The Semi-Sweet Hereafter by Colette London

don’t want them worrying about me, do I? If they see me this way, they’ll think the worst. For now, let’s just muddle through.”
    I nodded. They call it a stiff upper lip for a reason, right? I figured British people were made of pretty stern stuff.
    â€œIf that’s what you want,” I agreed. “But if you change your mind, please let me know. I really do want to help.”
    Conspicuously, Phoebe perked up. I wanted to think it was because I’d arrived to keep her company. But it was something else entirely. Phoebe had an idea, I learned an instant later.
    â€œCould you make me a proper full English breakfast?” she asked with her eyes alight. “Fried bread, brown sauce, bangers, and all? I might even have some black pudding and mushrooms around here. I really fancy a fry-up. I haven’t eaten since—”
    She broke off. Since Jeremy died, was obviously what she’d been about to say. Tactfully, I nodded. I patted her arm.
    â€œAnyway.” Phoebe tossed her head imperiously. I could easily imagine her at boarding school somewhere, taking riding lessons and learning how to curtsy. “Jeremy quit making them for me after he started training and eating ‘clean.’ He wouldn’t so much as touch a fried potato or Primrose’s pastries.” She gave a moue of distress. “Once you’re past thirty, it’s all downhill, isn’t it? The pounds simply want to pile on, don’t they?”
    I was already rummaging in the enormous side-by-side refrigerator by then, looking for all the necessary supplies. Eggs, of course. A couple of rashers of back bacon. Sausage. One sad tomato—but that wouldn’t matter, since it would be broiled.
    Phoebe watched as I worked. She seemed pretty comfortable with her role as spectator. I experienced a flicker of concern about that, now that I’d taken on the role of her baking tutor.
    â€œDo you have any tinned beans?” I asked, searching.
    â€œOf course. Don’t we? Somewhere.” She gave an airy wave. “Amelja puts away all the groceries. Just don’t tell Liam.”
    Her giggle gave me pause. I wheeled around. “Liam?”
    â€œLiam Taylor. Jeremy’s personal trainer.” Phoebe gave an eager look at the tinned beans I’d found. A fry-up isn’t my cup of tea—I like the Euro approach to breakfast, with coffee and a slice of baguette or pastry—but Phoebe seemed over the moon at the prospect. “He explicitly forbade all processed foods for Jeremy. No tinned beans. I wonder how he’s dealing with—”
    She broke off on a sob, her eyes filling with tears.
    That was grief for you. Here one minute, gone the next. It was surreal to be discussing routine details when something so monumental as losing a husband had happened. But there we were.
    â€œI’ll check on Liam,” I volunteered. “Don’t you worry.”
    For a moment, Phoebe sharpened. “I’m not paying you extra. Just your agreed-upon consultation fee. For Primrose, not me. You know that, don’t you? If you think this is some sort of—”
    â€œOf course not.” I smiled at her. “I only want to help.”
    A moment passed. Very faintly, I heard the members of the media outside, shouting to the fans who’d gathered. I wondered what Phoebe thought of the world’s adoration of Jeremy. Did it comfort her? Did she resent sharing his memory? Or did she have a reaction I couldn’t even guess at? After all, I’ve never been married. I’ve had three ex-fiancés, but that’s it for me.
    â€œIn that case, I’ll lend you Jeremy’s cell phone.” Phoebe settled in at the peninsula, arranging her lithe frame onto one of the expensive-looking stools. “You can find whatever you need on that thing. DC Mishra gave it to me, not long after they—”
    Processed his body. That’s how the detective