The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Italy

by Alice Ross

  ‘Tell that to Celia Smythe,’ retorted Melody, now pouring olive oil into a frying pan. ‘The woman won’t approve them because she thinks I’m nothing but a bimbo gold-digger.’

  ‘Then she can’t know you very well,’ pointed out Kate. ‘Anybody who’s spent more than five minutes in your company can tell you’re potty about your husband.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ piped up Eleanor. ‘And Celia Smythe wants to take a good look around. In my opinion, half the women in Little Biddington – including those in her inner circle – are only with their husbands because of their big fat wallets.’

  ‘I thought you were going to say big fat something else’s there,’ chuckled Kate.

  ‘Trust you to lower the tone, Kate Ellis. And you a respectable married woman and all.’

  ‘Well, I might be married – or at least I think I am,’ tittered Kate, ‘but I’m not sure about the respectable bit. The other day I was pegging out washing in my knickers because Milo had chucked a carton of blackcurrant juice all over me. And just to complete the image for you – they were a large greying pair with frayed elastic.’

  ‘Too much info,’ puffed Eleanor.

  ‘Indeed. Heaven only knows what Domenique, the au pair, makes of it all. If I was her, I’d have legged it months ago and found myself a normal family.’

  ‘I’m sure you are normal,’ said Connie, removing a tray of figs from under the grill.

  ‘Far from it, I assure you. Oh, those figs look gorgeous.’

  ‘Don’t they. I’m going to let them cool before I serve them. In the meantime, I’ll finish the whip.’

  ‘What else are you putting in it?’

  ‘Marsala wine and orange juice. Then I’ll fold in a couple of egg whites and maybe a bit more sugar. And that should be it.’

  ‘Mmm,’ gushed Eleanor. ‘Can I propose that we cook together every night?’

  ‘You can. But then you’d be talking serious weight issues,’ chuckled Melody.

  ‘True. But would we care?’ tittered Eleanor, as Eric and Tilly hared into the room.

  ‘That’s never Eric,’ remarked Kate.

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Wow. He’s perked up.’

  ‘In more ways than one,’ snorted Connie.

  At eleven o’clock, the group declared the meeting a resounding success, said their goodbyes, took their leave of Melody and stepped out into the balmy night. Kate and Eleanor chatted incessantly as the three of them – and a very miffed Eric at having been dragged away from Tilly – made their way through the village. Connie chipped in with the odd comment, but wasn’t in the mood for talking. She wanted to bask in the triumph of another great evening: excellent food, fantastic company and probably one glass of wine too many. The club might be small but it was perfectly formed, she concluded, her ears suddenly pricking up as they sauntered past Cedarwood Cottage.

  ‘How’s Max these days?’ Kate enquired of Eleanor. ‘I haven’t seen him for ages.’

  ‘He’s great. Usual Max.’

  ‘Glad to hear it,’ said Kate, her voice ringing with affection, just as Eleanor’s had when she’d talked about him.

  Causing Connie to conclude that Max Templeton might be charming all the other female residents of Little Biddington. But he’d have to go a very long way – preferably to another continent – to impress her.

  Chapter Seven

  Accompanying Eric on his trot around the village the following morning, Connie couldn’t stop smiling. Restless after her walk home from the cookery club meeting at Melody’s house – and, more specifically, after Eleanor and Kate’s exchange about Max Templeton – she’d texted Liam last night.

  Got some whipped cream going spare. Any ideas what to do with it?

  Plenty. Be there in fifteen minutes had zipped back the reply.

  Which had both amazed and delighted her. And not least because the old Connie wouldn’t have dreamed of:

  1. propositioning a guy

  2. acting like a brazen harlot

  3. using whipped cream for anything other than panna cotta or salted coffee caramel sauce

  The old Connie would have stressed, deliberated and prevaricated. The new – much more confident one – had simply made a decision and gone with it. And even if Liam had turned her down, she wouldn’t have viewed it as the world’s greatest rejection, like she would have before moving to the Cotswolds. She’d merely have brushed it off and looked forward to enjoying his company the next time they were both in the mood.

