The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Spain

by Alice Ross

  The next morning, Trish found Ian downstairs looking dreadful.

  ‘I didn’t sleep a wink,’ he huffed.

  ‘Neither did I,’ she replied.

  ‘Have you thought about what I said?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And?’

  She blew out a breath. ‘I don’t know, Ian. You can’t just throw something like that at me after the last ten months, and expect me to make a snap decision.

  ‘But I thought you’d—’

  ‘What? Welcome you back with open arms?’

  He looked suitably shamefaced. ‘Not quite. But—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it right now. We’re out of milk. Can you go and get some?’

  ‘Okay.’ He stood up. ‘Can we discuss it when I come back?’

  Not knowing what to say, Trish imitated Amber and gave an indecipherable grunt.

  Twenty minutes later, savouring the calm with Ian out of the way, Trish had just finished two slices of toast when the doorbell rang.

  ‘Morning!’ chirped a lanky youth with a large pimple on the end of his nose. ‘I’ve come to value the house.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Trish. ‘You’ve got the wrong address.’

  The man glanced down at his clipboard, his pimple glinting in the sunlight. ‘Is this 3 Meadow Lane?’’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then that’s the address I’ve been given.’ He flashed a toothy grin.

  Trish didn’t return it.

  ‘What’s going on?’ asked Ian, suddenly popping up bearing milk.

  ‘There’s been a mix-up,’ Trish informed him. ‘This young man has come to value a house but—’

  Ian pulled a face. ‘Shit. I’d forgotten all about that.’

  ‘How could you?’ yelled Trish in the kitchen, the estate agent having been despatched with profuse apologies.

  ‘I was going to tell you. But with the miscarriage and everything—’

  ‘Don’t you dare use the miscarriage as an excuse. The time to tell me – or rather to discuss with me – was before you sold the house from under us.’

  ‘I haven’t sold the house from under you. You’re being melodramatic.’

  ‘Melodramatic,’ squawked Trish, scarcely able to believe her ears. ‘You arrange to have our house valued – my and Amber’s home – the place we’ve lived in as a family for the last fourteen years – without even discussing it with me. And then you have the gall to accuse me of being melodramatic because I’m upset. You really are an insensitive arse, Ian.’

  ‘Well, maybe I am. But it hasn’t been easy for me either, you know. Chloe’s never been off my back since she found out she was pregnant, harping on about how we couldn’t possibly bring up a baby in the flat; how we needed more space. And a garden. But I couldn’t afford to keep two places in the bloody Cotswolds. So I thought, as Amber will be off to university in a couple of years, and you won’t need such a big place when you’re on your own, that you wouldn’t mind downsizing, thereby freeing up a bit of cash for me to buy a place with Chloe.’

  Trish gaped at him, unable to believe this was the same man who, only hours before, she’d been considering giving a second chance; the same man she’d imagined might be regretting his decision to leave behind their neat family unit. When, all the while, he’d been plotting to evict them. Planning to relegate them to second place, usurped by his new lover and baby. Tossing them out of their home in order to buy another for his new family. She could not have felt a bigger fool had she been wearing a World’s Biggest Fool T-shirt.

  ‘I think you should go,’ she said.

  His eyes grew wide. ‘But I don’t have anywhere to go to.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  He attempted a shy smile. ‘Couldn’t I just stay for lunch then—?

  ‘Out!’ roared Trish. In a voice that didn’t remotely resemble her own. But which, judging by the speed of Ian’s departure, had evidently been effective.

  ‘Where’s Dad?’ asked Amber, returning from a double paperround shift later.

  ‘Gone,’ snapped Trish, furiously slicing a carrot. In a bid to bring down her blood pressure, she’d turned to her favourite pastime and had already knocked up a couple of spicy tuna and cottage cheese jacket potatoes. And was now making an enormous salad.

  ‘Oh. I thought he might stay for a while. Now he and Chloe aren’t having a baby any more.’

  ‘Well, you thought wrong,’ retorted Trish. ‘Your father will never stay here again.’

  Evidently eager for more details, Amber opened her mouth again, but meeting Trish’s furious gaze, she closed it. ‘Would you mind ironing my pink top?’ she asked. ‘I’m going out with Miguel later.’

  ‘You know where the iron is,’ replied Trish matter-of-factly. ‘You can do it yourself.’

  ‘So you chucked him out?’ gasped Connie in the newsagent’s.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Ha! Good for you. I didn’t like to say anything at the time, but he sounds a total shit.’

  ‘With knobs on.’

  ‘How’re you feeling about it all?’

  Trish shrugged. ‘Well, before I met you, Kate and Melody, I honestly think I’d have been a wreck. I know it sounds ridiculous, given the purpose of the club is cooking, but I’ve got so much more out of it than a few new recipes.’

