The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Italy

by Alice Ross

  Yet again, it was another dazzlingly bright spring morning, the sun already high in the sky, bathing the village in an orange glow. As they pootled down the street, stopping every few seconds for Eric to pee or sniff, the newsagent’s came into view. And so, too, did the car parked outside – a very distinctive black Porsche with red wheels and tinted windows. So preoccupied with the cookery club had Connie been, she hadn’t given the vehicle – or its reckless driver – a second thought after the sighting at the supermarket yesterday. Seeing it now, though, both her anger and the urge to tell the owner exactly what she thought of him almost ploughing down her and Eric, returned with a vengeance. But with the dog engaged in a particularly intense snuffle around what was obviously a very fragrant lamp post, she could do nothing but observe as a tall figure with brown hair, wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt, loped out of the shop, jumped into the car and drove off, at – she noticed – a respectable speed.

  Observing the vehicle as it glided down the street – putting Connie in mind of a big black beetle – she couldn’t decide if she felt relieved or disappointed that she hadn’t been close enough to share her opinion of his driving. Either way, her curiosity had been roused. She wouldn’t mind finding out who he was. And she knew just the person to tell her. As if on cue, Eleanor’s colourful form – adorned in red-cropped trousers and a short-sleeved yellow blouse – suddenly appeared.

  ‘How’s the head this morning?’ enquired Connie, as she approached.

  Eleanor whipped around to her, mortification sweeping over her heavily made-up features.

  ‘Oh, Connie, I am so embarrassed. I’ve never nodded off like that before. It’s all these early mornings. They catch up with you.’

  Connie laughed. ‘I’m sure they do. But I hope the late night hasn’t put you off coming to the next meeting.’

  ‘Heavens, no. I had a wonderful time. Beats a glass of sherry and a night in front of the box any day of the week. And, for all my shameful exit, and – between me and you – a slight headache, I’m feeling incredibly inspired. There’ve been a couple of recipes in the Galloping Gourmet recently that I’ve been itching to try. And what better opportunity than to experiment on you three?’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s what the club’s all about.’

  ‘That and a good old natter. Which makes a nice change for me. I pass the time of day with people in the shop but rarely have time for a proper chat.’

  Spotting an appropriate opening, Connie grasped it. She cleared her throat before asking, in what she hoped was an airy tone, ‘Do you, um, know the name of the man who was in here a few minutes ago? He drives a black Porsche.’

  Eleanor wrinkled her nose. ‘Black Porsche?’

  ‘Yes. Tall. Brown hair.’

  The shopkeeper gave a self-deprecating tut. ‘Oh, of course. It’s Max Templeton. He lives in Cedarwood Cottage.’ She waved an arm in the general direction. ‘He’s a pilot and his wife is some high-flying executive for a cosmetics company or something. Why do you want to know?’

  Connie hesitated, the distinct note of fondness in the older woman’s reply throwing her off-balance. ‘I’ve, um… just seen him around quite a bit, that’s all,’ she said, opting to play it safe until she knew more about him. Or until the opportunity arose when she could express her low opinion of his driving face to face. ‘Anyway, looks like it’s going to be another glorious day,’ she added, swiftly moving the conversation on.

  Having finished chatting to the newsagent, Connie left the shop and, for reasons which baffled every other part of her body, found her feet carrying her in the vague direction Eleanor had indicated: towards Max Templeton’s Cedarwood Cottage. Following the revelation of his pilot occupation, she’d concluded he’d obviously confused his car with his cockpit the day he’d almost wiped out her and Eric. Not that she had the courage to hammer on his door and tell him that. Bumping into him coincidentally was one thing, seeking him out for confrontation was quite another. Still, something about that distant sighting of him earlier had intrigued her. Which was precisely why, she supposed, she now found herself discreetly reading house names on gateposts, until she located Cedarwood Cottage.

  Maintaining the impeccable housing standards of the Cotswolds, the house was a stunning what looked to be former farmhouse, with a slightly higgledy-piggledy frontage, and a cute duck-egg blue front door. And there, parked outside, was the unmistakable Porsche.

