The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Italy

by Alice Ross

  All toe-massaging ceased. ‘Er, you seem to forget, Lawrence, that I cook most days.’

  ‘Yes, but this will be different. Much more fun. Won’t it, Connie?’

  ‘I hope so,’ muttered Connie, with some trepidation. The last time she’d shared a kitchen with her mother she’d been told off for not washing up as she went along.

  ‘Besides, Sandra,’ he added with a wink. ‘Nobody looks as good as you in an apron.’

  Connie’s mother giggled girlishly. ‘Oh, all right then. But I’m not peeling any potatoes. Or chopping onions.’

  ‘Neither a potato nor an onion shall cross your chopping board,’ vowed Connie’s dad.

  Wiping down the kitchen worktops several hours later, Connie couldn’t believe how much she’d enjoyed the evening with her parents. Having their own little cookery club had been an inspired idea. One which, astonishingly – after her initial reluctance – her mum had thrown herself into. With her dad insisting they stuck to the Italian theme, they’d made sausage and fennel ragu, and chocolate amaretto pudding.

  Eric had eyed proceedings warily, but, after an hour, had ventured out from behind the sofa and observed them from his basket.

  At the end of the evening, they’d sat in the garden with a pot of coffee and some of the Italian biscuits Connie had made with Liam.

  ‘I can’t tell you the last time I had such a good night,’ her dad said, planting a kiss on her cheek later as they said goodnight on the landing. ‘Now go and get some sleep before the decorator arrives in the morning.’

  At the knowing wink, Connie couldn’t help but giggle.

  Chapter Nine

  Connie woke early the next morning. Not wishing to disturb her parents, she sneaked downstairs, made a coffee, then wandered into the garden with her laptop and Eric. The sun already high in the sky, she sat at the wooden table there – next to a tree dripping with lilac wisteria – flicked on the computer, brought up the blog she’d started the other day, and began a new entry: ‘A Family Affair’. When my dad announced he’d like to try a cookery club evening with just him, my mum and myself, I was, understandably, nervous. My nerves not helped by my mother’s initial reaction of ‘I’m not peeling potatoes or chopping onions’. The evening, however, could not have gone better…

  She’d just rattled off the last of what had stretched to fifteen hundred rather amusing words when her parents arrived downstairs, her mother in a remarkably good mood as she pottered about humming. The only other time Connie could recall her humming was the day the pair had been off to the Trooping of the Colour. As today’s agenda included absolutely no trooping, she could only attribute the sanguine behaviour to the Cotswold air again. And the water. And the bran flakes.

  Evidently still in the cookery mood, Sandra cobbled together the necessary ingredients and whipped up a batch of blueberry pancakes. She’d just plonked the plate of finished articles on the kitchen island when the doorbell chimed.

  ‘Ah, the decorator,’ said Lawrence. With another perceptive wink.

  Connie shot him a meaningful look as she slid off her stool. Striding purposefully down the hall to the door, she yanked it open, taken aback not to discover her lover’s toned physique, but the pot-bellied one of Mr Milk and Two Sugars.

  ‘Oh. Wh-where’s Liam?’

  ‘Another job. I don’t know what he’s been doing here, but it’s taken him an age.’

  Connie flushed beetroot. Come to think of it, Liam did seem to have been around far longer than the originally estimated two weeks. She hoped he wasn’t in any trouble. ‘He has been very… thorough,’ she mumbled in his defence.

  The man gave an unimpressed sniff. ‘Need to be thorough and quick in this game. Time is money and all that.’

  ‘Right. Yes. Of course. Well, um, as you’re here, would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Milk and two sugars,’ shot back the reply.

  Scurrying to the kitchen, Connie flicked on the kettle, then scrabbled about for her mobile. Locating it between the bread bin and the toaster, she tapped out a text to Liam.

  You okay?

  Fine. Gaffer a bit miffed I been at yours so long. Sent me to an old folks’ home ☹ Fancy a drink later? Cd pick you up at 7 x

  Okay. See you then x

  ‘Everything all right, dear,’ asked her mother, eyeing her – and the phone – with notable suspicion. ‘You look a bit flushed.’

  ‘No. I’m fine,’ squeaked Connie, plastering a smile onto her face and shoving the phone back behind the bread bin.

