The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Italy

by Alice Ross

  This time, Connie didn’t dwell on it. Recognising the magazine as her own favourite monthly reading matter – the Galloping Gourmet – she dived straight into the tailor-made opening. Tugging the card from her pocket, she handed it over. ‘Actually, on the subject of cooking, I wondered if you’d mind displaying this.’

  Eleanor’s increasingly dilated pupils danced over the text. ‘A cookery club! Heavens. What a wonderful idea.’

  Connie grimaced. ‘Do you really think so?’

  The shopkeeper nodded effusively, her brassy curls bobbing up and down. ‘I most certainly do. They’ll be queuing up to join. You can count me in for starters. Oh! Starters! There you go, you see. I’m already gearing up for it.’

  As she snorted with laughter, Connie couldn’t resist a giggle, relief pulsing through her that she hadn’t been laughed out of the shop.

  ‘I was just thinking the other day,’ continued Eleanor, beaming at her, ‘that it’s nearly four years since my husband died, and all I’ve done since then is tread water. I need to move on; do something to spice up my life a bit. Oh! Spice! There I go again.’

  Connie chuckled. ‘Well, if I can find another couple of members as keen as you, I’ll be delighted.’

  ‘Oh, you’ll have no problem. But I wouldn’t bother with the card. You’ll be inundated. People will snap off your hand at the offer of something other than the book club. Or, for those really scraping the bottom of the barrel – bridge – which, incidentally, I have tried and found more boring than watching jelly set.’

  ‘Right. Remind me not to sign up for that then, however bored I get,’ chuckled Connie.

  ‘I’ll remind you,’ giggled Eleanor. Then, ‘I could find the cookery club members for you, if you like. How many were you thinking of?’

  ‘Well, I was planning to keep it small to begin with. Maybe about four of us in total, until we see how it goes. And I thought about theming the evenings – trying different cuisines from around the world – starting with Italian.’

  ‘Sounds perfect. Leave it with me.’

  And so Connie had, floating out of the shop with a huge smile on her face at Eleanor’s parting words: ‘You’re on to a winner with this one.’

  Connie had never been “onto a winner” in her entire life. But here in the sweet-smelling, flowery, picture-perfect Cotswolds, absolutely anything seemed possible – and the chance of her being “onto a winner” didn’t seem nearly so absurd as it would have back in London.

  Chapter Two

  Connie was making a cup of coffee the next morning when she heard the thud of post on the doormat. Leaving the kitchen, she wandered down the polished boards of the hall to collect it. Along with a couple of envelopes addressed to Anna and Hugh were a handful of birthday cards. She flicked through them, recognising the handwriting as that of her mother, her grandmother, and three girlfriends. She immediately banished the disappointment at there being nothing from Charles. Awaiting a cheque from him after the tying up of some joint financial stuff, she’d emailed him with Anna’s address, informing him of her whereabouts for the next few months. There was no cheque. And – more poignantly – no card. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Other than her demanding answers the day after discovering he was a cheating pig:

  How long had the affair been going on?

  Did he love Stacey?

  Had he planned, at any point, to inform Connie of his change of allegiance?

  To which the answers had been:

  Five months.

  Yes, he did.

  He really had planned to inform her – at some point.

