by Barry, Jill
Love on the Menu
Jill Barry
© Jill Barry 2015
Jill Barry has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2015 Endeavour Press Ltd.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter One
Zillah Robinson’s office phone rang right in the middle of a fairy-dust sprinkled fantasy. She was delivering a scrumptious four-course dinner to a glamorous movie star who had recently moved into a gorgeous Georgian mansion, high in the hills above beautiful Bath.
Just as he was smiling at her, she took the call. ‘Mrs Robinson. How may I help?’
‘I need a couple of hot, singing waiters for a corporate function.’ The woman’s voice oozed confidence. It would have been funny if Zillah wasn’t so desperate for business.
She suppressed a sigh, the fingers of one hand tapping on her keyboard. ‘You’re through to Mrs Robinson’s gourmet catering service. I’m sorry we can’t help with your entertainment query but we’d love to quote for your party food. Perhaps I could call with some menus?’
‘The hotel we’ve booked is sorting out the catering.’ The woman sounded impatient. ‘Their functions manager advised me to call Mrs Robinson for singing waiters. Are you sure you can’t help?’
‘I’m sorry, but that’s not my area of expertise. Perhaps someone has a warped sense of humour?’ She smiled into the phone. ‘So, may I take your contact details, please? I’d like to send you our brochure – email it if that’s appropriate.’
Zillah scribbled down the information and gently replaced the receiver. The caller had actually asked her for the other Mrs Robinson’s number. Un-be-lievable. This was the third peculiar inquiry in as many days. The first person wanted to book a serious singer for a country house hotel wedding. The second call was for a balloon-sculpting children’s clown. She hadn’t taken a single new booking this week for so much as a platter of cheese straws.
If the barbeque season coincided with sizzling weather or even a warm, dry spell, it usually blew impromptu business her way. Current conditions might suit mermaids but there weren’t too many of those around. The only upcoming dates in Zillah’s diary were wedding receptions. Thank goodness for romance, or even the triumph of hope over experience, given that many clients were marrying for the second time.
She stroked the silken patina of her desk, the elegant, walnut escritoire a poignant reminder of her past. Everything else bar her violet tweed office chair was white, even the floorboards. Her assistant Abi had sanded and painted them the year before, while Zillah pounded Bath’s pavements, spreading the word round local businesses. Abi was a treasure, but with the firm about to blow out its first birthday cake candle, she remained unaware how close to the rapids her boss paddled.
Zillah switched on the answer-phone and headed for the kitchen. Opening the door, she stopped, obeying her own hygiene instructions. No way would she enter without her streaky honey-blonde hair tucked inside a hat. ‘Abi,’ she said. ‘I really must check out this mistaken identity business. I’ve had enough of these odd calls.’
‘What did they want this time?’
‘Certainly not two hundred veggie samosas. Speaking of which?’
‘All under control, boss and I’ve set the timer for the beef sirloin. Will you be long?’
‘As long as it takes to cross-examine our friendly pub landlord. Someone’s taking my name in vain and I intend finding out who it is. Phone’s taken care of and I shan’t be long.’
*
Zillah, sheltering under a rainbow-striped golf umbrella, dodged puddles on the forecourt to reach her silver van. An access way linked the trading estate with the main Bath road and her favourite inn straddled the city boundary. Nothing much happened in these parts without Mickey the landlord knowing. If he didn’t, he had ways of finding out.
She drove cautiously along the slip road. Hell’s teeth! She was crawling in low gear but did the black jeep coming the other way intend conjoining with her wing mirror? She applied the brakes before jabbing the window button. The other vehicle burned rubber to stop. Its driver also opened his window.
‘Didn’t you see the sign?’ Frowning, Zillah tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and pointed her finger. ‘The one warning you not to exceed ten miles per hour?’
‘Believe me, you were taking up half my side of the road.’
He sounded like a contemporary equivalent of Jane’s Eyre’s Mr Rochester on a very dark day. She tried to glare back but found this difficult when longing to let her gaze roam. The man was arrogance personified but his lips urged her to reach out a finger and trace their outline. The close-cropped burnt marmalade hair begged to be ruffled. A girl would feel safe in the shelter of those powerful arms. Capable hands, their tapering fingers with shapely, clean nails drumming the steering wheel, tapped into Zillah’s thoughts so deeply that she felt the first stirrings of something she’d assumed lost forever.
The stranger craned his head through his window to access the situation, scowled but selected first gear. And shook his head, in exasperation. ‘It’s no good. You’ll have to back up. Madam.’
‘‘Why me?’
‘‘Would you prefer me to do it for you?’
She swallowed. Attractive he might be but he was clearly a misogynist toad. ‘That’s funny,’ she said. ‘I was about to offer the same to you.’
He stared back. She watched his lips twitch before he resumed his stern look. ‘Look, I wonder if you can tell me whether these units are worth the rent the owner’s asking. I’d really appreciate not wasting any more time. The one I’m considering is in the same block as the pine furniture store.’ He shook his head again. ‘I’ve already trawled the other half of this estate. There are no sign boards.’
