The Semi-Sweet Hereafter (10 page)

“Don't let Jeremy's physical trainer get you alone,” Travis warned in a gravely, slightly warmer voice. “Just in case.”

“You sound like Danny. He doesn't trust anybody.”

“Neither should you.”

I ducked into a bricked alcove. “I trust you.”

The sound of typing stopped. I imagined Travis lit by the golden glow of an old-fashioned desk lamp, his face . . .

Humph. That was where I drew a blank. I've never met Travis, remember? I've never so much as seen a photograph of my notoriously private financial adviser. I knew he was blond. He'd told me so once. I knew he was brilliant and fond of suits.

“Next time,” Travis told me, “trust me sooner.”

Then he informed me of a few more financial and legal details about Phoebe, Primrose chocolaterie-pâtisserie, and my consultation, asked me who I wanted him to check next (Nicola, Hugh, and Liam topped the list), and told me good-bye.

I didn't want to hang up. “It's not even teatime here.”

Finally, I heard a smile sneak into his voice. Hurrah. “Have a cup of tea for me later. Earl Grey. Hot. No sugar.”

I smiled too. “Are you a
Star Trek
fan, Travis?”

I wasn't a particular aficionada. But almost everyone has seen those clips of Captain Picard ordering his favorite drink.

Travis didn't indulge me. “You're trying to keep me on the phone. You know better than that. We both have work to do.”

“You always have work to do. Humor me. I want to talk.”

More than that, I wanted to make sure things were okay between us. I wished I hadn't accidentally upset Travis.

“You know you're just going to go reconcile some accounts or something,” I pushed. “What's a few more minutes?”

He paused. “Who says I'm not doing something fun?”

“You never worry about fun. Just numbers. And facts.”

Travis laughed. “There's a lot you don't know about me, Hayden. I'm hanging up now. Keep me in the loop from now on.”

I promised I would. But I suspected the tail end of my declaration wound up vanishing somewhere over the Atlantic.

Travis was a hard man to know, I reflected as I hung up and headed back to Jeremy's restaurant to join Danny. In some ways, my supersmart financial adviser was even more cryptic than Danny.

On the other hand . . . sometimes Danny was pretty up front about things, I saw as I reentered the hectic
osteria
and saw him at our table. From somewhere, he'd procured a beer, a cheese plate, and a flirtatious server's phone number. My pudding was still there; his sat ignored on the table with a single bite gone.

Some things would never change. But a few other things might. I shook off the memory of Travis's phone call and went to rejoin my friend. It was time to move forward. For Jeremy.

* * *

Moving forward wasn't easy. Not in any sense.

Not for me, and not (as it turned out) for Phoebe Wright, either. That much became clear the following sunny afternoon, when I joined my current consultee (and brand-new student) for our very first lesson in traditional British cookery.

It should have been easy. We couldn't have been more stocked with state-of-the-art equipment or (thanks to Amelja) all the necessary baking supplies. But Phoebe and I struggled from the get-go, from deciding what to bake first to staying focused on our lessons to figuring out what to wear.

Phoebe eyed the apron I offered with dismay. “That won't be necessary, will it? Not for me.” She waved. “You go ahead.”

If this was indicative of her usual level of cooperativeness, I was concerned. “You'll want to protect your clothes. Baking is messy business.” I gave her an encouraging smile. “At least it is when done properly. Flour everywhere!”

“I will
not
appear on television dressed in
that.”

She sniffed, indicating that the subject was now closed. I was reminded that Phoebe probably hadn't encountered much adversity in her privileged life. Born wealthy, educated well, welcomed into every exclusive circle, just by virtue of birth . . .

I couldn't imagine what that was like. It made me wonder how Phoebe and Jeremy had ever gotten together—or gotten along.

But maybe I was the only one who butted heads with the Honourable, etc. Maybe Jeremy had given his wife everything she wanted, including his own sex appeal and street credibility.

What I'm saying is, on her own, Phoebe was pretty starchy.