  Having no idea what to do next, and not wishing to alert the suspicions of the Neighbourhood Watch – nor, indeed, the apparently formidable Residents’ Committee – with her loitering, she’d just coaxed Eric into performing an about-turn, and was on the verge of retracing her steps, when, to her horror, the door to the cottage swung open.

  Connie’s blood turned cold and she froze in horror as she observed one long, jeaned leg appear on the step. Oh my God. This wasn’t how she’d imagined their encounter at all. She wasn’t prepared. And she couldn’t possibly adopt the moral high ground when she and Eric had been sniffing – quite literally – about outside his house. The sanctimonious lecture which had instinctively leapt into her head immediately following the near-incident, and again when she’d spotted the car at the supermarket, had, for the time being, completely deserted her. Holding her breath as she awaited the appearance of a second leg, relief rushed through her as she heard muttering which sounded like “bloody keys”, and the leg disappeared back inside.

  Seizing the opportunity to remove herself from the man’s sightline post-haste, Connie yanked a bewildered Eric across the road and squatted down next to him behind a rhododendron bush. Her heart hammering harder than a woodpecker with a deadline, she blew out a huge sigh of relief as she heard the clunk of a car door and the purr of an engine, then watched the car rolling down the road.

  ‘Another lovely day,’ remarked an old man, tottering past with a poodle. Causing Eric to whimper, and Connie to topple forward into the bush.

  During her many years as a proofreader, Connie had scoured all manner of material: some excellent, some average, some titillating, and some which, frankly, she deemed a blatant waste of words. Her current project was lodged firmly in the latter category: a huge, tedious tome on Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing, which had summoned forth the question forever hovering in the back of her mind: could she write something better herself? Probably, was the answer which customarily followed this contemplation. But she hadn’t. Who knew, though, now she was in the Cotswolds, where writers such as J M Barrie, John Betjeman and even Beatrix Potter had found inspiration, she might just set to and have a bash. Once she’d waded through the five hundred most definitely not fascinating facts.

  She’d just reached a particularly boring part – involving types of rods, when the doorbell chimed. As Eric shot behind the sofa, Connie trotted down the hall to the door.

  ‘Decadent Décor,’ announced a middle-aged man in paint-splattered overalls, with a balding head and a bulging belly.

  Connie gaped at him nonplussed.

  ‘Come to decorate the house,’ he added – somewhat sardonically.

  Connie clapped a hand to her mouth. Of course. She’d totally forgotten Anna had mentioned the decorators. She had offered to cancel them, before swiftly tagging on that they’d been waiting five months for the company – which was apparently in great demand – and would most likely have to wait another five if they put them off. Connie had consequently confirmed that it would be no problem, but had immediately become so distracted by the cookery club that the date had completely slipped her mind.

  ‘Gosh. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I’d totally forgotten.’

  The man sucked in a disapproving breath and folded his arms over his chest.

  ‘You’re not going to tell me it’s not a good time, are you? Because if you are—’

  ‘No. It’s fine. Honestly. It’s just that it’s not my house. I’m looking after it while my friend’s in Australia for six months.’

&
nbsp; The man couldn’t have looked more uinterested if Connie had started reciting her twelve times table.

  ‘Best bring my gear in then,’ he sniffed. ‘I’ll start upstairs. And in case you’ve also forgotten, we’ll be here for two weeks.’

  Connie’s eyes grew wide. ‘Two weeks?’

  ‘Big job. Woodwork and everything.’

  ‘Right. Well, yes. I suppose… with the woodwork and everything,’ she muttered, wondering what Eric would make of it all.

  ‘And I wouldn’t mind a coffee while I’m setting up. Milk and two sugars.’

  Due to constant requests for “milk and two sugars”, by the time lunchtime rolled around, Connie had made very little progress with the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing. In fact, she concluded that if the next two weeks were to proceed in this fashion, she might as well stick her laptop in the cupboard and glue the kettle to her hand. Despair was beginning to set in when her mobile trilled.

  ‘Hi, Connie. It’s Melody.’

  Oh. Hi.’ Connie’s sinking spirits rocketed. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Great, thanks. I just wanted to thank you again for last night. It’s the most fun I’ve had since I arrived in the village.’