  they’d hardly spoken since the day she’d stormed out of the flat. But then again, having given their relationship serious contemplation since that fateful day, Connie had realised they’d hardly spoken in the last eighteen months they’d been together. They had, she’d concluded, grown apart. Or rather Charles had grown, while she, if anything, had diminished. When they’d first started dating they’d had things in common – both working for large corporate enterprises, both enjoying healthy social lives: two busy twenty-somethings making the most of life in the metropolis. But while Charles’s advertising career had rocketed, Connie’s professional life had dipped sharply southwards. And while his social life had become increasingly buoyant – schmoozing with clients, travelling for pitches, indulging in boozy after-work drinking sessions with the office in-crowd – Connie’s self-employed status meant she’d become increasingly isolated. She’d had no one to schmooze with, no in- or out-crowd to compare hangovers with, and the farthest she’d ever ventured during the week was to the corner shop – usually in the sweatpants and hoodies which had replaced her previously smart office clobber. Not, she hastily reminded herself, that any of the above excused Charles’s grubby behaviour. His betrayal had hit her harder than a juggernaut freewheeling down a ski slope, sending waves of shock, humiliation and anger – mainly at herself for not realising he was a two-timing prick – ricocheting through her, blasting her delicate self-esteem into a million tiny shards. It would be a long time – if ever – before she trusted a man again. Which was precisely why she’d scrubbed relationships from her to-do list. For now, she planned to concentrate on herself, rebuild her shattered confidence, do what she wanted. Like this evening’s cookery club. Sucking in a deep breath, she elbowed aside all thoughts of traitorous exes and turned them to more productive matters – like the panna cotta she still had to prepare for that evening.

  Back in the kitchen, Connie snapped off chunks of thick milk chocolate and dropped them into the pan of double cream she’d brought to the boil. Stirring until they melted, she recalled the first time she’d ever tasted her favourite dessert – in Italy, its country of origin, where her love of food had first begun…

  As a child, every summer, Connie and her parents – both teachers and therefore benefitting from the six-week break – had spent the entire holiday touring Europe in their camper van. Connie had loved experiencing the different cultures, languages and customs, but it had been the food that had most fascinated her.

  Her highlight of every holiday had been exploring the markets – lively, bustling and colourful, they’d provided a feast for all the senses: the sight of fruit and vegetables five times the size of anything back home; the mingling aromas of strange, exotic spices; and the taste bud-busting samples – slivers of succulent ham, tiny wedges of creamy cheese, and salty gleaming olives marinated in garlic, fennel and rosemary.

  Returning from their trip the year Connie was ten, her dad had set up a corner of the garden where she could grow her own vegetables. There, she’d dug, planted, weeded and tended with impressive zeal, experiencing both pride and excitement as the products of her labour flourished.

  ‘Goodness, what are we going to do with all this stuff?’ her mother had puffed, the day Connie had dumped a mountain of rhubarb on the kitchen table.

  Connie hadn’t known. But she’d found out, amassing a host of cookery books along the way. She tried chutneys, jams, crumbles and pies. And, even if she said so herself, they weren’t half bad.

  Her interest in all things culinary survived adolescence. But when it came to discussing career choices, she’d dithered. She couldn’t imagine slaving away in a steamy kitchen day after day, people constantly barking orders, the incessant din and pressure. Nor did she want to be a cookery teacher, forcing recalcitrant teenagers to turn out a jam sponge and half a dozen Eccles cakes. With those two options discarded, she could see no other way of channelling her interest. So, heeding her teachers’ advice, she’d leaned towards her second favourite subject, completing a degree in English Literature at Newcastle University. Upon graduating, she’d found a job as a proofreader with a small independent publisher, moving on to a large national house a few years later. And there she’d remained until just before her thirtieth birthday, when the company had been swallowed up by a larger fish, redundancies being the inevitable outcome.

  At the time, Co
nnie hadn’t been too bothered. She’d picked up plenty of contacts along the way and was as confident as one dared be about maintaining a regular stream of work. Plus, she liked the idea of being her own boss: nobody watching over her shoulder, monitoring how many times a day she nipped to the loo, or having to make a great show of being busy when she totally wasn’t.

  Six months down the line, though, stuck in front of a computer day after day, with only the potted cactus on the desk to talk to, the novelty of self-employment had dimmed. And had continued to do so ever since. Deriving minimal satisfaction from her “career”, she’d sought her kicks elsewhere, signing up for cookery courses at the local community college. As well as experimenting with global cuisine – sushi, tapas, Greek meze and Moroccan, she’d tried her hand at making bread, pasta, canapes, macarons and pastries.