  Her mother having expressed a desire to see more of the village before they set off home later – which Connie suspected might have something to do with a desire to bump into Max Templeton again – she obliged with a little tour. Rather than bumping into Max, though, they met Kate, Domenique the au pair, and the children. Connie introduced them all.

  ‘Ah, yes. The village vet,’ gushed Sandra. ‘Delighted to meet you. I must say, everyone we’ve met here so far has been charming. Yesterday we bumped into Connie’s friend, Max – what was his surname again, dear?’

  ‘Templeton. And he’s not my friend, Mum. I just see him around the village occasionally.’

  ‘He’s a pilot,’ added Sandra, with a knowing nod. ‘What does your husband do, Kate?’

  ‘Nothing nearly as glamorous, I’m afraid. He’s a stockbroker. Deadly boring.’

  Sandra tutted. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I think it might be rather nice being married to a stockbroker. Don’t you, Connie?’

  Thankfully, Connie didn’t have a chance to reply.

  ‘You might not say that if you met Andrew,’ tittered Kate. ‘Jemima calls him “Mr Grumpy”. On the rare occasion she sees him. He’s rarely home before the kids go to bed.’

  This information seemed not to faze Sandra one bit. She cocked a perfectly plucked eyebrow and asked, ‘Does he have any single stockbroker friends who live in the vill—?’

  ‘Connie tells us you’re part of this cookery club she’s set up,’ broke in Lawrence, for which Connie almost turned and kissed him.

  ‘I am. It’s a great idea. We’re all loving it.’

  ‘I bet. We had a little club of our own yesterday. And, although I say so myself, my chocolate and amaretto pud turned out rather well.’

  ‘Culinary prowess obviously runs in the family then. Connie is a wonderful cook.’

  ‘Isn’t she?’ agreed Sandra. ‘She’ll make someone a lovely wife. One day.’

  As Connie rolled her eyes, Kate chuckled.

  ‘She most definitely will,’ she said, winking at her friend. ‘And whoever he is, he’ll be one lucky man. Right. Must press on. We’re meeting my dad for lunch. He lives in the next village.’

  ‘I see,’ uttered Sandra, disgust colouring her features as, having shoved a finger up his nose, Milo proffered the findings. ‘You do look like you have rather a lot on your plate.’

  ‘Oh, it’s all good fun,’ puffed Kate. ‘Occasionally. So I’ve been told. Anyway, lovely to meet you. Connie, I’ll see you at Eleanor’s for the next cookery club.’

  ‘Hmm,’ mused Sandra, observing the group’s retreating backs. ‘Now there’s an advert for having children sooner rather than later, Constance. That woman looks fit to drop. And between you and me, I wouldn’t be having a nubile au pair like that in the house. It’s asking for trouble.’

  ‘Mum!’

  ‘Just saying,’ muttered Sandra.

  Connie waved off her parents just after lunch – with a mixture of regret and relief.

  ‘It’s been lovely,’ said her dad, enveloping her in a hug.

  ‘It has, darling,’ agreed her mum. ‘But don’t forget, you’re not just here to enjoy yourself. Six months is half a year – halfway towards your thirty-fifth birthday. By which time I hope you’ll have sorted yourself out.’

  Rather than batting back a defence, Connie let the comment slide. She had, she realised, for the first time in a very long time, actuall
y enjoyed her parents’ company.

  Connie spent the remainder of the afternoon attempting to progress the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing book – amid constant distractions from Milk and Two Sugars.

  As agreed, Liam arrived just before seven o’clock. As punctual as ever. And looking utterly delectable in low-slung faded jeans and a checked shirt.

  ‘You look good,’ he exclaimed, appreciative blue eyes travelling down Connie’s floral sundress.

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied, breathing a secret sigh of relief. After the disaster with the white dress, she’d given up on sexy and sophisticated, opting instead for girl-next-door. ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘There’s a trendy new bar opened in Cirencester. Thought we could try that, if you fancy.’

  Connie chewed her bottom lip. Flowery girl-next-door didn’t real fit with a trendy bar. She’d been thinking of another quiet country pub. But still, there was no reason she couldn’t go. For all her mother’s comments that afternoon, she wasn’t over the hill just yet. And Liam thought she looked nice, which was enough for her.

