The Cotswolds Cookery Club: a deliciously uplifting feel-good read

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 every 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.

Had Connie been on her own, the string of invectives jamming in her throat would have been immediately unleashed on the perpetrator. But, aware such bawling would only add to Eric’s distress, she hunkered down to give him a reassuring stroke. As she did so, she heard the driver call over to them through the open car window.

‘Sorry!’

Connie didn’t deign to look at him, she was far too concerned with the dog. ‘So you should be,’ she hurled back, between muttering soothing platitudes to her ward. ‘I take it you haven’t noticed the Drive Carefully signs around the village.’

The man uttered something she didn’t hear. And she had absolutely no desire to request a repeat. She wasn’t interested in whatever pathetic excuse he’d dredged up. Frankly, there was no excuse. Had she and Eric been a metre further up the road, they’d have been toast.

Straightening up from the dog, she tossed a disdainful look in the direction of the vehicle – which, she noticed, as if it wasn’t pretentious enough, sported a set of garish red wheels. She then coaxed a quivering Eric across the road and, eventually, back to the house.

The dog settled on his bed and was snoring like a trooper thirty minutes later. Connie resumed her preparations for the cookery club meeting that evening, the burning rage she’d experienced in the street being slowly nudged aside by fizzing excitement. Along with making the tagliata, she planned to ask for her guests’ assistance in preparing a few side dishes – for which she still needed some ingredients, plus a couple of bottles of wine to break the ice and wash down their culinary efforts. Focused on that task, and with Eric out for the count, she snatched up her bag and keys, jumped into her car and headed over to the outskirts of Cirencester, home to – she’d been reliably informed by Anna – the biggest supermarket in the area.

Congratulating herself on finding her destination with only one wrong turn, Connie parked the car, wrestled out a trolley from the bay, and was on the verge of entering the shop when she noticed a black Porsche with red wheels parked up – almost certainly the same Porsche that had come close to flattening her and Eric earlier. It looked to be empty. A fortunate circumstance for the driver, because the mere sight of the vehicle had reignited her rage. Had he been present, all the anger she’d held back for Eric’s sake that morning would have been unleashed with interest.

Inside the supermarket, intent on her shopping, Connie threw her required items into the trolley, tossed in a few treats for Eric, added three bottles of Italian wine and three cartons of juice – to cover any “I don’t drink” eventualities – duly paid for her purchases, and was trundling back to the car when, a little way ahead, she noticed the Porsche gliding up one of the lanes, before stopping to allow an old lady to totter across. The ageing shopper safely at her destination, the vehicle continued on its route, passing Connie on the way. On the off-chance the driver might recognise her, she hastily arranged her features into a haughty expression for the split second it was driving by. Whether her efforts were in vain or not, she had no idea, because, along with the vulgar red wheels, the car also sported tinted windows – perfectly topping off the picture of pretention.

At six-fifty-two that evening, the doorbell chimed, causing Eric to vault two feet out of his basket – as usual – and Connie to vault two feet off her stool. In the ensuing hours since returning from the supermarket she’d worked herself into a tizzy, conjuring up all manner of depressing scenarios, like what if she burned something? Or what if she burned everything? Including Anna’s gorgeous house? And Anna had forgotten to take out insurance? And the fire engine couldn’t get through because of a herd of marauding cows on the road?

As soon as she answered the door, though, to find Melody beaming at her, a wave of calmness washed over her.

Connie’s first encounter with Melody had been in the newsagent’s, when she’d been out with Eric and had popped in to buy an ice cream.

‘Ah, here she is,’ Eleanor had declared from behind the counter. ‘What perfect timing. I was just telling Melody here about the cookery club and she’s very interested.’

Connie’s initial thought, as Melody had whipped around to her, had been one of astonishment. With her razor-sharp cheekbones, mane of shiny blonde hair and huge turquoise eyes, the woman was so stunning, she’d literally taken Connie’s breath away. And despite her lack of make-up, and her casual outfit of khaki combats and white T-shirt, she’d made Connie feel like something that had crawled out from under a mouldy stone. But the moment she’d smiled, Connie had warmed to her.

‘The club sounds great,’ she’d gushed, a west country lilt to her voice. ‘I’m not much of a cook, but I’m determined to get better.’

‘I’ve told her it’s all about learning,’ Eleanor had chipped in. ‘I’m no expert myself, but I enjoy a dabble. And at least you have someone to cook for, Melody.’ She turned to Connie. ‘Melody got married a few months ago.’

‘Oh. Right. Congratulations,’ Connie had offered.

Melody’s smooth velvety cheeks had flushed pink. ‘Thanks,’ she’d muttered, smile wavering somewhat.

‘So, I think she’d be a perfect candidate for the club,’ Eleanor had concluded. ‘What do you think, Connie?’

With Melody’s huge eyes gazing at her hopefully, Connie had been left with little option but to agree. Thankfully, though, all her instincts had told her Melody would be a welcome addition to the club. A sentiment reinforced by the woman’s evident excitement this evening – and the lovely bunch of cerise germinis and bottle of merlot she handed over.

