The Semi-Sweet Hereafter by Colette London Page B

I’d experienced the latter last year.
    â€œI thought I’d made it. I truly did,” Nicola confided. “I was underemployed as it was, with my degree. I didn’t want to deal with hungry, demanding customers for years to come.”
    I nodded, understanding. I’ve held my share of ordinary jobs all over the world. Before embarking on chocolate whispering, for instance, I’d worked for a while at a café near the Leidseplein in Amsterdam. I understood Nicola’s position.
    Just as in America, the youth of Europe tend to be underemployed or even unemployed. Economies are tough all over.
    â€œBut the joke was on me.” Nicola slurped her frappé. “I wound up dealing with hungry, demanding Jeremy instead.”
    I winced at the force of her irritation. First cranky Mr. Barclay, now irate Nicola Mitchell. Jeremy Wright had definitely rubbed a few people the wrong way. Not everyone would be lining up outside one of Jeremy’s restaurants with tears and a candle.
    â€œWell, all successful people tend to be demanding,” I said.
    â€œNot like Jeremy.” Nicola scowled at her plated cookie, then bit into it. She chewed with relish. “Sure, he seemed nice. He played that ‘Essex boy makes good’ business for all it was worth, too, believe me. He loved being England’s ‘sexy chef.’ He loved being asked for autographs whenever he stepped outside.”
    I thought of the tabloid press assembled outside the Wrights’ town house. Jeremy might have loved all the attention.
    â€œWhat he didn’t love was being contradicted. Or being reminded he’d forgotten something. Or being corrected.” Nicola shook her head. “That’s what ultimately got me sacked. Can you believe it? I had the temerity to point out that Jeremy had made a mistake on the inscription he’d written for a donation to his charity. He completely flew into a rage. I thought he was going to smack me! He was screaming. Red-faced. I ran for my life! That’s why I didn’t have my phone with me. Or anything else.”
    Her tone was dramatic. But maybe it was called for.
    Nobody liked being fired (“sacked,” in U.K. vernacular), especially in such a dramatic way. Apparently, Jeremy had calmed down afterward—at least enough to collect all Nicola’s things for her—but they’d obviously never had a chance to reconcile.
    â€œSounds scary,” I said. “Jeremy had a temper, then?”
    â€œIt was terrifying! And yes, he did,” Nicola divulged, clenching her fork. If Jeremy had suffered multiple tiny stab wounds, I would have thought Nicola could have been the killer. She was definitely carrying a grudge. “Jeremy wasn’t as posh as he wanted to seem, despite being married to Phoebe and all. Underneath his swanky clothes and nice hair, he was a brute. You know he grew up on a council estate in East London, right?”
    I did. I nodded. If you’re not familiar, a “council estate” is what public housing is called in the U.K. It sounds much fancier than it typically is. The upshot was, Jeremy came from a wrong-side-of-the-tracks background . . . and maybe hadn’t left all of his more combative instincts behind him. That didn’t bother me as much as it might have, though. Danny was very similar.
    â€œThat’s where Jeremy’s charity is based,” Nicola informed me as she put down her stabbing fork and unwrapped her biscotti instead. She seemed resentful. Also, in need of a commiserating ear. Fortunately, I have a knack for listening. People tend to open up to me. “It’s supposed to help show less fortunate kids that they can make it out of the old neighborhood, too, just the way Jeremy did.” She rolled her eyes. “Those dumb kids idolized him. Or maybe they just wanted a shot at one of his restaurant apprenticeships. Those were pretty lucrative.”
    â€œAn apprenticeship