“What are you going to wear, then?” I envisioned pearls.

An airy wave. “A friend of mine is whipping up something.”

She meant something couture. Made to measure. Expensive.

Of course. “Besides, these are my running-around clothes.”

“Okay, well . . .” I examined her outfit—perfectly fitted trousers, another silk shirt, fashionable high-heeled sandals, and gobs of jewelry. She looked outfitted for a dinner date, not baking. “If you're happy, I'm happy. So, what do you plan to make?”

“On television?” Phoebe blinked. “Well, it's got to be something traditional, doesn't it? That's what they asked for.”

“Do you know the producers?” Maybe they would cut her some slack. Baked goods for TV were usually premade, then stashed beneath a counter for the big reveal. She wouldn't really have to bake something from start to finish, but she would have to appear competent. “Are they the same crew who did Jeremy's show?”

She narrowed her eyes. “I'm more than Jeremy's wife. You can't possibly believe I was only asked because of him.”

“No! Of course not.” I held out my palms, wary of offending her. “I was only thinking that maybe they would let you talk about traditional British baking, rather than demonstrate it.”

Phoebe's cheeks flushed. Uh-oh. “Look, Hayden. You're here to help me, aren't you? So if you aren't up to that task—”

“I am. No worries.” Proving as much, I put on my own apron, then surveyed the deluxe kitchen. “You mentioned Eton mess and Victoria sponge the other day. What else did you have in mind?”

“Well, they have to be chocolate versions of those things, don't they?” Phoebe pursed her lips, then stared at the ceiling in thought. “Perhaps a Bakewell tart? Or sticky toffee pudding?”

Those were classic British desserts. I could have rattled them off more quickly, and I'm not even British. I realized that Phoebe hadn't given this subject a morsel of thought since we'd last spoken. Of course, she had a very valid excuse for that.

I remembered she was a widow now, and softened my tone.

“Why don't you have a go at making the Eton mess?” I suggested. “I'll look on to get a sense of your abilities.”

“I
don't
want critiques.” Phoebe's face swiveled toward me. “I got loads of critiques in the press when Primrose opened, and they didn't do a whit of good, did they?” She gave a headshake. “No. Those people didn't know what they were talking about.”

“I would never critique
you,”
I explained gently, startled by her defensiveness—and wondering about Primrose's turnaround. I hadn't known the chocolaterie-pâtisserie had ever struggled before now. “It's possible your technique would need adjusting, but that's not the same as criticizing
you,
personally.”

“I
am
what I do, just the way I
am
Primrose,” Phoebe told me crisply. “The shop and I are synonymous, aren't they? My investors didn't join in just because my chocolaterie-pâtisserie is well situated and serves good biscuits. They wanted
me.
”

She had a point, of course. In today's world, people
are
their brands—especially famous people. Celebrities' images draw us to trust them, to emulate them, to want to be like them.

But I thought she was overstating her power to persuade.

“Of course. But no one expects
you
to be in the shop, day after day, serving customers and making cakes, do they?”

My attempt at conciliation earned another frosty glare. “I
am
in the shop day after day. You've seen me there yourself.”

Since I'd been in London consulting for her, Phoebe had been “in the shop” for exactly fifteen minutes, I knew, three times a week, in the time slot following her favorite yoga class.

That was her schedule. She'd never once deviated from it. She couldn't stay any longer and risk letting the staff know how little expertise she truly had with chocolates and baked goods.

“Let's be real, Phoebe. Everyone knows who you are. You're not expected to be at Primrose, ruining your manicure, making dulce de leche cupcakes and peppermint white chocolate bark. You don't have to be Gemma Rose,” I assured her, giving her a level look as I named Britain's most famous domestic doyenne. If the U.K. had had a sexy, seductive, finger-licking-good Martha Stewart—one who looked hot in a bikini and moaned with pleasure while tasting her own baked goods—it would have been Gemma Rose. “The world already has Gemma Rose.
You
should be yourself.”

“I am far better than that tart Gemma Rose.”