‘Not very original. But I had no idea what to bring.’

‘You didn’t have to bring anything,’ Connie replied, accepting the gifts. ‘But thank you. The flowers are gorgeous. And I’m sure we can make good use of the wine. Come on in and I’ll pour us both a glass.’

‘Goodness, this all looks very professional,’ gasped Melody, upon reaching the kitchen and spotting all the measured-out ingredients in glass bowls, and the basket of veg waiting to be chopped. ‘It’s like something off the telly. And it’s doing nothing for my poor nerves. I’m really worried I’m going to be the dunce of the class.’

Connie laughed, gesturing to her guest to sit down on a stool at the island. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not a competition. It’s all about enjoying good food with like-minded people. To be honest, I’m a bit nervous myself. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘Really? You must be a pretty good cook, though.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ Connie set down the flowers and wine on the granite bench and began rooting around in the cupboards for a vase. ‘I’m a complete amateur but I love it. It’s been a passion of mine since I was a child.’

‘You’re lucky,’ puffed Melody. ‘I’m twenty-seven and I still haven’t found my passion.’

Mid rummage, Connie cocked an enquiring eyebrow at the obvious regret in her guest’s tone. By the time she turned back to her, though, Eric had made his presence known, peeping out from behind the sofa where he’d taken refuge immediately after the trauma of the chiming doorbell.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ gushed Melody, sliding off her stool and scurrying over to him. ‘What’s your name?’

She was deprived of the chance to find out as the bell rang again, and Eric once again took refuge.

‘Evening, Melody,’ exclaimed Eleanor, marching into the room behind Connie a few seconds later. ‘Good to see you.’

‘And you,’ said Melody, returning to her stool. ‘Have you had a busy day in the shop?’

‘Busy doesn’t cover it,’ puffed Eleanor, placing the bottle of wine she’d been carrying onto the island top before tugging off her cardigan. ‘Up until ten minutes ago, it was looking increasingly likely that I wouldn’t be able to make it tonight. Problem with the ice-cream supplier. I’ve only just finished a fifty-minute call to them. Honestly, it’s times like this when I wonder if I’m not too old for this newsagent malarkey. If I shouldn’t just sell up and retire to Benidorm.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ protested Melody. ‘Yours is one of the few friendly faces I’ve seen in almost a year of living here. In fact, when Malcolm’s away on business, yours is sometimes the only friendly face I see all day.’

‘Don’t tell me that. How can I go and collapse on a sunlounger and sip pina coladas all day now, knowing no one is talking to you here?’

‘You can’t,’ giggled Melody. ‘Which is why you have to stay.’

‘Ah. Not necessarily. Connie’s here now. And she has a very friendly face.’

‘But she’s not staying. The lucky thing is only here temporarily.’

Connie laughed as, having located a vase and filled it from the tap, she began arranging the flowers. ‘Surely it’s not that bad here.’

Melody gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Obviously you haven’t encountered the Residents’ Committee yet.’

‘No. I haven’t.’ Pleased with the arrangement of blooms, Connie placed the vase on the windowsill before moving back to the island and cracking open the bottle of merlot Melody had brought.

‘You’d know if you had,’ said Eleanor. ‘They’re like Rottweilers, ready to pounce on anyone who disobeys the screeds of rules they conjure up from nowhere. Wait until you read next month’s newsletter, then you’ll see what we mean.’

‘After that build-up, I can’t wait to read it,’ chuckled Connie, filling two wine glasses and sliding them across the island to her guests. She’d just filled another for herself when the doorbell struck again – heralding the arrival of Kate.

‘I might have known I’d be the last to arrive,’ the vet chuntered, bustling into the room. ‘Milo threw a tantrum, then threw up. Which made Mia cry and Jemima wail. Thank God for the au pair. If she hadn’t been there to help calm things down, I’d never have made it.’

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ remarked Eleanor. ‘Especially as Andrew never seems to be around.’

Kate furrowed her brow as she slipped onto the stool next to Melody. ‘Andrew? Who’s he again? The name is ringing a very distant bell.’ She slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh! You mean the man I occasionally wake up to find in my bed. Actually, he arrived home just as I was leaving, so I saw him for thirty seconds. Which is thirty seconds longer than most days. In fact, he was away all last week on a course and the ever so slightly terrifying thing was, we hardly even noticed.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Melody. ‘My husband, Malcolm, works really long hours too. But he never works weekends. In fact, I’ve banned all work talk between five o’clock on a Friday and eight o’clock Monday morning.’

‘Impressive,’ said Kate, accepting the glass of wine Connie handed her. ‘You obviously know what you’re doing. But to ban all work talk would imply that you two do actually engage in conversation. Something Andrew and I do very little of these days.’

‘It can only get better,’ chipped in Eleanor. ‘At least he’s there occasionally. My Frank was nowhere near perfect but I still miss him every day. Even though it’s four years now since he passed.’