Rich As Sin

‘Catering—for people who don’t have the time, or the inclination, to do it themselves.’

‘As I said, playing housewife in other people’s kitchens.’

‘If you want to put it that way.’ Samantha was growing tired of the argument. She looked reflectively around the empty café, with its Austrian blinds and gingham tablecloths. ‘I’d have thought you’d be glad I was making such a success of the business. After all, it was your idea that I open this place.’

‘Yes. Because you didn’t know what you wanted to do, when you left university, and the lease was available. If you hadn’t voiced some crazy notion of starting a sandwich-round, I doubt if I’d have suggested it.’

‘But you did,’ Samantha reminded him, straightening a silver condiment set, and adjusting a fan of scarlet napkins. ‘And I’m very grateful to you. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. Only—well, Mum and Dad were keen that I went to university, and they’d worked so hard to send me there, I couldn’t disappoint them. I’m not sorry I went. It taught me a lot. Not least, what my priorities are, and what I hope to achieve.’

‘Success in business!’ Paul shook his head. ‘And all this time I thought you wanted to marry me.’

‘I do.’ Samantha turned to him then, her honey-pale features taut with worry. ‘But it’s not the only objective in my life. I need a career, Paul. I really do.’

Paul sighed. ‘And you think branching out into personal catering is the answer?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t done enough of it yet to find out. But meeting Jenny like that was a godsend. And the contacts I made at her dinner party are priceless!’

‘But they’re all in the West End! I don’t like the idea of you driving all that way home in the dark!’

‘Oh, Paul!’ Samantha tilted her head to one side, and then, abandoning her defensive stance, she crossed to where he was sitting, and perched on his lap. ‘You don’t have to worry about my safety. I’m a perfectly good driver, and in any case the nights are getting lighter.’

‘And what happens when the winter comes again?’ persisted Paul, though he had softened sufficiently to nuzzle her neck with his lips. ‘Still, we’ll be married by then, won’t we? You’ll have more than your hands full looking after me.’

‘Mmm.’

Samantha’s response was doubtful, but Paul was too busy nibbling her ear to notice. Nevertheless, when his hand moved to the buttoned fastening of her shirt, she stopped him. It wasn’t that she didn’t love Paul; she did. But, unlike him, she couldn’t switch moods so completely. And she didn’t share his willingness to use sex to mend their differences.

‘Hey—–’

Her protective grip on the lapels of her shirt brought a grunt of protest, but Samantha slid lightly off his knee, and adopted a rueful smile.

‘Do you realise what time it is?’ she exclaimed, running a nervous palm down the seam of her neat black skirt. ‘I’ve got to call at the wholesaler’s before I go home, and if I don’t hurry they’ll be closed before I get there.’

Paul regarded her dourly for a moment and then, as if controlling his impatience, he rose obediently to his feet. He was a tall man, solid and handsome, in a blond, Nordic sort of way. He liked outdoor activities, and played rugby regularly, which accounted for his rather stolid appearance. He liked to think he was very fit, though Samantha knew he sank rather too many beers in the clubhouse after the match to be in really good shape. Nevertheless, he was kind, and fairly even-tempered, and extremely loyal. And Samantha had known him for over six years, ever since they first got to know one another at the local sixth-form college.

‘You know,’ he said now, taking a strand of her hair between his thumb and forefinger, and smoothing out its curl, and Samantha’s heart sank. ‘I must be the only man in Northfleet whose girlfriend is still a virgin. Whose fiancée is still a virgin,’ he corrected himself heavily. ‘Am I going to have to wait until our wedding night, Sam? Is that why you won’t let me touch you?’

Samantha suppressed an inward groan, and reached for her jacket, which had been lying over the back of a nearby chair. ‘I do let you touch me,’ she protested, wishing Paul hadn’t chosen this minute to start another conversation about their relationship. ‘But we’ve only been engaged for a little over a month. Give me time. Let me get used to the idea.’

Paul’s mouth tightened. ‘I could say that you shouldn’t have to “get used” to the idea,’ he retorted, with rather more heat. ‘For God’s sake, Sam, it’s almost the twenty-first century! As you’re so fond of reminding me, women want to be equal with men!’

‘Intellectually equal, not sexually,’ she countered, pushing her arms into the sleeves of her jacket. Her nail caught on the lining as she did so, and she emitted a sharp gasp of frustration. ‘Not now, Paul, please. I’m simply not in the mood.’

