Think I might just get one of the salads, then.”
“No, get the pasta if that’s what you want!”
“Nah. That’s a bit much when I’m about to open in a play where I’m stripped to the waist in three scenes. People have certain expectations, you know, and if you show up with a muffin top, it’s all over Twitter by the time the interval comes around.”
“I’m sure you could work it off,” says Susan as the wine is brought out and a taster poured for Philip.
His eyes twinkle over the edge of the glass. “Did you have anything in mind?”
Susan blushes and he chuckles, nodding for the waitress to go ahead and pour the wine. She does, then takes their orders and leaves them alone.
“Can I ask a favor of you?” Susan asks.
“Of course you can!”
“Will you consider coming to our opening?”
“I thought you’d never ask. I’d love to.”
“Thank you.”
He smiles charmingly, reaches across the little round table, and takes her hand. People outside are going a bit nuts now, and Susan retracts her hand, instead pressing her leg against his under the table, where it’s hidden by the tablecloth. Philip grins and clearly takes that as an invitation, because he leans over and gently kisses her.
Susan forgets about the people outside. It’s been ages since she’s been kissed—what was it? Eighteen months? Two years? Barry, the forty-something solicitor with the overlapping front teeth she met online?—and it feels so good. It feels lovely to have someone seem to genuinely enjoy her company, to want to be seen with her, to touch her, to talk and laugh and joke with her. And she can’t ignore the fact that the man is gorgeous and a splendid kisser—she can tell that much, even from just a brief embrace. But then, she playfully reminds herself, it’s not as if he hasn’t had plenty of chances to practice.
Finally, she doesn’t have to try to think about something else.
Philip leans his forehead against hers and murmurs, “We could just ask them to box up our dinners and skip the comedy show.”
Susan laughs throatily and is a little startled by how much she’s tempted. But then the sound of someone’s camera shutter going off (inside the restaurant this time) snaps her back to some sort of reality.
“Not tonight,” she whispers back. “I’m starving, and to be honest, I could really do with a good dose of comedy.”
They eat, then stroll up Broughton Street to The Stand, a close, bunker-like comedy club on York Place. With its low ceiling and basement location, it’s a claustrophobic’s nightmare, but Susan finds some relief in the knowledge that nobody will be able to get a mobile signal down here.
The backdrop on the tiny stage features the grim image of a grinning young boy dressed up as a cowboy, pointing a gun to his head, which Susan really hopes isn’t going to set the mood for the rest of the night. Small, round tables around the stage are already fully occupied with people drinking beers and eating burgers and chips. The employee who checks their names against the ticket reservations list at the door tries not to look too surprised to see Philip and reassures them that more seats will be set up soon.
It turns out not to matter because a middle-aged couple with extra chairs at their table wave to Philip and shout, “You can join us, if you like!”
“Oh no, it’s fine,” Susan starts to say, even as Philip calls back, “Thanks!” and steers her over.
“I’m Bob; this is Sheila,” the man introduces, reaching over to shake Philip’s hand.
“Grand to meet you. Thanks for sharing with us,” says Philip as he and Susan take their seats.
“Oh my God! I cannae believe it!” Sheila squeals. She has bleached blonde hair, an orange tan, and so much false eyelash on that Susan’s amazed she can still comfortably blink. “I’ve seen every one of your movies,” she breathes at Philip. “They’re amazing! You were robbed at those Oscars, you were. I was ragin’.”
“That’s really kind, but Geoffrey put in an amazing performance,” Philip demurs.
“Nah, never did like him much,” Bob chimes in. Like his wife, his skin is an electric tangerine color. He laces his fingers behind his head and leans back in the chair. “Next year’ll be your year, my lad.” He reaches over and claps Philip on the shoulder. “Yer overdue.”
“And what do you do?” Sheila asks Susan, turning toward her with a pleasant smile. Susan wonders if she’s really thinking, “What the hell are you doing here with him?”
“I own a restaurant,” she answers.
“You’re not an actress, then? Oh, that’s nice, you spend time with ordinary people,” Sheila says to Philip. “Not snobby, like.”
“Susan’s an amazing pastry chef,” Philip says. “She owns Elliot’s, you know. It’s reopening soon. You should try it.”
“Oh, aye, we will,” Bob promises with a polite smile that indicates he’s only saying that because he has to.
“What do you like to bake?” Sheila asks. “I’ve been known to do a cracking summer pudding.”
“I bake all sorts of things,” Susan answers, relieved to actually be in a conversation she can contribute to (Bob is asking Philip about filmmaking). “How do you do your summer pudding? I sometimes put a little elderflower cordial in with the fruit when I’m cooking it, and use a good, stale brioche loaf.”
“Do you? I’ll have to try that. I usually just use a bloomer from Aldi.” Sheila seems genuinely interested, and Susan feels guilty for having judged her.
