All Stirred Up Read online

  All Stirred Up

  A Novel

  BRIANNE MOORE

  For my brilliant husband, Adam, who makes it all possible, and our beautiful boys, Jamie and Alex, who are the reason I do everything

  Acknowledgments

  So much love and thanks to my incredible husband, Adam, who supported me through the whole writing process with hugs, cups of tea, words of encouragement, and thoughtful manuscript commentary. Also, to our sons, Jamie and Alex, who provide so much joy and motivation, even on the worst writing days.

  An immense amount of gratitude to my parents, Janine and Michael, and my grandmother, Jane, for nurturing my imagination, cheering me on, and always being willing to listen to my stories.

  And to Diane Alder, the wonderful teacher who encouraged a shy eleven-year-old girl to write. I still remember her saying, with certainty, that I’d be published one day. It’s teachers like her that can really make a difference in a child’s life.

  To the team that brought this book to the world: Steven, my agent, whose unfailing good cheer, encouragement, and persistence is truly astonishing. Faith, my editor extraordinaire, who championed this book and knew just what to do to make it better. Melissa, Madeline, Ashley, and the rest of the team at Alcove Press, who made my introduction to the publishing world such a joyous one. I thank you all, from the bottom of my heart.

  And finally, I would be most remiss if I didn’t raise a glass to the incomparable Miss Austen, whose thoughtful, funny, touching stories continue to enthrall and inspire readers and writers to this day. Without her, and without everyone else mentioned here, this book would not have been possible.

  Chapter One

  Going … Going … Gone

  “So, this is it.”

  Susan cringes inwardly at her own words, which seem as flaccid and tasteless as raw squid. Before her stand over forty people now looking for work, and all she can say is “This is it”?

  They deserve better. She wishes she could offer more, but there is no more. Elliot’s Regent Street, the jewel in the crown of Napier Hospitality, is going out of business, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. And Susan certainly tried. She’d fought—dug her nails in, clung, clawed, pleaded, begged—but she’d been too late to save it or any of the other Napier restaurants, which had shuttered one by one over the past two years. She watched, alarmed, as it happened. As her grandfather’s hard work gave way to waste, disaster, and ultimately bankruptcy. She pleaded with her father to let her step in, as her grandfather had always intended. It was why she’d gotten a business degree. It was why she—

  Well, best not to think about that. Not now, as a swarm of eyes stare her down. “I—we—my family—we want to thank you all for everything you’ve done,” she continues. “And to say that we’re so sorry it’s come to this. Believe me, if there was any other way …”

  It’s no use. They’re getting restless. They want to be off to one of their favorite haunts—maybe that slightly grubby place “with character” in Camden Town—to commiserate and reminisce and talk about who’s hiring.

  Susan wants to be off too. Put London, and all its failures and unhappy memories behind her. And she will—tomorrow. Tomorrow’s a new start for all of them. A last chance to save her grandfather’s legacy in the place it all began: Edinburgh.

  “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “It’s been a great pleasure working with all of you, and you’ll be missed.”

  She doubts she will be, despite having been on friendly terms with most of them. Now they look at her and only see the reason they’ll struggle to make rent for a while. The sense of misplaced failure weighs heavily on her.

  They all stare for a few long seconds. Waiting for some sign of what to do. What should she do? Dismiss them? That seems so arrogant. Her grandfather probably would have gone around the room and hugged each and every person, and they would have hugged him back and probably wiped away a few tears. But then, everyone loved Elliot. And he could hardly be blamed for any of this: he and Emily, his equally talented and hard-working wife, had built a good business, a solid, well-respected one. Spent their whole lives at it and died thinking it would be in good hands. Susan’s hands. But she was too young when he died, and her life too complicated. And so it wound up going to her father’s old school chum instead.

  “It makes no sense for me to manage things. You know I’ve never had a head for this business—even my father said so,” Bernard had pointed out when the question of who would run the business first came up. “It’s better this way. Sozzy can manage. Why, he was secretary of the Plimsopps for three years when we were at school, and he was brilliant at it.”