  Connie’s sanguine spirits, though, lasted only until they reached Cirencester. En route to the bar, an open-topped car approached them, the driver – an attractive redhead – pipping the horn and waving furiously.

  Liam laughed and waved back. ‘My mum.’

  Connie stopped in her tracks. ‘Your mum. But she looks so… young.’

  ‘She’s forty-two. She had me when she was seventeen.’

  Connie’s mind executed a nifty bit of mental calculation. Oh God! Liam’s mum was only eight years older than her. Eight years. Which meant Connie was nearer her age than Liam’s.

  ‘You all right?’ Liam asked, regarding her strangely.

  ‘Fine,’ squeaked Connie. Suddenly feeling anything but.

  Entering the trendy bar, Connie’s mood continued its slide south. First, because the music was so loud her eardrums ached in protest. And second, because it was full of people who looked like they required parental permission to be out after six.

  Liam having screeched their drinks order across the glossy bar, they were trawling around with their overpriced beverages, in search of a free table, when someone scuttled over to them.

  ‘Hiya, Jack,’ hollered Liam. ‘This is Connie.’

  Jack raised a hand in greeting. Connie mirrored the action. Sticking with sign language, Jack then indicated a mixed group of bodies huddled around a table in the window – all of whom looked to Connie to be in the “parental permission” category.

  Obviously recognising them, Liam proffered an upturned thumb. ‘My mates,’ he mouthed.

  Connie nodded her understanding, while simultaneously awarding herself several almighty mental kicks for not voicing her preference for a country pub earlier. Liam’s mates not only looked ridiculously young, but were all startlingly slim and polished in their sleek, sophisticated attire. Their expressions of bewilderment as she and Liam approached made Connie feel like a frumpy floral fossil.

  An additional two stools were produced and Connie and Liam infiltrated the huddle. At least Liam did. Connie hovered on the periphery. Primarily because she couldn’t think of a thing to say, but also because whatever she did say would most likely not be heard anyway. She briefly considered asking the staff to turn down the music. But concluding that would only add to her granny image, and hugely embarrass Liam, she dismissed the idea. Instead, she sat there like a lemon.

  An hour later and Connie was still sitting there like a lemon, her thumping head on the verge of detonating. Liam and the others had just squawked their way a conversation about a group she’d never heard of, and were now “discussing” football – or at least, judging by their gesticulating, that’s what she thought they were discussing. Liam had scraped back his stool to demonstrate a kick, and then casually draped an arm over Connie’s shoulders, when she jerked up her head to find herself gazing into a pair of hazel eyes. Max Templeton’s eyes. Looking just as bewildered as she felt, he raised a tentative hand in acknowledgement. Before Connie could do the same, his wife appeared at his side with a carrier from the shop next door, and the two of them – with their ridiculously long legs – strode off down the street.

  *

  Eleanor’s flat, Connie discovered, upon entering it for the next cookery club meeting, was every bit as quaint as the shop it topped. Only with more lladro, original beams, and an array of frills and flounces.

  Eleanor led her through the living room into the kitchen, where she’d obviously been hard at work. Unlike Anna’s and Melody’s large modern spaces, this one was modest and, in Connie’s opinion, normal – consisting of cream shaker units, an eye-level oven, laminate worktops scattered with bowls of ingredients, and an oak table with four floral-covered chairs and a china shepherdess centrepiece.

  ‘Goodness, this looks very organised,’ exclaimed Connie, shrugging off her backpack of ingredients. She’d been allocated starters and had chosen aubergine fritters and tomato and mozzarella toasts.

  ‘Have to be organised in such a small space. It’ll be a bit of a squeeze, all four of us in here.’

  ‘It’ll be fine.’ Connie set down her backpack on the table, pulled out a chair and lowered herself onto it. ‘The flat’s a lovely size.’

  ‘It’s not bad.’ Eleanor opened the free-standing fridge and took out a bottle of Prosecco. ‘Frank always wanted us to buy a house, but I’ve been quite happy here all these years.’

  ‘Hello. Only me.’ Kate’s voice sailed through the open door. Shortly followed by Kate herself. ‘Sorry. Let myself in. Hope that’s all right.’

