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 becaus
e 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.
SAUCY ASSISTANT TELLS ALL ABOUT NAUGHTY JEREMY! SEXY PARTIES! SHOCKING SECRETS! SCANDALS YOU WON’T BELIEVE ARE TRUE! FIND 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?”
The venom in her tone startled me. “Claire?”
“Jeremy’s agent. She was afraid of losing his income. Then she lost him altogether.” A tiny smile quirked Phoebe’s lips, as though she’d just discovered the sole upside of her husband’s death: it had inconvenienced his agent. “I suppose now Claire is sitting pretty with Nicola for a client. She didn’t even wait for Jeremy’s body to be cold before chasing the deal, that cow.”
I was so surprised to hear sophisticated Phoebe use that slur that I almost laughed. But I kept my composure instead.
I still had questions. I couldn’t wait to ask them. Delicately, I glanced toward the paper, wishing I’d read it from front to back before arriving for Phoebe’s tutoring session.
In a careful voice, I asked, “What scandals were there?”
SEX! SECRETS! The tabloid had promised outrage aplenty.
Phoebe tossed me a patrician look. “I will not dignify that with a response, Hayden. You’re better than that, aren’t you?”
I felt chastised. But I was still dying of curiosity. Exactly what, I wondered, did Jeremy’s former assistant know about him?
A quick perusal of the article over Phoebe’s shoulder told me the cover story had been a teaser, revealing only that “sex, secrets, and scandals!” would be forthcoming in Nicola’s book.
Exactly when, I wondered further, had Claire—Jeremy’s agent—put together that deal? Before Jeremy’s death? Or after?
The timing made a difference—and might make Claire a suspect, depending on how lucrative the publishing contract had been. A sensational tell-all book was one thing; a sensational tell-all book about a beloved celebrity after his untimely death was another. Surely those circumstances would improve sales.
Enough to prompt a convenient murder? Maybe.
How long, I mused, had Nicola been writing her book? She would have naturally run into Claire while working for Jeremy, so making a connection with his agent wouldn’t have been difficult. After that, all Nicola would have needed was material—an exposé enticing enough to fuel a deal.
It would have had to have been a real doozy of a deal to make Claire risk alienating Jeremy, her biggest client.
Claire had to be listed in Jeremy’s phone. I still had it. I could call her right now. But what would I use for an excuse?
I’d like an advance copy of Nicola’s book probably wouldn’t fly. But at least, it occurred to me, I knew why Jeremy’s former assistant hadn’t jumped on my job offer at the café.
Nicola hadn’t needed another lowly assistant or server job. She hadn’t had to put up with abuse or being unceremoniously sacked. Not when she’d had a publishing contract on the table.
I had to find out more. But first, I had to get free.
“Well, shall we get baking?” I asked brightly.
Phoebe looked astounded. “After this? Are you mad?” She grabbed her cell phone. “I need to make some calls, don’t I?”
Then, just as I’d hoped, she vanished into her town house’s private salon, talking in hushed but horrified tones to whoever was on the other end of the line. I heard a raving mention of “that skank!” then made my getaway to the guesthouse.
Clearly, there’d been no love lost between Phoebe, Claire, and (maybe) Nicola. It was up to me to find out why. Stat.
Eight
Claire Evans proved to be the easiest person to start with. Jeremy’s agent was so eager to bask in the limelight that she agreed to meet with me right away, largely because I’d anticipated her urge to make the most of the publicity garnered by Nicola’s tell-all book and had suggested that we meet at one of London’s most visible spots: a ritzy hotel at teatime.
Claire hadn’t been able to resist being seen in such a prominent spot, which was how we’d come to be seated across from one another in a glorious nineteenth-century hotel tearoom. We made small talk across the starched tablecloth while mirrored walls, ornate birdcage chandeliers, tall potted palms, rococo columns, and the occasional gilded statue surrounded us.
A pianist played in the background. The tearoom’s windows were arched and resplendent, accented with silk shantung draperies and golden-fringed tiebacks. The floors were polished marble. Fresh flowers were everywhere. The upholstery fabric for a single chair probably cost more than my entire wardrobe.
It was fancy. It was popular, too, full of tea takers.
I know what you must be thinking. That I, ordinary Hayden Mundy Moore, couldn’t possibly clean up sufficiently to fit into such a swanky atmosphere. But I’m here to tell you that my lifetime of globe-trotting has made me into a chameleon. I don’t like to blend in, but I’m perfectly capable of it.
Just as I know not to totter in shaky stilettos on Parisian cobblestones or wear a skimpy miniskirt into the Basilica San Marco in Venice, I knew better than to turn up to London’s afternoon tea in jeans and a T-shirt, with kitchen clogs on my feet and my hair in a baker’s bandanna. I knew to actually comb my hair and put on some lipstick, even though my usual makeup routine doesn’t extend beyond much lip gloss
and (maybe) mascara. I knew to put on a dress and some nice shoes, too.
Okay, so they weren’t sky-high L. K. Bennett heels of the variety Phoebe and her friends favored. I would have broken my neck in those. I like to move quickly, besides. But I’d managed well enough, in my knee-length dress and ballerina flats, to make Danny do a very satisfying double take on my way out.
I’d done a pirouette, to extend the experience. He’d offered up a low wolf whistle, to meet my expectations.
“You clean up nice,” he’d said, “for someone who’s willing to rake cacao beans on a planation in overalls and a hat.”
“Don’t lose track of me, just because I look different.”
“It’ll take more than a dress and some lipstick to throw me off,” Danny had assured me, his expression opaque. Naturally, he’d insisted on following me to my meeting. “Let’s move.”
I wasn’t sure where he had “moved” to since then. I couldn’t see him anywhere at the hotel. He’d declined to put on a suit and invite Ashley to tea as a cover for shadowing me. Instead, Danny had greeted that perfectly reasonable suggestion with a dark arched eyebrow and a firmly voiced, “No way in hell.”
At his look of horror, I’d almost laughed.
As the pianist’s song ended, a momentary quiet settled over the tearoom. I looked at Claire Evans, then continued with my excuse for asking to meet her: a (made-up) book of my own.
“I envision the book to be an exposé of the chocolate world,” I told her. “Like any luxury industry, chocolate making has its share of drama and intrigue, machinations and secrets. I’ve seen them all during my career. It’s time to share.”
“Why here? Why now?” Shrewd and tweedy, with her gray hair perfectly coiffed, Claire was in her sixties and hard to fool. She reminded me of a fast-forwarded version of London’s “Sloane Rangers,” girls who’d dressed in pearls, pashmina, and preppy clothes in the ’80s. These days, the Duchess of Cambridge, Kate Middleton, was their goddess, with her wellies and gilets. “Why not contact someone you’re familiar with in America?”
The Semi-Sweet Hereafter Page 11