  (Bernard Napier saw no difference between a school social club and a multimillion-pound restaurant empire because he was equally uninvolved in running both.)

  But Sozzy hadn’t managed. All he had managed to do was escape at just the right time. He took early retirement (with full pension, of course) just as things went downhill. And now he’s living it up in a villa in the south of France, immune to the rot he planted in the business he’d been responsible for.

  It’s Susan who faces the carnage now. Who tries to make this a dignified ending for their former employees. She isn’t the cause, but she’s the face of the failure, and their resentment creeps toward her like a chilly mist. It wraps around her, and she shivers.

  The sommelier is the first to sense that there’s nothing more to be said, and he turns without a word, heading for the door. The others take their cue and follow. In five minutes, Susan is left alone.

  The stillness of the place! She’s never been here when it’s been empty. There have always been people in Elliot’s. Loads of people! In the dining room, those who enjoyed looking down on their fellow man fought over tables on the grand mezzanine. In the kitchen, ambitious and talented comers pursued careers, knowing the cachet of the name would carry them far (“Oh, you trained at Elliot’s. Well, well, let’s see what we can do …”). They filled the place up with their clatter and their chatter.

  But then, just like that, they were gone. A recession makes you think twice about paying more than two hundred pounds a head for dinner. Especially when what arrives on the plate is not at all what you expected.

  Susan douses the lights, room by room. Farewell, gleaming kitchen, with your mirror-shine, stainless-steel tables and massive ovens, now unnaturally still and cold. Goodbye, dining room, the site of countless big-business deals, budding romances, and damaging affairs. So long, bar, where dozens of bankers gathered as the hammer came down, wondering if their employer—or they themselves—would go next. Praying they were too big to fail. But is anyone really too big to fail? Once upon a time, they’d thought Elliot’s was safe, nestled in its reputational cocoon. But it doesn’t take much to ruin a great thing, does it?

  She pauses, taking one last look at the darkened dining room.

  I’m sorry, Granddad, Susan thinks as, with a sigh, she locks the door and turns her back on Regent Street forever.

  * * *

  She walks home, avoiding the rush-hour Tube. People squeezed like sausage meat into a subterranean metal casing—she won’t miss that. There is no Underground in Edinburgh. And it’s a small city: you can walk just about anywhere. That suits her down to the ground—she prefers walking. Her father, on the other hand …

  “I’m not selling the Aston Martin,” he informed her as she laid out the drastic plan necessary to save them from bankruptcy.

  “Dad, we need to cut back,” she insisted, not for the first time. With each repetition, it became harder to keep her voice even. “We’ve talked about this—no unnecessary expenses.”

  “A car is not unnecessary! How am I supposed to get around?”

  Susan hadn’t even bothere
d bringing up public transport. The mere notion probably would have killed him on the spot.

  At last, Kay intervened. “All right, Bernard, if it means that much to you, keep the Aston. But Julia’s car will have to go.”

  Julia gaped at her aunt. “That’s not fair!” she screeched.

  Bernard reached over and patted Julia’s hand. “Now, now, Julia, sacrifices must be made.”

  He listens to Kay because she’s famous and beautiful. Susan is neither—and so is ignored. She’d almost given up asking to take some role in the business, having been rebuffed so many times, but after Sozzy left, she and Kay joined forces.

  “Just think, Bernard, what a burden running the restaurant will be,” Kay coaxed. “Eighteen-hour days, all those decisions to make—you’ll get worry lines.”

  Bernard’s hand fluttered to his forehead in alarm.

  “Susan’s perfect for the job,” Kay continued. “She’s had years of management experience, and it was always the plan for her to take on the business. Let her take this load off your shoulders, Bernard. You’ve earned a good rest.”