  Floating along Little Biddington’s adorable streets, on a bubble of orgasmic euphoria, aware of the soppy smile on her face, and lost in X-rated musings, she started as she heard Eleanor calling her.

  ‘Another lovely night last night, wasn’t it?’ the older woman gushed, as Connie approached the newsagent’s. ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m still so full I haven’t managed any breakfast.’

  Connie blushed as a memory of her and Liam tucking into a huge plate of cheese on toast in the early hours rocketed into her head. ‘I, er, just had a little nibble,’ she heard herself saying. ‘Of toast,’ she added. Rather unnecessarily. Then, even more unnecessarily, ‘With a bit of ch—’

  ‘Where do you want this chalkboard, Eleanor?’ interjected a deep male voice from inside the shop.

  A deep male voice Connie had a faint recollection of having heard before. Her heart stuttered. Oh God. It couldn’t be. Could it?

  It could.

  ‘Out here, please, Max,’ replied Eleanor.

  As Max Templeton’s long, jeaned legs emerged from the shadows, Connie drew in a deep breath, bracing herself to finally meet the driver of the black Porsche with red wheels and tinted windows, who’d almost flattened her and Eric a couple of weeks ago; the man outside whose house she’d found herself lurking; the man she’d snatched glimpses of, but had never seen properly. Raising her gaze from those long legs as he stepped out of the shop into the dazzling sunlight, Connie’s eyes roamed over tanned strong arms, a broad chest, a chiselled, shadowed jaw, and thick brown hair, finally settling on a pair of warm hazel eyes, framed with jet-black lashes. Her stomach flipped. The overall effect was quite… breathtaking. In fact, she would go so far as to say that Max Templeton was completely and utterly scrumptious.

  ‘Sorry, Max. I’m just chatting to Connie here,’ apologised Eleanor. ‘Have you two met yet?’

  ‘Er, no,’ blustered Connie, attempting to regain something of her severely displaced equilibrium, while not permitting Mr Templeton the slightest whiff of just how displaced it was.

  ‘We haven’t met properly,’ explained Max, setting down the easel he’d carried out. ‘But we’ve seen one another around. Actually, I owe Connie a huge apology. I almost ran her and Eric over a couple of weeks ago.’ He bent down to stroke the dog. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, straightening up and looking Connie directly in the eye. ‘My normal car – a knackered old brown Audi, which I’ve had for ten years and am completely in love with – required some TLC. And a new clutch. The garage gave me that stupid Porsche as a courtesy car. Which, compared to my old banger, was so fast it took me two days to learn how to control it. Honestly, only in the Cotswolds.’

  At this unexpected confession, Connie could do nothing but gape.

  ‘I’ve wanted to apologise every time I’ve seen you,’ he rattled on – Connie noticing, for the first time, just how deep and melodious his voice was. ‘But, typically, there was never anywhere suitable to stop the car. Realising an apology was long overdue, I popped round to the house on Wednesday evening, but there was a decorator’s van outside and I thought you might be… busy. So I, er, didn’t bother knocking.’

  Blood rushed to Connie’s cheeks. She had a horrible feeling she and Liam had been rolling about on the sofa on Wednesday evening. With the curtains open. In full view of anyone approaching the front door.

  ‘Anyway,’ Max continued, the flicker of embarrassment which had flitted over his features fue
lling Connie’s mortifying suspicions. ‘I really am very sorry. And if you want to shout and scream at me, you have every right to do so. I am guilty as charged and have but a pitiful defence.’ He held up his arms in surrender.

  Connie laughed, adding “funny” to his growing list of positive attributes. ‘It’s okay. Although it’s probably just as well you’ve caught me this far after the event. I can’t pretend I wasn’t furious at the time.’

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ puffed Eleanor. ‘Sounds like you’ve had a near escape there. And I must admit, Max, that Porsche wasn’t you at all.’

  ‘Thank you, Eleanor,’ replied Max, feigning indignation. ‘So, what you’re saying is that old, brown and knackered suits me far better than black, sleek and shiny.’

  ‘Yep. I am. You’re definitely a knackered old brown Audi man.’

  Max snorted with laughter as he rolled his eyes at Connie. ‘See what I have to put up with? It’s a wonder I don’t go elsewhere for my jelly babies.’