“I agree.” I smiled. “So let's show the world!”

“Yes! Let's!” Improbably rallied, Phoebe put on her apron. She surveyed the countertop full of goods like a field general. Her eyes glowed with enthusiasm. “What do we do first, Hayden?”

Unexpected, right? Not to me. I've worked with a lot of mega-successful people, from CEOs to world-famous chefs and more. One thing the truly accomplished have in common is that they hate to be bored. But they hate being doubted even more.

I thought Phoebe was bored. She needed a kick in the pants.

I hadn't wanted to administer it, given the hard time she'd been having since Jeremy's death. But the clock was ticking.

That show on the telly wouldn't wait. Or reschedule. Frankly, getting Phoebe on TV was more of a “get” than ever. Since seeing Primrose thrive was my mission—and a successful TV appearance from Phoebe could help with that—I had to improvise.

“Why don't you start with the Eton mess?” I urged in a light tone. “What's your plan to incorporate chocolate into it?”

Typically, Eton mess was composed of layered strawberries, cream, and airy meringues, so named because it was traditionally served at Eton College during their annual cricket game against Harrow School. I could think of several ways to give Eton mess the chocolate-whisperer treatment, from adding a dollop of chocolate ganache to making the whipped cream cocoa flavored to folding chopped semi-sweet chocolate into the crispy meringues.

Phoebe's eyes were alight. “I thought I'd sprinkle chocolate shavings on top. That will be moreish, won't it?”

“Moreish” was U.K. speak for “wanting to eat more,” aka tasty. It was a small change, but... “Let's try it and find out.”

She rightly sensed I wasn't satisfied. “I could dip some of the strawberries in chocolate couverture, too. Scrumptious!”

She was thinking small. “Okay. Let's get started.”

Phoebe pouted. “Oughtn't we brainstorm a while first?”

“I usually find that taking action gets the best results.”

By which I really meant,
you've got to start somewhere.
Talking wasn't doing. Only
doing
would prepare her to succeed.

But Phoebe had already gotten her fill of tutoring. She gazed past me, her demeanor tense. I didn't understand. Yes, some very sensitive people assumed that anything less than a standing ovation meant condemnation of their ideas, but . . .

I realized that Phoebe wasn't sulking. She was staring at one of the free tabloid newspapers I'd picked up that morning during my usual rounds. I'd folded it to keep its sensational contents mostly private in my tote bag, but it had somehow loosened itself during my walk home to the guesthouse—and my chat with Mr. Barclay, who was still threatening to sue to gain himself some peace and quiet in the neighborhood. Apparently, he was not a fan of the Wrights' basement expansion plans, either.

Slowly, Phoebe strode toward my bag and the paper, her hand outstretched like a ghost's. She blinked. “Is that
Nicola?
”

In the nanosecond before she grabbed the paper, I realized it was. I also spotted the headline that I'd overlooked earlier.

S
AUCY
A
SSISTANT
T
ELLS
A
LL
A
BOUT
N
AUGHTY
J
EREMY!
S
EXY
P
ARTIES!
S
HOCKING
S
ECRETS!
S
CANDALS
Y
OU
W
ON'T
B
ELIEVE
A
RE
T
RUE!
F
IND OUT MORE ON PAGE 10
.

Both of us stared at it. A feeling of dawning disbelief stole over me, mingling with queasiness. Maybe the “clean” juice I'd tried for breakfast—full of beets, ginger, and kale—hadn't set properly with me. I felt new commiseration for Jeremy.

Phoebe was already turning the tabloid's pages. “She's writing a tell-all book!” Her face drained of color. Her fingers shook, making the paper rattle slightly. “She's going to be on television on the same morning I'm going to be on television!”

I couldn't tell if Phoebe was upset about Nicola's book or their shared TV spot. It could have been either. Or both.

“This is Claire's doing, isn't it?” Phoebe ranted, pacing elegantly with the newspaper in hand. “That bitch! I guess she's recouped all her ‘lost' money from Jeremy now, hasn't she?”