  All the skills that won Kay two BAFTAs and four London Evening Standard Theatre Awards had gone into that little speech. And it worked. Bernard beamed, agreed that the business was a terrible burden, and all right, then, Susan could have it. Kay shot Susan a triumphant look over her brother-in-law’s head and later, as they said good night, hugged her tightly and whispered, “Make your mother proud, my dear.”

  And now they’re going north, where Susan will run the only Napier restaurant still holding its head above water: The original Elliot’s, on the Royal Mile. For financial reasons, it’s been decided that Susan’s father and her older sister, Julia, should go as well. Edinburgh’s not cheap, but it’s much more affordable than London.

  One last stand.

  A fresh start, Susan tells herself. It’s a relief, in many ways, to be leaving London.

  Her cozy flat has been sold along with the townhouse where Susan and her sisters grew up. There will be one last night there for her, Julia, and Bernard before Susan catches a morning flight, and her father and sister take a more leisurely trip by car.

  When Susan arrives at the house, she finds Julia watching movers wrap the last of their furniture in plastic and cushioned covers.

  “Be careful with that—it’s Chippendale!” Julia barks at one of them before turning to her sister. “How’d it go?”

  Susan shrugs. “It went. Like all the others.”

  “Unpleasant, but someone has to do it,” Julia sighs. “Nice of you to take it on. You know how uncomfortable Dad is with confrontation.”

  “Nice” had nothing to do with it. Susan had asked—or, rather, very strongly suggested—that her father come with her to address the staff today. But he just shook his head and said he couldn’t possibly, because he had so much to do ahead of the move and people he had to see and so many of the men at the club wanted to stand him one last drink … And so Susan stopped arguing about it, because it was useless and even if he did come, he’d probably just sulk and make it all worse.

  “Where is Dad? Still at the club?” Susan asks Julia.

  Julia shakes her head. “One last appointment with Dr. Keegan.”

  “To say his sad farewells, I’m sure.” Susan rolls her eyes. “He sees more of Dr. Keegan than he does of us.”

  “Now, now,” Julia murmurs, “you can’t blame him for wanting to look good. And he does. Keenan’s the best.”

  Bernard should look good, she thinks, considering what Keegan charges. He should look spectacular. His wrinkles should be filled with platinum. His face alone could have saved two restaurants.

  Just thinking about it ignites a hot little jet of anger in Susan’s chest. Her father could have done more. Done anything. Could, at least, have acknowledged that his idiotic friend caused this whole mess, with his insane expansion plans, disastrous cost-cutting attempts, and line of ready-meals that raised the blogosphere to new heights of poetic condemnation (“Excellent for those who find airplane food a little too posh and flavorful,” ran a particularly memorable one.).

  Susan would never have done any of that. And she would never have hired that dishwasher who turned out to be a journalist working on a story about unfair pay practices in high-end London restaurants. He got so much more than he expected because he also discovered that the organic, imported, Wagyu beef Elliot’s was selling at eye-watering prices wasn’t organic at all. Most of it wasn’t even beef. And then there were investigations and boycotts and petitions and reporters phoning constantly or turning up at the house, looking for a comment. Even Julia got tired of all the attention.

  But then, to be fair, Bernard himself admitted he had no sense for the business. And any work ethic he might have had was probably ruined by the incredible spoiling he received, growing up as the only child of successful parents who had both had to go without when they were children. Bernard was under no illusions about his abilities. It’s why he handed things over to his wife right after his father died. Things might have been all right if she hadn’t …

  I should have done more, Susan thinks. I should have fought harder all those years ago. Pulled myself out of my mess faster and stepped into Mum’s shoes before Sozzy ever got a chance.

  But there’s no use crying about it now.

  “Maybe I should have gone to Dr. Keegan too,” Julia frets, turning away from the movers and running her fingers over a cheek. “I swear all the strain is giving me worry lines.”

