‘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.’
‘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