  Over time, she’d built and refined her culinary skills. And always, cowering in the back of her mind, was her ultimate dream: to own her own bistro. Nothing grand, just a cosy room with ten tables, each covered in a yellow-and-white checked cloth, with a single yellow rose in a vase. The exact image of the first bistro her parents had taken her to in Italy – where she’d had her first ever taste of panna cotta. Having added orange zest and softened gelatin to the mixture, Connie poured it into the ramekins, and had just popped them into the fridge when the doorbell rang. Scurrying down the hall, she opened the door to find Kate Ellis on the step – the village vet, and the second member of the cookery club. Kate had first approached her a week ago – having been sent along by Eleanor to find out more details about the club. She’d looked then exactly as frazzled as she did now.

  ‘Oh, Connie, I’m so sorry to bother you again,’ she gushed, evidence of crusted egg on her navy T-shirt – in the same place there’d been a smear of ketchup on her white top several days before. ‘I can’t remember what time you said we were kicking off tonight.’

  ‘About seven. If that’s okay.’

  Kate attempted to run a hand through her tangle of strawberry blonde curls. Becoming stuck midway, she gave up, returning the hand to the pushchair containing two rosy-cheeked toddlers, topped off with exactly the same curls.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ she tutted, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, I can’t believe how mush-like my brain is these days. That’s what having children does to you.’

  Connie smiled. ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee or something?’

  The vet heaved a despairing sigh. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more, but it’s not fair to inflict Mia and Milo on you. They’ll trash the place in less than five minutes. Before moving on to trash one another.’

  ‘I can’t believe that for a minute,’ said Connie, chuckling at the two cherubic faces gazing up at her. ‘They look like butter wouldn’t melt.’

  Kate gave a cynical snort. ‘Don’t you believe it. Their appearance is a complete con. They’re two mini bulldozers, destroying everything in their path. Thankfully, our frighteningly competent French au pair, Domenique, is back from her holiday today, so she’s taken Jemima to her swimming lesson. I don’t think I could have coped with a changing room full of four-year-olds, and these two demons.’

  Connie laughed. ‘It certainly sounds like you have your hands full.’

  ‘Overflowing. I really should have started having children when I was twenty-eight, not thirty-eight. I might have had the energy to cope with them then. Anyway, must plough on. I’ve been summoned to the practice by the vet who’s standing in for me. I have a horrible feeling she’s going to tell me she’s leaving.’

  ‘What will you do if she is?’

  Kate shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve had a couple of years off now. Maybe it’s time I went back. Although quite how that would work, I have no idea.’

  ‘Is your husband very hands-on?’

  ‘Andrew? God no. He’s a stockbroker. A whizz with figures but completely hopeless at anything else. And even if he was useful, he’s rarely home before ten. By which time I’ve passed out with exhaustion.’

  Connie chuckled. ‘It’ll get better when the children are older.’

  ‘That thought is the only thing that keeps me going. Anyway, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to having some Me Time this evening. Who else is coming?’

  ‘Well, there’s Eleanor, of course. And a lovely girl called Melody. She lives in the next village.’

  ‘Ah. Melody Todd? Pretty girl? Has a Jack Russell?’

  ‘Yes. That’s her.’

  Kate nodded approvingly. ‘That’s good. Very good, in fact. I’ve only met her once – when the relief vet was on holiday and I covered for a week. Melody brought the dog in for a check-up. From the little she said then, I think something like the club will do her the world of good. Right, we’re off. Should I bring anything tonight?’

  Connie shook her head. ‘No. This one’s on me.’

  ‘Okay. But only this one. Otherwise it’s not fair. We’ll make sure we all chip in in future. I’ll bring wine. And matches to prop open my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I was out after six.’

  Connie giggled. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be so enthralled by my demonstration of how to make lamb tagliata, that no matches will be required.’

  ‘Ooh. I have no idea what that is, but it sounds gorgeous. Matches or no matches, I’ll see you at seven.’

  ‘Great. See you then.’

  Chapter Three

  After waving off Kate and the twins, and with the panna cotta chilling in the fridge, Connie washed out the dirty pan, tugged off her “Food Is Better Than Sex” apron, and decided to take Eric for a walk.