  “You’re fine,” Susan reassures her, trying to keep her voice bright. The salon Julia frequents is bad enough without piling on more Keegan fees. Though, like Keegan, the salon does a great job: you’d never guess Julia wasn’t a natural blonde. She’s forever after Susan to do something with her own hair, but Susan can’t be bothered to spend hours in foils at a salon. She’s content with her natural brown, which curls to her shoulders.

  Julia drops her hand from her cheek and goes back to watching the movers work. Susan notices her eyes flickering over the room, and the one adjoining it. Julia’s spent nearly a decade redoing this place. She started just after she climbed out of her alcoholic haze, following their mother’s death. Buying new rugs and curtains and paintings and ripping down wallpaper. Over and over, until there was nothing left of the home Susan once knew. “Can’t you leave anything alone?” Susan once implored, after seeing what her sister had done to Susan’s childhood bedroom.

  “We need change, Susan,” Julia responded. “I can’t bear to look at any of it anymore!”

  This house is Julia’s magnum opus, just as Regent Street was their grandfather’s, and now they’re losing it. Her grand project, handed off to strangers who will probably bring in a new decorator to undo it all.

  Susan sees her sister’s chest rise as she takes a deep, silent, steadying breath. She wraps an arm around Julia’s shoulders and gives her a quick squeeze. “You’re handling all this very well.”

  Julia shrugs. “Well, there’s no use making a fuss. Anyway, a change of scenery is good, right? Edinburgh’s on the up and up. And I’ll have a new house to do over.”

  Oh God. Susan cringes, thinking of the expense. And thinking about the new house.

  “A five-bedroom townhouse in the City Centre?” Susan screeched when Julia first told her about the purchase. “What were you thinking? We’re supposed to be cutting back! You were supposed to find a nice flat somewhere. What do we need five bedrooms for? There are only three of us.”

  “But we’ll have guests, Susan,” Julia responded in a voice that bit. “Well, you probably won’t,” she added.

  But now Susan puts aside her irritation and smiles thinly. “Right. So I’ll pick up the keys from the solicitor’s office, then?”

  “Yes, that’s right.” Julia side-eyes her, waiting for further judgment over the extravagance of the house. Susan keeps her face studiously neutral. She and Julia have to live together for the time being. Best to get started on the right
foot.

  “I’ve ordered you a takeaway from that place around the corner you like,” Julia continues, grimacing as the movers manhandle an Eames chair.

  “Thanks.” Susan isn’t hungry at all. The memory of those blank faces and the dead, empty restaurant still haunts her. She wishes her baking supplies weren’t already packed and sent ahead—this was just the time to make a batch of biscuits. Or, even better, bread. Something she could manhandle. “Are you having anything?”

  Julia recoils. “Do you know how much butter and oil they use in their food? No, thank you.” She turns back toward the movers. “Oh, for God’s sake, don’t you know what you’re doing? That’s an original.”

  Susan takes the opportunity to slip away. She goes to the kitchen and picks at the food for a while, listening to Julia scold the movers. When things start to quiet down, she heads upstairs to her old bedroom. It was a cheery, cozy room until Julia got her hands on it. Now the sunny quilt and daisy cushions sewn by their mother have been replaced with a commanding canopy bed and heavy toile curtains that match the bedspread. It feels like a hotel room, and Susan hates hotels. Thank God it’s only for one night.

  Her overnight bag sits on a chair, along with an old photo album she accidentally found in a pile of things Julia decided would be donated or thrown away.

  “You’re not getting rid of this!” she cried, incredulous, hugging the album to her chest, as if Julia might tear it away.

  Julia glanced over, shrugged, then quickly looked away. “Those pictures are ancient, Susan. And God, I look so fat in them!”

  Now, Susan flops onto the bed and flips the album open.

  The first several pages are pictures of her and her sisters as children. Splashing in the pool at that villa in Spain they used to have. Decked out in fancy dress—Julia in a big hat and fur stole of their grandmother’s, Margaret in a fairy princess costume, and Susan in a suit of armor she’d made out of cutup cardboard boxes and silver paint.