Rich As Sin

‘Soon,’ he remarked now, meeting his mother’s innocent gaze with cool deliberation. ‘Why? Do you think you’ll get an invitation? How would they describe you? Oh, yes. The mother of the best man!’

Caroline’s lips tightened. ‘Joke if you like, but you are—or rather you would be, if you’d stop feeling sorry for yourself. I never thought a son of mine could behave so mindlessly! Perhaps you are your father’s son, after all.’

Matthew’s mouth twisted, and with an exclamation of disgust his mother thrust back her chair and got to her feet. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she declared angrily, and then, conscious of the stir she was creating, she put a steadying hand on the edge of the table. ‘Come and see me tomorrow,’ she added in an undertone, as if regretting her hasty announcement. ‘And think about your grandfather’s birthday. Needless to say, he expects you to be there.’

Matthew did think about what his mother had said, as he walked back to his apartment. The luxurious penthouse he had bought with his own money occupied the top floor of a tall block of apartments in Culver Mews in Knightsbridge, and although he knew Victor wouldn’t approve Matthew enjoyed the unaccustomed exercise. It reminded him it was too long since he had been to the gym, and that Victor’s obsession with his personal protection meant he had too few opportunities to walk anywhere. And, although it was a cold day, with a threat of rain in the air, the daffodils were out in the park, and the early cherry blossom was already appearing on the trees.

It reminded him of what Greece was like at this time of the year, and most particularly Delphus, the island where his grandfather had his home. The sprawling villa where he had spent the early years of his childhood did hold some happy memories for him, and it would be good to see Yannis again, and Nicos, and all the aunts and cousins he remembered from his youth.

But it wasn’t just the idea of obeying his finer instincts, and pleasing his mother for once, that occupied his thoughts as he strode past Hyde Park Corner. It was what his mother had said about Melissa that stuck in his mind. And, although thinking of her with Georgio Ivanov still tore his gut, he was unwillingly aware that she had a point. He should have married her when he had the chance. Goodness knew, she had been eager enough to take the plunge. It had been the one sour note in their relationship, that he had been so unwilling to make their association legal. A lack of commitment was how she had put it, on those increasingly frequent occasions when she had accused him of not loving her enough.

Matthew pushed his hands deeper into the pockets of his leather jacket. Love! His lips twisted. He doubted Melissa knew the meaning of the word. No one who professed to love someone as much as she had always professed to love him could have fallen out of love so quickly. And he was cynically aware that Melissa’s ‘love’ was more probably available to the highest bidder. Oh, he might have been her first choice, both sexually and financially, but Ivanov was offering marriage, and that all-important ring on her finger.

For himself, he had never felt any urgency to seek that legitimising scrap of paper. What they had had—or rather, what he had thought they had had—was far more binding than a contract that could just as easily be broken. But he was becoming aware that what Melissa had wanted from him was more than his undying devotion. She had wanted security, the kind of security she could only get if he signed on the dotted line.

So, why should he be so surprised? he asked himself now. His parents’ marriage had fallen apart as much because his father was unambitious as through any character weakness on his part. He had long since learned how convenient his father’s sudden death had proved to be, for, although his mother might sometimes sentimentalise about his passing, she was not her father’s daughter for nothing. All his life, the great god Mammon had ruled his family’s actions. And he had been a fool to think that Melissa was any different from the rest.

Victor was waiting when the lift doors slid back at the twenty-second floor. As Matthew stepped on to the hushed luxury of the Chinese rug that virtually filled the panelled foyer, the man came to meet him in obvious disapproval.

‘You walked,’ he declared, brushing drops of rain from the soft fabric of the jacket his employer slung off, with an impatient finger.

‘I walked,’ agreed Matthew, heading for the inner hallway that led to his study. ‘Rob didn’t call, did he? He knew I was having lunch with my mother.’

‘Mr Prescott didn’t call, no,’ Victor assured him tersely, and then, with a change of tone, he added, ‘But you do have some mail. The lunchtime delivery came while you were out.’ He adopted an expectant expression. ‘Would you like to see it?’

Matthew paused, with his hand against the panels of his private sanctum. ‘Now, what’s that supposed to mean?’ he enquired shortly. ‘You know I always glance through the afternoon mail at dinnertime. It’s probably only bills, in any case.’ He hesitated. ‘Or do you know something I don’t?’

A trace of colour invaded Victor’s bullish features. ‘Now, how would I—–?’

‘Victor!’

The man sighed. ‘Well—there appears to be a letter from Miss Mainwaring,’ he admitted nervously. ‘I thought you might wish to see it. As—as—–’

‘As I appear to be drowning in self-pity, right?’ suggested Matthew, tamping down the unwilling thought that Melissa might have come to her senses.