  Connie beamed at her. ‘I’m so pleased. And I know what you mean. When I first moved here, I was a wreck. My five-year relationship was no more, I was back living with my parents, bored with my job—’

  ‘I don’t believe it. You always seem so sorted; so in control.’

  Connie gave an ironic snort. ‘The Cotswolds and the cookery club have saved me. And Melody will tell you the same. She was having real problems settling into the village before the club. Now, though, she’s charmed the lot of them.’

  ‘That’s amazing. There’s obviously a lot more to this cooking lark than you think.’

  ‘There certainly is. But don’t worry. It’s all going down in my blog.’

  ‘Not all, I hope.’

  ‘Well, no. Not quite all,’ chuckled Connie, as Amber wandered into the shop, wearing a Whatever sprinkles your doughnuts T-shirt.

  Trish could not have put it better herself.

  Epilogue

  Six weeks on…

  … and Trish felt like a different person. All the stress and confusion that had shrouded her like a thick fog since Ian’s departure had completely dissipated and she could now see her way clearly.

  As Connie had once pointed out, she’d been putting everyone else before herself, not giving any thought to what she wanted.

  But now she knew what she wanted: her independence.

  Much to Ian’s bewilderment.

  He was renting a flat near his office, wearing normal jeans, and looking completely dejected every time he picked up or dropped off Amber. Although taking no pleasure in seeing him so miserable, Trish had limited sympathy. He’d tossed away everything they’d had, with very little regard for Amber. And the fact that he’d considered selling the house without even discussing it with her had highlighted just what a selfish prick he could be.

  Trish hadn’t been completely honest with Amber about what had happened. She’d considered it best not to make the girl aware of her father’s thwarted house-sale plans. Thankfully, she seemed to have accepted that her parents’ living-apart arrangements were now permanent.

  With Trish’s fury and no-nonsense mood lasting three weeks, Amber appeared to have grown up, acting more rationally and less like a spoiled brat. She was now doing her own ironing and attempting to keep her room tidy. And there’d been another huge development.

  Much to Trish’s amazement, she’d arrived home one day from a trip to Cirencester to discover Amber had made dinner.

  ‘To apologise,’ she’d said. ‘For blaming you for Dad leaving. I know now that he can be a bit immature. And, well, a bit of a prat really. And he’s not the only one. I’ve been taking you for gra
nted and I really shouldn’t have. Because…’ She’d broken off at that point, briefly shifting her gaze to the floor, before meeting Trish’s astonished one again. ‘…I now realise that you’re, like, the best ironer in the world. And, well, the best mum.’

  Much sniffling and hugging had ensued, and the air well and truly cleared after that.

  But Trish wasn’t claiming all the credit for the pleasant change in her daughter’s behaviour.

  The very charming Miguel had also played apart. Now that he and Amber were back at school, Trish had expected the novelty of the paper round to wear off. But it hadn’t. Instead, it had become part of their routine – one Amber was sorting herself out with.

  And then there was Steve. Who Trish was becomingly increasingly fond of. They were still at the “tentative” phase, but he’d invited her over to Madrid with him the following weekend – without any pressure, he’d stressed. Trish hadn’t been sure at first. Indeed, it had taken her three days to make up her mind. But now she had, she was very excited about taking their relationship to the next level. She didn’t know what would happen when he moved back to Madrid permanently, but, for now, she was happy to take one day at a time.

  And finally, there was the cookery club and its wonderful members, all of whom had provided her with wonderful support, friendship and some fab recipes. And to whom Trish would have liked to give a T-shirt each, saying Thank you.

  Turn over for an exclusive extract from A Taste of Italy,

  the first scrumptious story in The Cotswolds Cookery Club series from Alice Ross…

  Chapter One

  ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

  On the other end of the phone, Connie Partridge silently counted to three as she awaited her mother’s next comment.

  It arrived on cue.

  ‘Goodness, I can hardly believe you’re thirty-four today.’

  Connie rolled her eyes. The edge to her mother’s voice – which had made its first appearance on Connie’s thirtieth birthday – was now all too familiar. It did not infer “gosh, how time flies”, but rather “I can’t believe my only child is hurtling towards middle-age, has zero career prospects, is unmarried, technically homeless, and, with not so much as a sniff of a man on the horizon, has absolutely no hope of producing grandchildren”.

  Mind you, being perfectly honest, Connie couldn’t believe her lack of achievement in these areas either. On her last birthday she’d dared to imagine she might be making some headway – in the relationship area at least. She’d imagined that, after five years together, Charles might have considered her notching up another year as the perfect time to Pop the Question. But he hadn’t. Instead, four months ago, she’d discovered him popping something – or rather someone – else: Stacey – his ridiculously glamorous co-worker. In the bed he shared with Connie.

