“I had the most wonderful lunch at this little place down the street,” Kay announces, setting aside the gin and tonic she’s been sipping. “With my director and one of the producers for the play. They’re thinking of pairing me and Philip up again. But don’t you worry—my matchmaking days are over.” She nudges her niece playfully, only to receive a stony face in return. “Oh, dear, what’s put your nose out of joint?”
“Did you fire Chris from Elliot’s and then try to blackmail him into staying away from me?” is Susan’s blunt response.
Kay purses her lips and gets a look on her face that seems to say, “Ah, we’re finally having that conversation.”
“Yes, I did,” she admits. “It seemed like the best thing at the time. It probably was.”
Susan folds her arms over her chest. “Would you care to explain yourself?”
“Oh, Susan, darling.” Kay reaches out and strokes her niece’s cheek. “You were such a mess. We all were. I should have stayed around after your mother died, instead of leaving. I felt terrible about that, and even worse when I came back and saw the shape you were in. Don’t you remember? Oh God, I hope you don’t.” She retracts her hand and grimaces. “You were leaning so heavily on that boy, so when your father came to me and told me the restaurant manager heard Chris had an issue with drugs—and before you ask, no, I don’t know who told the manager about his habit—I knew something had to be done. The situation wasn’t healthy for either of you. But of course my main concern was for you. You’re my flesh and blood, Susan, and I will always fight in your corner. So, yes, I persuaded you to take some time away from the relationship. And I handled the situation with Chris. I knew Bernard certainly wasn’t up to the task.” Her lips tighten again, seemingly at the mere thought of his uselessness.
“You threatened him. It wasn’t bad enough that you fired him; you threatened him so he would stay away from me!”
“I did. I said we’d blackball him in the industry. I didn’t want him disrupting your recovery, and I thought the situation might help him clean up his act. And it did, apparently. He got his life sorted out quite impressively.” She takes a deep breath. “At the end of the day, Susan, you were out of your mind with grief. You were slipping away from us, and I really didn’t think that a junkie was the best person to have in your life at that time. I am sorry that I hurt you both—truly I am. I did what seemed to be the best thing at the time, which is really all any of us can do. I had no way of knowing how splendidly he’d turn out. Good for him, I say. Who knows? Perhaps my intervention was the making of him, in a sense.”
Susan shakes her head. “You have no idea what your actions cost him,” she says. “And mine.” No one is blameless. After all, she’s the one who broke up with him.
“I’m sorry,” Kay repeats sincerely. “And I’ve told him that I’m sorry too.”
Susan frowns. “When?”
Kay smiles and shakes her head. “Doesn’t matter.”
She looks over Susan’s shoulder, and Susan follows her gaze. Chris’s event has let out, and people are flooding into the tent. A peppy-looking blonde leads him to a seat at the signing table as fans, clutching crisp copies of his book, form a line.
Chris is pretending to smile and pay attention to whatever his publicist is saying, but at the same time he scans the crowd. Susan, standing frozen beside the bar, wills him to look her way, at the same time trying to force her legs to move. But even if they do—what? Will she run onto the dais and throw herself into his arms?
His eyes seek her out, settle on her, and his relief is visible in the sudden unstiffening of his posture. His smile becomes genuine, a warm beam that finally melts the ice in her legs, so when Kay gently nudges her and whispers, “Go on, then,” Susan can move forward.
“Oh, oh, the line’s this way,” the peppy blonde informs her, steering Susan to a spot behind two women in flowery Joules jackets, already discussing which of Chris’s recipes they’ll make first. Susan looks helplessly up at Chris, and he returns the expression, and she wants to laugh hysterically at the absurdity of it: her, waiting in a line for what, exactly? And him trying to focus on signing books and politely answering questions and smiling for pictures, all the while darting glances her way, as if he thinks she might disappear.
And then she’s in front of him, unable to speak, realizing she’s on an actual stage, with people behind her still waiting for their books to be signed, and oh god, she doesn’t even have a book!
“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!”