‘No, sir!’ Victor was indignant. ‘I just thought—–’

‘Where is it?’

Matthew couldn’t stand the suspense any longer. Even though his common sense told him that if Melissa wanted to come back, she would hardly write him a letter telling him so, he needed the proof. Damn her, he swore savagely. What could she want now?

Victor riffled through the small pile of business letters and advertising material occupying a silver tray placed on a polished, semi-circular hall table. The letter, with its unmistakable scent of rose petals, was at the bottom, and although he was impatient Matthew didn’t miss the significance.

‘Can I get you some tea, sir?’ Victor enquired, as his employer slid his thumb beneath the seal, but Matthew shook his head.

‘Nothing, thanks,’ he said, heading back towards his study. ‘I’ll let you know when I’m hungry.’

Victor looked disappointed, but Matthew couldn’t help it. He had no idea why Melissa might be writing to him, and the last thing he needed was Victor peering metaphorically over his shoulder. To emphasise this point, he went into the study and closed the door, before withdrawing the letter from its envelope. Then, noticing that his hands were shaking, he uttered another bitter oath.

Indifferent to the somewhat austere familiarity of his surroundings, Matthew rested his shoulder-blades against the door as he scanned the hand-written missive. Melissa’s handwriting had never been particularly legible, and in his present agitated state it was difficult to read the scrawling words. But patience eventually won out over stress, and he was able to translate the gist of the message.

Amazingly, it was an invitation. Melissa was writing to ask if he would come to a party she and her fiancé were giving, to celebrate their engagement. Apparently, although the announcement had already been made formally at the dinner her parents had given in their honour, this party was to be a much less formal affair, for close friends and acquaintances.

The air rushed out of Matthew’s lungs in a harsh whoosh. For a few moments, he stared at the letter in his hand, as if expecting it to self-destruct in his fingers. And then, tossing it savagely on to his desk, he bent forward to grip the scarred mahogany with clenched fists. My God, he thought disbelievingly, Melissa actually thought he might attend her engagement party! The idea was ludicrous! And insensitive to the point of cruelty.

It took him several minutes, during which time he wished he had asked Victor to fetch him a bottle of Scotch, to recover his composure. He should have known the letter was not going to be good news. Melissa wanted her revenge, and by God, she was determined to get it.

An expletive burst from his lips, and he straightened abruptly, his jaw clenching as he examined how it made him feel. For the first time since she had walked out on him, he felt a healthy sense of resentment. She was deliberately turning the knife in the wound. And she obviously expected him to refuse.

Poor Georgio, Matthew thought grimly. He doubted he knew Melissa had invited her ex-lover to their engagement party. What an irony! But what exactly was Melissa’s game?

Of course, it was possible she wanted him back. Matthew’s stomach muscles tightened at the thought. But not on the old terms, he acknowledged, with strengthening cynicism. She had made that plain enough when he’d implored her to stay.

So what was she trying to do? Play one lover off against another? He gave a bitter smile. It might be amusing to find out. There had always been a latent sense of masochism in their relationship.

CHAPTER TWO

‘BUT why are you doing this?’ Paul Webster regarded his fiancée with impatient eyes. ‘I thought the café was doing well enough. Why do you need to supplement your income by acting as someone’s skivvy?’

‘It’s not like that.’ Samantha Maxwell endeavoured to keep her temper. ‘But you have to understand that this is a new departure. And one which, if it’s successful, could prove really exciting.’

Paul snorted. ‘Exciting? Working every hour God sends!’

‘Not every hour,’ replied Samantha reasonably. ‘Just an odd evening here and there. And it’s not as if you’re going to miss seeing me. You have to visit your clients, and I’ll visit mine.’

‘Well, I think you’re crazy!’

‘Yes, I know.’ Samantha pushed a strand of toffee-coloured hair behind her ear and tried to concentrate on the shopping list in front of her. But it wasn’t easy with Paul baulking her at every turn, persisting in regarding her job as a secondary occupation.

‘I mean,’ he went on, as if sensing he was pushing her too hard and attempting to be persuasive, ‘it’s not as if you’re a trained chef, or anything. You’re an English graduate, Sam. You could be a teacher. Instead of which, you’re playing at housewife in someone else’s kitchen.’

Samantha’s nostrils flared as she looked up. ‘I am not playing at housewife,’ she retorted sharply. ‘And, whether you like it or not, I enjoy what I do. You can’t seem to understand that getting this branch of the business going is a real adventure. And it could be just the beginning of a whole new career.’

‘Making other people’s meals!’

‘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.’

‘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.’