Zillah did her best to concentrate. The vacant unit on the floor above hers was under consideration by a couple running a soft-furnishing enterprise. They wanted to expand but kept dithering. This good-looking guy, though pompous, must be another entrepreneur. The more firms on the business park, the more potential for her catering company. If Mr Bossy Boots decided to rent offices, he’d soon realise the speed restriction sign wasn’t there to improve the scenery.
‘I’ve no complaints,’ she said. ‘You’ll find the furniture place at the end. The owner will show you round the vacant premises. There’s only one unit left in that block.’
The man nodded. ‘Thank you.’
He shifted gear and half-turned his body, one arm across the passenger seatback as he reversed to the point where Zillah could pass with confidence, although the tip of her tongue peeped between her cherry-glossed lips as she continued on her way.
If Hal hadn’t been so intent upon trying to barter insults with the driver of the silver van, he might have noticed the words sign-written in shiny black on the side panel of her gleaming vehicle. Mrs Robinson Ltd, Gourmet Catering.
*
Zillah strolled into the bar of The Golden Fleece. ‘May I have a filter coffee please, Jake?’
‘It seems awful, having to charge you,’ the young barman said as Zillah watched the machine hiss like a steam punk s
ideshow.
‘Mickey has a business to run, Jake, exactly as I do. He’s after a profit. And before you get your hopes up, I’m afraid I haven’t come to book you for another function. You’re still okay for Saturday, I hope?’
Jake placed a cup of black coffee on the counter. ‘Of course I am. You know, once the weather settles, business will pick up. After all, it is summer.’
‘I wish the weather realised that. To add to my gloom, some dope appears to be using my name.’
‘Sorry?’ Jake frowned. ‘I’m not with you.’
‘Sadly, I’m getting calls from people wanting to book cabaret turns or, erm, burlesque dancers,’ she said. ‘You name it. When I gently point them in the direction of my food for the discerning, they say thanks, but no thanks.’
‘That’s really naff.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Because the hotel or golf club or whatever venue has scored the booking is taking care of the catering and they’ve suggested ringing Mrs Robinson for a good time.’
He whistled. ‘You want me to quiz the boss? He’s in the cellar.’
Zillah’s face relaxed. ‘Please.’ Jake was not only eye candy. His was intelligent and a good worker. But if anyone ever teased her about playing the movie role with her part-time employee, she swiftly put them right. Apart from the fact he already had a girlfriend, Jake wasn’t even twenty while Zillah was, well, not quite as mature as the Mrs Robinson character, but that kind of stuff wasn’t her style.
Jake didn’t hang about. ‘The guvnor says, leave it with him. He hasn’t heard of any new business but one of his mates works the graveyard shift at the Hilton Hotel. Mickey says this guy knows absolutely everything. When he wakes up, that is.’
*
Zillah drove back to work, cheered by a watery rainbow. She’d offloaded another pile of business cards at the pub because Mickey was sometimes asked to recommend a caterer. In her turn, Zillah always suggested The Golden Fleece if any clients required bed and mouth-watering breakfast without a staggering bill at the end.
Turning off, she negotiated the slip road at snail’s speed, half-dreading, half-hoping to meet that obnoxious man again. She let herself into the building, absorbing the bouquet of slow-roasting beef and Northern Soul music drifting from the kitchen CD player.
‘I’m back, Abi,’ she called. ‘I bought a couple of Mickey’s pasties for our lunch. Too good to miss.’
‘Did you get teased?’
‘About avoiding our own cooking? Of course. The main man emerged from the cellar, asking me to whip up something for his lunch.’
‘He definitely has a soft spot for you.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Pity he’s married. As well as ancient,’ said Abi. ‘I wonder if he really has three ex-wives, like they say.’ She was pulling off her hat and white boots. ‘Now - have I got news for you?’
‘Someone viewed the vacant premises?’
Abi pouted. ‘How did you guess?’
‘A man almost drove into me.’
‘So I don’t need to tell you what a hottie he is?’
Zillah raised her hand. ‘Believe me. You can’t judge that particular book by its cover.’
Abi’s expression was pitying. ‘He was totally charming when he spoke to me. Of course Hal’s old, but not as ancient as Mickey. Now, better brace yourself.’
Zillah flopped into her chair. That chauvinist was old? His name was Hal? Sometimes she forgot the divide there was between 22-year-old Abi and her 36-year-old self.
‘Just as well you sat down. Not only is the dreamboat going to rent the empty unit, he’s starting an entertainments agency.’ Abi paused for effect. ‘Ta-da! Would you believe, he’s the other Mrs Robinson.’
Zillah jumped to her feet. ‘You’re joking! Oh, please tell me you’re joking, Abi.’
‘I’m serious, boss.’
‘But did he say he already knew about us? Surely he would’ve done his homework before choosing a name?’
‘Dunno. He read the name board, that’s why he knocked on our door. He seemed mildly surprised but I think he’s cool about it.’
‘He is? That’s big of him.’
Abi ignored her. ‘Oh and he said he’d already taken a couple of calls asking about catering but didn’t know who to recommend as he’s still new to the area.’