  ‘Don’t you dare. At least not before I’ve bought my little villa in Benidorm.’

  His mouth stretched into an affectionate smile. ‘Okay, I’ll wait. But only because it’s you. Right, must dash. Annual medical for work today. Anything else you want me to do before I go?’

  Eleanor shook her head – gold earrings swinging from side to side. ‘No, thank you. Really appreciate your help this morning, though. I would never have moved all that stock on my own. At least not before a week next Friday.’

  Max laughed. ‘Pleasure as always. And I really can’t apologise enough,’ he added, turning to Connie.

  ‘Thanks. Apology accepted.’

  ‘Good,’ he said, before flashing them both a disarming smile and loping off down the street.

  ‘Say hi to Sarah for me,’ Eleanor called after him. ‘His wife,’ she explained to Connie.

  With his back to them, Max held up a hand in acknowledgement.

  ‘How’s it going?’ Connie asked Anna’s beaming face on the iPad screen that evening.

  ‘It’s totally amazing, Con. I can’t tell you. But I’m missing the old man. How is he?’

  Connie picked up the computer and zoomed in on Eric, snoring soundly in his basket.

  ‘Well, I suppose I should be glad he’s not pining for me,’ Anna giggled. ‘And obviously neither are you. You look great. Have you caught the sun?’

  ‘A bit,’ muttered Connie, cursing the traitorous blush that swept over her face.

  ‘Connie Partridge. You can’t get anything past me. That glow isn’t from the sun, is it? You’re having sex.’

  ‘No I’m not,’ demurred Connie, now as red as one of Eleanor’s stuffed tomatoes.

  ‘Liar! Who is he?’

  Connie puffed out a breath. ‘Blimey, there are no flies on you, are there?’

  ‘I am a dedicated fly-free zone. Now come on. Fess up.’

  Connie rolled her eyes. ‘Well… if you must know… it’s the decorator. He’s twenty-five, drop-dead gorgeous, and a complete demon between the sheets.’

  From the other side of the globe came an almighty squeal. ‘Oh. My. God. That’s amazing. Good for you.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s nothing serious. Just a bit of a laugh. Which, frankly, after the last crappy few months I’ve had, I think I deserve.’

  ‘You so do. Well, well, well. And there was me thinking you’d be bored out of your tree.’

  ‘Just the opposite. I don’t know where the days go. I’m loving it, though. And not just because of the decorator. It’s such a different way of life here. And it’s given me a chance to indulge my cooking passion. The club is going brilliantly. It’s so much fun.’

  ‘Ah, but not as much fun as the decorator, I’ll bet. Has he missed any bits?’

  ‘Ha ha. And if you make any jokes about stripping, or filling in cracks, I’m hanging up.’

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it,’ tittered Anna. ‘It’s just lovely to see you looking so well. Better than you’ve looked for years. And definitely better than when you were with Charles. Have you heard anything from the cheating rat?’

  ‘Not a peep. And no birthday card. Not that that came as any surprise.’

  ‘I’ll bet. He rarely remembered when you were together. I couldn’t say anything at the time, but his ego ballooned to sickening proportions. So much so that he began looking down his nose at everyone – you included.’

  Connie grimaced. ‘I know. And I was too stupid to notice. I wish you had said something.’

  ‘I almost did. Several times. But I didn’t think it was my place.’

  Connie shook her head. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now. It’s all water under the bridge. I have learned something from it, though. And that’s never to let anyone treat me like that again. In fact, I feel like I’ve completely had it with men.’

  ‘Except dishy toy-boy decorators.’

  ‘Obviously. But they don’t count.’

  Following the call with Anna, Connie made straight for the mirror in the downstairs bathroom and examined her reflection, just as she had a couple of weeks before. The image that stared back this time, however, was completely different. She did have a glow. The result of fantastic sex, masses of fresh air, and not stuffing her face with rubbish when working, like she did in London. In fact, since coming to the Cotswolds, she hadn’t craved any sugary rubbish at all. Which might explain why her clothes felt looser. She’d definitely lost a few pounds. In fact, she concluded, she looked – and felt – like an entirely different person to the exhausted, fed up, dejected one who had arrived less than six weeks before.

