Rich As Sin. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ Paul. It’s not like that. I just do the catering, that’s all. It’s what I do, Mum. What do you think running a café is all about?’

      ‘The café’s yours—or you pay the lease, anyway, thanks to that insurance your grandmother left you.’

      ‘And I’ll still be running the café, as well as providing a catering service for anyone who can afford me.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Mrs Maxwell didn’t sound impressed. ‘And do they know—these friends of Jenny’s, I mean—that you’re not a professional caterer?’

      ‘I am a professional caterer.’

      ‘I don’t think a night school diploma is the same as real professional experience,’ persisted her mother. ‘They probably think you’ve worked in some top London restaurant. I wonder what they’d say if they saw the Honey Pot?’

      ‘I don’t particularly care,’ exclaimed Samantha, pushing her barely touched plate aside. ‘But thanks for your support. It’s what I really needed. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll go and take a shower.’

      Mrs Maxwell sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, as her daughter got up from the table. ‘Perhaps I was a little harsh. But I worry about you, Sam, I do honestly. Don’t you think you have enough on, running the café practically single-handed, without taking on more work, to add to the burden?’

      Samantha hesitated. ‘It doesn’t occur to you that I’m going to be paid far more for the catering than I’ll ever earn in the café, does it? I don’t want to give up the café. I want to improve it. And, if I’m successful, I may be able to afford a full-time cook to work in the kitchen. That way, we could expand the menu, both for the café and the catering service.’

      Her mother frowned. ‘Well, what does Paul say?’

      ‘Paul just wants me to go on running the café until we get married. Then—who knows? I don’t think he envisages me continuing with my career much beyond the first year.’

      Mrs Maxwell sighed. ‘Well, that doesn’t sound unreasonable to me. And, after all, until you met Jennifer Greg—Spellman again, you seemed happy enough doing what you were doing. Then she tells you she’s giving a dinner party, and that her caterers have let her down at the last minute, and before we know it you’re dashing off to London, and getting these big ideas.’

      ‘Mum, the dinner party was a huge success! Everyone said so. And, believe it or not, good caterers are worth their weight in gold to these people. Times are changing. The days when people could afford to employ a full-time cook are long-gone. Besides, people don’t want to do that kind of work nowadays; not for someone else, anyway,’ she added hastily. ‘That’s why people like me are in such demand. We come in, we cook the meal, and we go away again. And it’s much more intimate than taking your guests to a restaurant.’

      Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘All the same, I don’t think even you imagined what would happen?’

      ‘The phone calls, you mean?’ Samantha gave a rueful smile. ‘No, I didn’t. But isn’t it exciting? I could probably work every night of the week, if I wanted.’

      ‘But you’re not going to?’ Her mother looked alarmed.

      ‘No, I’ve told you.’ Samantha paused. ‘To begin with, I’m only going to take on one, maybe two nights’ work in any week. Then, we’ll see how it goes. At the moment, all I want to think about is next Tuesday’s engagement party.’

      ‘In Mayfair.’

      ‘Well, it’s Belgravia, actually,’ said Samantha evenly. ‘But yes. It’s in the West End. Apparently the female half of the happy couple is a friend of Jenny’s. And they’re having the party at her fiancé’s house.’

      Mrs Maxwell shook her head. ‘Well, you watch out, Sam. These people aren’t like us, you know, and you being an attractive girl and everything—just watch your step.’

      Samantha smiled. ‘Yes, Mum.’

      ‘Well, you can laugh. But it’s true. Some people think money can buy anything.’

      Samantha’s expression softened. ‘I know,’ she said, recognising her mother’s very real fears on her behalf. ‘But I am twenty-four, you know. I know what I’m doing.’

      After popping her head round the living-room door to offer a belated greeting to her father and her younger sister Penny, Samantha trudged up the stairs to her room. She was tired. She freely admitted it. But it was more a mental tiredness, born of the arguments she had had with both Paul and her mother, than any physical weakness on her part. It was so hard to make them understand how she felt about this latest development in her career. When she left university, it was true, she had no serious plans for her future. Oh, she had always liked messing about in the kitchen, and trying new recipes on the family, but she had just regarded that as a hobby, until her father had put the idea of starting a sandwich-round into her head.

      As the manager of a jeweller’s in the High Street, Mr Maxwell had got into the habit of going into the local pub for a sandwich at lunchtime, but, as he said, he didn’t always want the beer that went with it. He had encouraged Samantha when she had put forward her idea of using her car to deliver home-made sandwiches all over town, and Paul’s offer of the lease on what had previously been a rather sleazy café had just been an extension of that. She had still provided sandwiches, but her clients had had to come to her for them, and pretty soon she had branched out into quiches, and salads, and home-made cakes and scones. The Honey Pot had taken off, and during the past two years it had gone from strength to strength. She even employed a full-time assistant now, and her account books were beginning to show a healthy profit. But this latest development was something else, and it was hard to be enthusiastic when everyone else thought she was getting out of her depth.

      Standing in the shower, she avoided looking at her reflection in the walls of the Perspex stall. She was half afraid of what she might see in the dark-fringed depths of her eyes, eyes that could change from green to grey, according to her mood. Was she being too ambitious? she wondered, scooping gel from the bottle and lathering her damp hair. Was that what Paul was afraid of? She had never thought of herself as being so, but she couldn’t deny she was excited. She would have to think of a name for the new service, she thought, determinedly putting all negative thoughts aside. Not the Honey Pot again. That belonged to the café. So how about ‘Honey Homemaker’, just to keep the connection?

      The buffet looked perfect, even if Samantha had had a few small set-backs at the beginning. Finding that one of the smoked salmon mousses had lost its shape on the journey had been a minor disaster, but happily she had prepared more than she needed, and that obstacle had been overcome.

      Then Miss Mainwaring, her employer’s fiancée, had thrown a paddy because there was no caviare. A buffet wasn’t a buffet without caviare, she had exclaimed, and it had taken a great deal of effort on her fiancé’s behalf to persuade her that it really wasn’t important.

      He had been nice, Samantha reflected, as she gathered her belongings together, preparatory to leaving. A prince, moreover, although his title wasn’t one she was familiar with. But then, she wasn’t familiar with these people at all, she acknowledged ruefully. A fact that had been made clear to her by Melissa Mainwaring’s biting tongue.

      All the same, it had been an edifying experience, and she had learned one or two salutory lessons. She had discovered, for instance, that it was far harder to organise a buffet СКАЧАТЬ