  After the initial shock of walking in on the pair – including being secretly awestruck at how immaculate Stacey’s hair looked after what appeared to have been a particularly sweaty session – Connie had engaged in much shouting, cursing and hurling about of things, before instructing Charles to vacate the premises forthwith. When he’d replied – with some diffidence – that the flat belonged to him, Connie had been forced to concede that he did have a point, and had subsequently made a hasty retreat herself – back to her parents’ three-bed semi in Surbiton – where her mother, predictably, had been less than impressed by developments.

  ‘Men don’t stray without reason, Constance,’ she’d sniffed, with a knowing toss of her auburn bob.

  The observation had done little to revive Connie’s dwindling self-esteem, which, never buoyant at the best of times, had continued to plummet further over the ensuing months. Aided on its progress by yet more cutting – and sadly accurate – maternal remarks.

  ‘You really need to reconsider your career options, darling. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you have no prospects, aren’t exactly earning a fortune, and it’s not even as if you enjoy what you do.’

  None of which Connie could argue with. Her parent had, once again, hit the nail on its increasingly jaded head. But the tirade hadn’t stopped there.

  ‘And it’s so solitary. Your job does nothing for your social life, which, let’s face it, isn’t exactly buzzing.’

  Yet again, Connie could not demur. Working from home as a self-employed proofreader was incredibly solitary – zero banter with colleagues, no office politics to chunter about, and, on the rare occasion she found something to titter about in her reading matter – like an extra “t” added to the word “far”, there was nobody to titter with.

  ‘You need to get out more, dear. How else are you going to meet another man? After all, you’re not getting any younger.’

  Her mother’s mutterings, combined with her thirty-fourth birthday lurking just around the corner – had not only made Connie feel like the world’s biggest failure, but had made her realise she really did need to make some changes to her life. Exactly what changes, she was still pondering, when she’d received an interesting phone call from her best friend, Anna.

  ‘Hugh’s been posted to Sydney for six months,’ she informed Connie, referring to her banker husband. ‘And I’ve wangled a temporary transfer to the agency’s office there.’

  ‘Trust you,’ huffed Connie. Anna had what Connie – and indeed most mere mortals – would deem The Perfect Life: a gorgeous husband who worshipped the ground she walked on, a great job as a booker for an international modelling agency, and the most to-die-for house in an idyllic Cotswolds village. As much as Connie loved her, Anna was not the woman to have around when your life resembled a plus-sized, reinforced-gusseted pair of pants. As did hers at the moment. Nevertheless, despite turning pea-green, she’d done her best to whip up some enthusiasm for her friend’s exciting news.

  ‘It sounds amazing. A fantastic experience for you both.’

  ‘I know. I can’t wait.’

  ‘When are you going?’

  ‘Next week, can you believe? I have a million things to do.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind two million things to do if it meant six months Down Under,’ muttered Connie, gazing out at the drizzly May morning. ‘Make yourself a long list and crack on with it.’

  ‘Already have. And you’re at the top. We were wondering if you’d like to come down and housesit for us while we’re away.’

  Phone pressed to her ear, Connie’s eyeballs had almost sprung from their sockets. ‘What? Move down to Little Biddington and stay in your fabulous house for six months?’

  ‘Yes. But only if you want to. The one stipulation being that you look after Eric – the most decrepit, indifferent, pathetic greyhound on the planet. As much as we’d love to take him with us, I’m not sure his dodgy ticker is up to the journey.’

  Relief and excitement had whooshed through Connie’s veins. ‘I’d love to.’

  ‘You don’t have to make up your mind right now. You can think about it. Call me back later.’

  Connie had shaken her head. ‘Anna, I’m in my mid thirties and sleeping in a single bed in a room next to my parents. Believe me, there is nothing to think about. I’m coming.’

  And she had. A few days later she’d shoehorned a mountain of bags into her little Punto and trundled down the M40, eventually swapping the fume-filled madness of the motorway for sleepy country lanes filled with fresh air and fringed with May blossom.

  By the time she’d reached Little Biddington, where Anna’s gorgeous Grade II-listed house, built in golden Cotswold stone, nestled among wisteria, hydrangea and foxgloves, Connie felt like she’d entered a different world. And even now, a couple of weeks on, she still occasionally had to pinch herself to ensure she wasn’t dreaming: that this little piece of heaven was indeed hers – for the next few months at least.

  ‘So, are you doing anything special for your birthday?’ asked her mother, hauling her back to the present.

  Perched on a stool at the island in Anna’s exquisite kitchen – where modern dove-grey units
were stylishly juxtaposed with traditional beams and exposed stone – Connie cast an eye over the pile of fresh vegetables on the granite worktop – chunky carrots, glistening aubergines, bulbous onions and sun-ripened tomatoes. Next to them sat four ramekins ready to be filled with the creamy chocolate panna cotta she was about to whip up – which would then chill in the fridge for several hours before being topped off with juicy oranges later that evening. At the thought, excitement began bubbling in her stomach. ‘Er, no. Nothing special,’ she lied.