“Did someone say summer pudding?” Philip asks, glancing over. “That’s my absolute favorite. I’ll bet you make a great one too,” he adds, smiling at Sheila in a way that makes her giggle and blush right through that tan.
“Aye, she makes a good ’un, my Sheila,” Bob confirms, patting his wife on the leg, making her smile and blush even more. “’s why I married her!”
“I married him because he can mend things,” she says. “We met when ’e came over to sort out my plumbing.”
“That’s what she said!” he guffaws. Sheila laughs along with him. He reaches across the table and takes her hand. “Twenty years ago to the day, and I’ve never wanted to look anywhere else, eh?”
Susan hovers halfway between wanting to squeal like Lauren and tear up. She settles for a smile and an “Aw” as the lights dim and a spotlight illuminates the tiny stage.
Stand shows are a mixed bag of newcomers and more established comedians, four in all, doing brief sets, ushered along by a master of ceremonies. As the MC comes out, Susan tenses, wondering if he’ll mention Philip, sitting right there in front of him, smiling, waiting to be entertained. But Philip goes unnoticed or, at any rate, is not singled out. She starts to relax, but then the first act comes out, points to Philip, and crows—“What’s this? Am I being scouted? You’d better watch out, mate—I’ll have your job!” He strikes a bodybuilder pose, which is meant to be funny because he’s built like a beanpole. The audience titters encouragingly, recognizing a nervous newcomer, but that just serves to encourage him, and throughout his set he keeps coming back to Philip and making comments about all the famous actresses he must have slept with and was it really true what Gwyneth Paltrow said she did to her vagina? It gets so rough that people start grumbling.
It finally ends and the MC comes back out, rolling his eyes, and saying, “Well, all right, yes, there’s a movie star–shaped elephant in the room tonight, and aren’t we all just agog! But it’s Festival time, people, and frankly, a movie star is the least interesting thing you’re likely to see, right? There are a thousand shows put on by people so desperate for your patronage they’ll balance a hippo holding a giraffe on the tip of their little finger while break-dancing on a high wire with no net. For free! Let’s get excited about that instead, all right? This bloke doesn’t need your attention; he’s already buried in adoration and money.”
Philip laughs and inclines his head. The room relaxes a bit, and the rest of the acts are much better.
Afterward, most of the audience rushes out (probably to update their social media feeds as soon as they hit the pavement, Susan guesses) while Philip, Susan, Bob, and Sheila follow more slowly. Bob and Sheila are chattering about the merits of a week in Magaluf and this really cracking resort they stayed in that Philip should look into, because it was beautiful and not at all pretentious, and people really did just leave you alone.
“I’ll definitely have to look into it next time I’m down that way,” Philip promises, sounding sincere. It gives Bob and Sheila a thrill, and they say good night and hug both Philip and Susan as if they’re old friends, before wandering off, arms around each other’s waists, in the direction of the garishly lit Omni Centre. Susan watches them go, a little wistfully, thinking of the genuine love and ease the two seem to share.
Philip reaches over and takes her hand, and they stroll in the opposite direction, taking the first left up North St. Andrew Street. It’s just past eleven o’clock at night, so finally fully dark out, which means it’s the perfect time to see the light installation in St. Andrew Square.
As they cross the tram tracks and enter the square, Susan gasps, “Will you look at that?”
The entire square is softly aglow from hundreds of spherical bulbs planted on stiff stems, like luminescent poppy seed heads. They cover every last inch of grass in the square, and the lights slowly change from white to blue, to green, and back to white, the change staggered by section, so the square seems alive with rippling bands of light, like a tiny aurora borealis come down to earth.
It isn’t the comedy show that makes Susan forget about all the things that are worrying her: it’s this. This beautiful little oasis in the middle of a crowded city, the sight of which hushes the other people in the square and makes it easy to forget they’re there. She looks up at one point and sees Philip, standing behind a section of lights that make him glow. He grins at her, clearly delighted by her delight. Swept up in it—the beauty of the lights and his smile and a need to feel wanted in an uncomplicated way—Susan rushes over and kisses him. Not a brief, soft kiss like at the restaurant, but like she really means it. She rakes her fingers through his hair and pulls his head down and feels his arm wrap around her waist and jerk her right up against him. She pushes the onlookers in the square from her mind, just for a moment, and concentrates instead on the feel of his hands and mouth. She wills a warm glow into being in her chest and tries to force it outward, to tingle in her fingertips and toes the way it used to, when she was young and …
She draws back, just a little, and something—a trick of the light, surely—makes Philip, just for a moment, look exactly like Chris, and it gives her a start.
He feels her movement, like a flinch, and frowns ever so slightly. “Something wrong?”
“No, just … no.” She reaches up, pulls his head down, and kisses him again, but it isn’t quite the same. She can’t get caught up in it. Oh, it’s nice. Really lovely, but different. And when they break apart this time, she only smiles sweetly in response to his suggestive grin, takes his hand, and steers them home.