  ‘Goodness, you really must get out more.’

  ‘Believe me, you don’t know the half,’ chuckled Melody. ‘Anyway, as well as calling to say thanks, I wanted to run something past you. I’ve never cooked for anyone other than my husband before, so I’m ever so slightly terrified about hosting the next club meeting.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ assured Connie. ‘The club is supposed to be about having fun. Enjoying your cooking. Not stressing over it.’ Blimey. That sounded a bit rich coming from someone who’d suffered several sleepless nights envisaging her name in the history books for having caused the Great Fire of the Cotswolds.

  ‘Well, I won’t be having fun or enjoying myself if everyone hates my menu. I can’t decide whether to go for prawns or meatballs, so I’m going to try out both before the evening and I’d like you to be a guinea pig.’

  ‘Fine by me,’ said Connie. ‘I’d love to be your guinea pig. I’ll have to check my hectic – not – social calendar, but I’m sure I can squeeze you in. You tell me when’s good for you and I’ll be there.’

  ‘Fantastic. How about Monday? You could come for lunch. Twelve-thirty?’

  ‘Perfect. Looking forward to it already.’

  ‘Me too. Oh, and bring Eric. I’d love him to meet my dog.’

  ‘Really? I can’t promise he’ll be very sociable. He might spend the entire time trying to squeeze himself into a plant pot.’

  Melody laughed. ‘Bring him anyway. It’ll do him good to socialise.’

  ‘Okay. But I’ll bring a plant pot too. Just in case.’

  Chapter Five

  On Monday morning, Connie had just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rang.

  Her heart sank. The decorator. She’d had a pleasant weekend without him, but now kettle duty would be resumed.

  Throwing on a pair of khaki shorts and a crumpled pink T-shirt, she hurtled down the stairs and yanked open the door to discover not Mr Milk and Two Sugars, but a gorgeous guy in his mid twenties, with floppy dark hair, sculpted cheekbones and piercing blue eyes.

  ‘Morning!’ he said, through – she couldn’t help but notice – a rather delectable mouth, which then stretched into an adorable grin. ‘Just out of the shower, are we?’ He flicked a look at her chest.

  Glancing down and realising she had a bit of a wet T-shirt thing going on, Connie hastily folded her arms over the offending area, while simultaneously flushing the same colour as the Decadent Décor cherry-red van outside. ‘Um, yes,’ she uttered, completely wrong-footed. ‘I was expecting… That is, I wasn’t expecting anyone so, um…’ Gorgeous, sexy, young? ‘Early. I wasn’t expecting anyone so early.’

  ‘It’s half past eight. We always start at half past eight.’

  ‘Oh. Yes. Right,’ she blustered. ‘Well, er, you’d better come in.’

  ‘Might be useful,’ he said, the accompanying wink causing her stomach to flip. ‘I’m Liam by the way.’

  ‘Connie,’ said Connie, hoping, in her disorientated state, that she’d got that right. Evidently she must have.

  ‘Nice. Short for Constance?’

  ‘Yes. But only my mother ever calls me that. Thank God.’

  He chuckled, two cute dimples appearing in his cheeks.

  ‘Bedrooms up here, I take it,’ he said, turning to the staircase.

  ‘Y-yes,’ stammered Connie, the thought of him in the bedrooms just a little too much to cope with at that precise moment. In an attempt to quash the inappropriate images suddenly trampolining into her mind, she scrabbled together several words which came out as, ‘Would you like a coffee or something before you start?’

  Twinkling blue eyes turned back to her. ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t mind a juice. Or water. Anything cool. It’s supposed to be belting hot today.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whimpered, gaze fixed on impressively firm buttocks as he started up the stairs. ‘I believe it will be.’

  A few minutes later – despite the rising temperature both inside and outside the house – Connie had not only pulled on a cardigan, and buttoned it up to her neck, but also pulled herself together and managed to hand over a cold glass of orange juice to Liam the Adonis, without allowing him to see so much as a hint of the effect he was having on her. Or at least she hoped she hadn’t – praying the traitorous clinking of ice cubes as her shaking hand passed the drink to him hadn’t given her away.