  Connie’s mobile rang early on Saturday morning.

  ‘Just say if you don’t want to,’ began Melody, ‘but Malcolm’s away doing some corporate entertainment stuff today, so I’m going into Cirencester for a mooch round the shops and I wondered if you fancied coming along.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ said Connie. Liam was due round that evening, but other than that, a free day loomed.

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll pick you up at eleven.’

  ‘Wow,’ gushed Connie, taking in Cirencester’s bustling marketplace and eclectic mix of buildings a short while later. ‘This place is gorgeous.’

  ‘I know,’ agreed Melody. ‘I love it. And not just for the shops. I feel anonymous here. Like no one’s judging me. Village life can be very claustrophobic.’

  Connie pulled a rueful expression. ‘It’s such a shame you’re not enjoying Little Biddington. Especially when you have everything going for you: fabulous husband, great house, zero financial worries. And you look amazing.’

  Melody gave a fleeting smile. ‘Thanks. I know I’m lucky. I suppose I’ve just lost my way a bit and am floundering about trying to find a purpose. I thought the purpose might be a baby, but it’s beginning to look like that’s not meant to be. The cookery club’s helping, though. It’s given me something to think about. And Malcolm’s loving me trying out all these new recipes. He’s also commented on how much happier I am since joining the club. Which I put down to meeting you – the first person I’ve really gelled with since moving here.’

  ‘Goodness, I’m honoured,’ chuckled Connie.

  ‘So you should be. I am very particular about who I admit to my inner circle. And I’m under strict orders from my husband to invite you for dinner so he can meet you.’

  ‘Really? That would be great.’

  ‘Fantastic. I’ll sort something out. Look, this is my hairdresser’s. Do you mind if we pop in for a minute? I want to ask her something.’

  Melody’s hairdresser’s, Connie discovered the moment they stepped inside, was in a completely different class to the one she frequented in London. Tucked between a pet shop and a florist, that one had been owned and run by Beryl for the last thirty-five years, and boasted two types of floral wallpaper separated by an equally floral border. Melody’s formed part of a national chain, occupied a prime spot, and contained more mirrors than a certain room in Versai
lles. A willowy brunette greeted them at the reception desk, home to a floral arrangement so large Connie wouldn’t have been surprised if it had its own ecosystem.

  ‘Hi, Melody. Lovely to see you. You don’t have an appointment today, do you?’

  ‘No. I was just passing. This is my friend, Connie. Connie, this is Annette. My amazing hairdresser.’

  ‘And I haven’t even paid her to say that,’ tittered Annette.

  ‘You don’t need to. But I haven’t called in just to pay you compliments. I wanted to ask what you thought about me going brunette.’

  Annette’s perfectly made-up eyes grew wide. ‘Brunette? Why?’

  ‘Because I fancy a change. And because I want people to take me seriously. And for all it’s not guaranteed, I think there’d be more chance of that happening if I lose the blonde.’

  Annette pursed her slick red lips. ‘Hmm. I suppose we could start by toning you down, adding in a few lowlights.’

  Melody shook her head. ‘No. I want drastic. A complete change. You up for it?’

  The hairdresser puffed out a breath. ‘If you are. But I’d hate to see you upset if you don’t like it.’

  ‘I’ll like it.’

  ‘Okay then. I’ll do it. And what about you?’ She turned to Connie. ‘Are you feeling adventurous too?’

  Connie balked. She awarded herself a medal for hair-bravery on the odd occasion she had an inch chopped off. On the verge of voicing this to Annette, she stopped as a girl about her age walked past – with a sleek, modern, shoulder-length bob. ‘Do you think something like that would suit me?’ she heard herself asking.

  ‘Absolutely. And we could add some copper highlights to brighten you up.’

  Connie snagged her bottom lip between her teeth. She hadn’t psyched herself up for this at all. Even the daring “inch off” usually required three days of mental preparation. Which suggested that being impetuous might be the only way she’d ever make changes to her barnet. Plus, the notion of being “brightened up” did appeal. ‘Okay,’ she replied, cutting short any further analysis.