  ‘Of course,’ chuckled Eleanor, unscrewing the top from the wine bottle. ‘Sit yourself down and have a drink. Kids okay?’

  ‘Same as ever.’ Kate dumped two carrier bags onto the kitchen bench before pulling out the chair next to Connie’s and flopping down onto it. ‘What’s new with you two?’

  A slight flush touched Eleanor’s cheeks as she placed the bottle of wine on the table, followed by four glasses. ‘Well, actually, I do have some news. I’ve… joined the bridge club.’

  Connie furrowed her brow as she noted the shopkeeper’s flush deepening. Hadn’t Eleanor once made a less than complimentary remark about the bridge club? Casting back her mind, she recalled that she most definitely had – during their very first conversation. Before she could say anything, though, Kate piped up.

  ‘What a lovely coincidence. Dad’s just joined too.’

  As another vague recollection – of Kate having already informed the group of that development – seeped into Connie’s consciousness, plus several others of Eleanor becoming flustered every time Kate mentioned her father, realisation hit her.

  Eleanor had a thing for Kate’s dad.

  Which was, she realised – as the lady in question pushed a glass of wine across the tabletop to her, accompanied by a sheepish smile – very, very sweet.

  Pondering whether or not to make Kate aware of the situation, Connie’s musings were broken by Melody popping her newly coloured head around the door.

  ‘Wow!’ exclaimed Eleanor. ‘You look amazing.’

  Melody pulled a face. ‘Hmm. I’m still not used to it but it’s growing on me – literally. Obviously.’

  ‘It’s fabulous. But you could dye your hair green and you’d still look gorgeous.’

  ‘That I doubt very much,’ giggled Melody.

  ‘It is stunning,’ agreed Kate. ‘Mine’s a bird’s nest. I couldn’t tell you the last time I visited a hairdresser. I just snip bits off myself these days.’

  ‘Well, I can recommend my hairdresser,’ said Melody. ‘She did Connie’s too. And hers really is fabulous.’

  ‘Ah, what it is to be young and pretty,’ sighed Eleanor. ‘And I know it isn’t very PC these days, but the day I ceased to summon a wolf-whistle from a building site was a very sad one indeed.’

  ‘I bet you still get plenty of wolf-whis
tles,’ chuckled Connie. ‘And play your cards right at the bridge club – no pun intended – and I know you’ll attract lots of attention there too.’

  Eleanor didn’t reply. She was far too busy blushing scarlet and choking on the sip of wine she’d just supped.

  ‘I’ve never made gnocchi before,’ said Melody, helping Eleanor roll the spinach and ricotta mixture into dumplings.

  ‘Nor have I,’ confessed Eleanor. ‘I hope it’s going to be okay.’

  ‘It’ll be gorgeous,’ said Connie, shallow-frying her aubergine fritters at the hob. And we really did need to have a pasta evening, given our Italian theme.’

  ‘We did,’ agreed Kate, filling the peaches she’d just halved with crushed amaretti biscuits softened in brandy. ‘I’ve never made these stuffed peaches before either. But it’s such an easy recipe, Mia and Milo could follow it. If they didn’t end up stuffing each other first. They’ve both been really fractious today. I bet they’re driving Andrew mad this evening.’

  ‘He must be home early again then,’ remarked Eleanor.

  ‘Yes. Right. These are ready. I’ll pop them in the oven when we start eating, and that way they should be perfectly timed for the dessert course.’

  ‘Thank you so much for having us all, Eleanor,’ said Kate, holding up her almost empty glass as they polished off the last of their culinary efforts. ‘I think we can all agree that was another fantastic evening.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Melody, scraping the last remnant of stuffed peach from her bowl. ‘And… if you want to burn off the calories, you’re welcome to come along to my new Zumba class next week.’

  Kate set down her glass. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve won over Celia Smythe and the Residents’ Committee.’

  Melody laughed. ‘Unfortunately not. I’ve booked two weekly slots at the village hall in Doddsworth. A bit of a drive, but it’s a start.’

  ‘An excellent start,’ agreed Eleanor. ‘I’ll spread the word for you.’

  ‘Thanks. I’d really appreciate it. It would be fantastic to do the same thing here. But even with my dark hair, it seems Celia Smythe would rather pull out her own teeth than help me.’