Zillah sank into her seat again and put her head in her hands.
‘He’s an accountant,’ said Abi. ‘He used to work for a big London partnership. I don’t know why he relocated but here he is. Wants to use local entertainers where possible, though he’s got contacts that’ll travel for the right fee. It sounds really exciting.’
‘I’m so glad you enjoyed your chat. I might have known someone incapable of recognising a speed restriction sign wouldn’t have the common sense to check out the name he chose for his new business.’
Zillah wondered whether the situation demanded she take more caffeine on board.
Abi disguised a sharp intuition behind a ditzy exterior. ‘I’ll put the kettle on before I start washing salad vegetables for tomorrow.’ She delved into her pinafore pocket. ‘Here’s Hal’s business card. He said he’s looking forward to meeting you. I’m sure you’ll like him once you get to know him. I think he’s cute.’
‘About as cute as a piranha.’ Zillah glanced at the card. Her lips curved in a slow smile. With a surname like his, surely he could have cashed in on it and come up with a company name that was really original.
Chapter Two
Next morning in the van, Abi checked for text messages while she scolded her boss. ‘It’s not often a guy towers over you,’ she said, as if Zillah was at least seven feet tall.
‘I haven’t seen him standing up.’
‘Well I have. And he’s not wearing a wedding ring, plus there’s no tell-tale pale mark, either.’ She chuckled. ‘Ooh, cool. Joe says he’ll prepare a surprise for our lunch tomorrow, before he gets to the Nancarrow place this evening to help clear up.’
‘You have a five-star boyfriend there, Abi.’ Zillah followed her cross-country route, driving as you do when transporting luscious buffet food for one hundred.
‘Mmm, I know. So when’s your summit meeting? With the lovely Hal, I mean.’
‘Mr Christmas and I are meeting on Monday afternoon.’ Zillah’s tone suggested pistols at dawn.
‘Will he back down, do you think?’
Zillah’s snort was unladylike. ‘I doubt it. At the very least I expect an explanation as to why he chose that name. It beggars belief.’
Abi pocketed her phone. ‘My mum says there’s something very evocative about Mrs Robinson. It has a certain je ne sais quoi.’
‘Good. I think so too, which is why I chose it. Apart from the fact that I have a legal right, considering it’s mine by marriage. More importantly, Mrs Robinson is a registered limited company. It’s my company and your Hal is out of order.’
Abi ignored the gibe. ‘With a name like his, he could’ve gone for something like Jingles or Party Poppers.’
‘To be fair, I expect he’s bored out of his skull with festive season jokes. What bugs me most is his not bothering to check out local businesses. I know there’s no copyright or anything like that. But he wouldn’t have been allowed to set up a limited company of the same name. I mean, what gives with this man? Is he naïve or does he care nothing about other people?’
She paused, changed gear and overtook a lumbering farm tractor pulling a trailer loaded with a pile of something she didn’t care to think about. ‘It’s not my existing clients I worry about, because they check our website or ring to see what’s on offer. It’s new people who’ve found us by word of mouth that concern me. If they get hold of Hal Christmas by mistake and he tries to sell them a sword-swallowing act, what are they going to think?’
‘I think you have to swallow your pride and get it on with this guy.’
‘Over my dead body.’
‘Whatever you might think about him, you’ll have to get
used to seeing him around the place.’
Zillah sighed.
‘Two businesses will be run from the same building,’ said Abi. ‘There’ll be two separate phone numbers. Surely the pair of you can cook up a plan?’
‘And what plan would that be?’
‘People who ring us wanting a troupe of high-kicking dancing girls – we give them Hal’s number.’ Abi hurried on. ‘If anyone rings the wrong Mrs Robinson, wanting to book a chocolate fountain for a romantic novelists’ knees-up – he gives them our number. It’s not rocket science.’
Zillah wasn’t convinced. ‘It sounds all very well but people easily lose interest once they’re confused. Think about the older generation. They like things to be just so. I’ll be condemned by association.’ She slackened speed. ‘The person who answers the phone can make or break. Worst scenario – his answer phone message over which I have no control. You wait and see.’
Abi peered through her window. ‘Wow, check out those cute pink balloons. Someone’s making sure the guests don’t overshoot the car park.’
They made slow progress as Zillah rounded a sharp bend. ‘There’s the driveway,’ she said. ‘On the positive side, this gig might turn out to be a goldmine for new clients. Could you reach my cards from the glove compartment, please? If we all have some tucked in our pockets, we can press them into people’s hot little hands.’ She glanced sideways at Abi. ‘Only if they ask, of course.’
*
‘Mrs Robinson, I can’t thank you enough. I knew your standards were high but the food has surpassed my wildest expectations. My husband and I would like you and your helpers to join us in the toast when we come to cutting the cake.’
‘Thank you very much, Mrs Nancarrow. You and your family are a joy to deal with. If someone could be kind enough to let us know when you’d like us to fill the champagne flutes ready for the toasts –’
The bride’s mother, sleek in coffee-coloured silk, beamed at Zillah. ‘About twenty minutes from now. I’ll go and speak to that delightful young barman of yours.’