‘Sometimes I wonder if you ever will be,’ he muttered, and although she had only heard the tone of his mumbled protest Samantha swung round.

‘What?’

‘Forget it.’ Paul wound his club scarf around his neck and headed towards the door. ‘So—when is this party supposed to be? And who did you say it was for?’

Samantha checked that all the lights were out and that the alarm was set, and followed him outside. ‘It’s an engagement party,’ she answered, locking the door behind them. ‘It’s next Tuesday, at a house in Eyton Gate. I dealt with someone called Lederer, but I think he was just a secretary or something.’

‘Eyton Gate, eh?’ Paul pulled a wry face, as they crossed the pavement to where his car was waiting. ‘You’re really hitting the big time, aren’t you?’

‘I hope so.’ Samantha endeavoured to sustain the feeling of excitement she had felt when she’d taken the call. ‘So—I’ll see you tomorrow, yes?’

‘If my mother’s cooking isn’t too simple for you,’ remarked Paul caustically, swinging open the car door, and Samantha sighed.

‘Will you stop this?’ she exclaimed. ‘Can’t you at least find it in your heart to be pleased that I’m making some progress? I don’t want to be a waitress all my life.’

‘I don’t want you to be a waitress all your life either,’ he retorted, levering his bulk behind the wheel of the sporty little Mazda. Then, with a shrug, he reached out and grabbed her hand. ‘OK. I guess I am pleased for you, really. Just don’t get too high-powered, will you? Or you may decide you don’t want to marry a hard-working estate agent, after all.’

‘Since when are estate agents hard-working?’ queried Samantha, her smile mirroring her relief. ‘OK, I promise I won’t. Now, I must go, or the wholesaler’s really will be closed.’

Paul nodded, and Samantha waited until he had driven away before crossing the road to where her own Mini van was parked. Although the back of the van was fitted with shelves to transport the food she prepared at home, she reflected that she would have to get a small transit if she planned to expand into catering in a big way. It was all very well using the Mini when all she did was ride back and forth from home, with an occasional trip to the Cash and Carry. But travelling the fifty or so miles from this small Essex town to London and back was going to put a definite strain on her capabilities. Particularly as sometimes she might have to take Debbie with her.

Her mother had a meal waiting when she finally got home. Although she worked with food all day, Samantha seldom ate anything at the café. Besides, the little restaurant closed at five-thirty, and by the time Samantha and her assistant, Debbie Donaldson, had scoured all the equipment, cleaned the dining-room and spread fresh cloths on the tables, she was quite happy to let someone wait on her for a change.

‘You look tired,’ said Mrs Maxwell frankly, setting a plate of home-made steak and kidney pie in front of her daughter, and Samantha’s lips twisted.

‘Do I?’ she said. ‘Thank you. That’s all I wanted to hear.’

‘Well, you do,’ declared her mother, seating herself across from her daughter and viewing the smudges beneath the younger woman’s eyes with some concern. ‘What have you been doing until this time? Your father and your sister had their meal over an hour ago. Don’t blame me if yours is dried up. It’s been in the oven since half-past six.’

Samantha smiled. ‘It’s fine,’ she said, unenthusiastically forking a mouthful of limp pastry into her mouth. ‘And you know I had to go to the wholesaler’s. I told you that this morning.’

‘Until this time?’

‘Well—I was late leaving.’ Samantha moistened her lips. ‘Paul came round just after we closed.’

‘Ah.’ Mrs Maxwell didn’t sound surprised. ‘And what did he have to say?’

Samantha grimaced. ‘Can’t you guess?’

‘He’s not happy about you doing these private dinner parties, is he? And quite honestly, I don’t blame him.’

‘Oh, Mum!’

‘Don’t “Oh, Mum” me. You know how we feel about it. Your Dad and I, that is. I wish you’d never met that Jennifer Gregory again. She’s unsettled you, and I can’t forgive her for that.’

‘Mum, I met Jenny at university, remember? And it was your and Dad’s idea that I go there. And her name’s Spellman now, not Gregory. And whatever you say, I think she’s provided me with a marvellous opportunity.’

‘To cook for someone else. To be a servant, in someone else’s home.’

‘No!’ Samantha gasped. ‘You’re beginning to sound like 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.’