  Unlike most canines – whose excitement generally knew no bounds at the mere whisper of the W-word – Eric’s huge brown eyes viewed the prospect with suspicion. But then again, Eric viewed the prospect of most things with suspicion. He’d been in the rescue centre for nine months before Anna had taken pity on him, his extended stay primarily due to his refusal to leave his kennel whenever any prospective owners had been looking around. Anna, though, hadn’t been so easily deterred. It had taken six visits – Eric cowering in the kennel, Anna chattering away to him outside – before he’d eventually popped out his head to view the disturber of his peace; three more visits before he’d dared to slink out in full; and an additional five before he’d trusted Anna enough to allow her to take him for a walk. She and Hugh had adopted him immediately after that, and although the hilarious stories about him settling in had amused Connie for weeks, it had taken a huge amount of patience and understanding from the pair to rebuild the dog’s confidence. Even now, three years on, he wasn’t exactly brimming with the stuff, and he’d still qualify as red-hot favourite for the Wussiest Hound Ever award, but he’d only hidden behind the sofa for thirty minutes when Connie arrived – a vast improvement on the four hours the first time she’d met him. He appeared to have accepted her presence in the house with reluctant resignation. And while still slightly jittery when she did anything as menacing as offering him a biscuit, he’d nevertheless permitted her to saddle him up for a walk – coaxing time beforehand now reduced to a mere twenty minutes.

  Adding to Connie’s perception that she had indeed entered another universe when she’d landed in Little Biddington, another dazzling blue sky shrouded the village this morning, bathing her surroundings in glorious golden sunlight, and making the dreary, drizzly capital seem a bazillion miles away. Indeed, for all her initial envy at Anna’s jaunt to Oz, strolling through the village with Eric that morning, past the twelfth-century church, home to the only graffiti in the area, dated 1642, past the perfectly round duck pond, with its reeds, bulrushes and cluster of mallards, marvelling at the abundance of flowers, the sense of history, the honey-coloured stone glinting in the sunshine, and the lack of lager cans and empty fag packets, she wouldn’t have swapped places with her friend had she been offered a free ticket to fly business class to Sydney in the seat next to Aidan Turner. Why, she wondered, drinking in ever
y detail of her surroundings as Eric plodded sedately along beside her, sniffing the occasional lamp post, would anyone want to live anywhere else? Not, of course, that everyone had the option to live in such privileged surroundings. Property prices in the area were eye-wateringly high, putting the des reses in reach of only a select few: successful high-achievers, whose bank accounts included significantly more digits than the three rattling around in hers. But financial solvency wasn’t the only striking difference, she noted, as she passed yet another immaculately groomed mother pushing a designer buggy. Sartorial contrasts were also evident. Even the cluster of female joggers who’d overtaken her earlier had sported stylish lycra and full make-up and, while kicking up a respectable pace, had displayed no sweaty armpits and not one blotchy face. And then there were her fellow dog walkers – Connie, in her cut-off jeans, faded blue T-shirt and canvas pumps, her long chestnut hair scraped back in a ponytail, and wearing not a scrap of make-up, felt distinctly shabby alongside her polished, coiffed counterparts.

  The women here looked so… sorted. So in control. Well, all of them except Kate, she noted with some relief. Kate’s wardrobe might feature remnants of her children’s last meal rather than a couture label, but at least she seemed normal. And, being the village vet, was obviously extremely clever too. She’d also seemed pleased Melody would be joining them that evening, which was a relief. Although what she’d meant about the club being good for Melody, Connie had no idea. And then, of course, there was Eleanor, who knew everybody and plastered on a sunny façade, but who, Connie suspected, from the way she’d drifted off into a world of her own during their initial conversation in the shop, had her little secrets.

  Wondering what these could possibly be, Connie was gently leading Eric across the road back to the house when a black Porsche shot around the corner – so fast, the driver had to slam on the brakes to avoid knocking them over. The screech of rubber on tarmac caused Connie’s heart rate to rocket and Eric’s four creaking legs to fleetingly leave the ground. Back on terra firma, he began shaking uncontrollably.