  Back in the kitchen, she attempted to do some work but, again because of the decorator, couldn’t concentrate. She didn’t know who was the greater distraction – Milk and Two Sugars, or the Adonis. About whom she was experiencing quite lust-ridden thoughts. When was the last time she’d had lust-ridden thoughts, she wondered. Evidently it was so far back, she couldn’t remember. In fact, she didn’t know if she’d ever had any. A fact which, contemplating the matter further, she could only attribute to a lack of lusty-thought-provoking men in her life. Somewhat embarrassingly, Connie could count on one hand the number of romantic liaisons in which she’d partaken during her thirty-four years – and still have a finger left over. There’d been a couple of “relationships” at university, the longest lasting six months, and then an eighteen-month on-off thing with a computer geek just after she’d graduated. And then Charles for the last five years. Five completely wasted years, as it now turned out. Rather unoriginally, she’d met him in a bar on a Friday night. It hadn’t been love at first sight – in fact, now she wondered if it had ever been love at all – but they’d trundled along okay together at the start. Even then, though – in the early days when lovers are supposed to be consumed by passion – she couldn’t recall ever experiencing a burning desire to rip off every shred of his clothing, smother him in panna cotta and lick off every remaining drop. Like she did with Liam every time he came within a two-metre radius. Which wasn’t only worryingly kinky, but also completely ridiculous given she was old enough to have been his school prefect.

  Admitting defeat with the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing, and with Liam still occupied upstairs, Connie slipped into the downstairs loo and studied her reflection in the mirror. While in a league as far from Melody’s as Sydney was from Sidcup, she supposed she didn’t look too bad for a woman in her mid thirties. An average size twelve, she’d benefit from some toning up, but who – apart from just about every female she’d encountered in the Cotswolds – wouldn’t? Her thick chestnut hair – in the same “style” she’d worn it since she was twelve – fell halfway down her back, but still showed no sign of grey. And her skin remained line-free – well, apart from the couple of faint ones fanning out from the corners of her eyes. But discounting those – which she frequently did – she concluded she didn’t look too bad for someone approaching those scary middle years.

  Fifteen mi
nutes before leaving for Melody’s house, Connie smoothed down her hair, ran her tongue over her lips, and mounted the stairs to inform Liam of her departure.

  ‘Going anywhere nice?’ he asked, grinning at her from up his ladder.

  ‘To a friend’s. For lunch,’ she replied, hoping that made her sound ultra-cool, popular and… young.

  ‘Sweet. Enjoy. I’ll be knocking off for a bite myself soon.’

  Connie attempted to ignore the wave of lust that crashed over her at this proclamation, the thought of Liam biting anything conjuring up all sorts of weird and wonderful images. ‘Right. Well, I’ll, er, see you later then,’ she stammered.

  ‘You most certainly will,’ he replied, the ensuing wink causing her knees to weaken and her pulse to quicken.

  Having given pulse and knees a strict talking to, and managed to coax Eric out from behind the sofa, Connie left the house and – somewhat reluctantly – Liam, and wound her way through the village to Melody’s abode. Her route took her past pilot – and reckless car driver – Max Templeton’s cottage. This time, though, rather than lurking behind the rhododendrons, she marched directly past, head high. Or at least she would have – had Eric not stopped to pee on the gatepost. Thankfully, though, there was no sign of the Porsche – or the matching one Mrs Templeton no doubt drove. Which most likely had pink wheels. What had Eleanor said about her again? Oh yes – that she worked for a cosmetics company. Which probably meant she was one of those women who shovelled on six inches of make-up before venturing out the door. Hopefully she’d never find out, as she had absolutely no desire to make Mrs T’s acquaintance. Eric’s piddling completed, Connie carried on her way, following Melody’s directions and turning left at the end of the street.

  Five minutes later, Connie screeched to a halt outside an enormous house, which, with its undulating roof, cluster of chimney pots and ivy-covered façade, wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Sunday-night period drama. This couldn’t be it. Surely. She checked the text again – which clearly said the house name was Foxgloves. And this house’s name was… Foxgloves, she discovered upon reaching the wrought-iron gates.