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

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.

Blimey. Connie had no idea what line of business Melody’s husband worked in, but it was obviously a very lucrative one.

Slipping through the gates, she continued up the drive – flanked on either side by pristine lawns and rhododendron bushes – in stupefied awe, reaching the door what felt like three hours later. There, she pressed the old-fashioned brass bell, while experiencing the unnerving sensation that she really should be using the servants’ entrance.

What felt like another three hours later, Melody opened the door, looking lovely in cream leggings and a chiffon floral shirt.

‘Hi. Thanks so much for coming,’ she said, beaming at Connie and bending down to stroke Eric.

‘Thanks for asking us. Your house is awesome.’

Melody shrugged, her smile dipping slightly. ‘It’s okay. Far too big for the two of us. Between you and me, I would have been quite happy living in Malcolm’s bachelor pad – a lovely little house on the outskirts of Cirencester. But he wanted us to choose somewhere together. I preferred a cottage in the next village, but he fell in love with this place. And as it’s his money, I pretended to do the same.’

Her tone was coloured with something Connie couldn’t identify. Whatever it had been, though, Melody quickly dispensed with it, her smile returning with additional wattage.

‘Come on in. I’ll introduce you both to Tilly.’

She led them down an enormous hall into a kitchen five times the size of Anna’s.

‘Wow. This is amazing.’

‘It’s a bit excessive when you’re only cooking for one or two,’ pointed out Melody. She marched across the space to the open folding doors which made up the back wall. ‘Tills,’ she called into the garden. ‘Come and meet Connie and Eric.’

In a flash, a streak of white fur shot into the room, heading directly for Eric. Connie held her breath. Having unfastened his lead, she expected him to head directly to the nearest hiding place, or, at the very least, begin quivering like a jittery jelly. But he didn’t. As Tilly skidded to a stop in front of him, his ears pricked up and his tail flickered. Tilly shuffled in a shade closer, stuck out her tongue, licked his nose, then shot off through the folding doors again.

Eric stood stock-still for a moment, seeming to weigh up his plan of action. Then, to Connie’s astonishment, he followed Tilly – with a distinct bounce to his step.

‘I don’t believe it,’ gasped Connie.

‘Obviously thinks he’s on to a good thing,’ tittered Melody. ‘I’ll have to have words with Tilly about kissing on a first date.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ said Connie, making her way to the doors and watching Eric trot along after Tilly as she strutted around the garden. ‘This might well be the making of him.’

‘Let’s hope so. He’d enjoy life so much more if he wasn’t afraid of his own shadow. Let’s leave them to it and I’ll give you a quick tour.’

A “quick tour” – due to the vastness of the property – took thirty minutes. Connie had never been in such a huge private house before, but despite its impressive proportions and grandeur, she had to agree with Melody – for two people and a little dog it did seem excessive.

They finished in the garden, where the dogs now lay on the terrace basking in the sunshine. Eric opened one sleepy eye at their arrival, but otherwise seemed uncharacteristically at ease.

‘Take a seat,’ said Melody, indicating a wrought-iron table and chairs overlooking the extensive lawn and Olympic-sized pool. ‘Lunch is all prepared but I’m terrified to bring it out. I’d obviously had one glass of wine too many when I jumped in and offered to host the next meeting. And now I’m having a fit about it. My cooking is nowhere near as good as yours.’

‘Don’t be daft,’ tutted Connie. ‘The club’s not about one-upmanship. It’s about enjoying ourselves, trying new recipes and sharing tips. Now go and get it. I’m starving.’

‘Only if you promise to give me your absolute honest opinion.’

‘I absolutely promise.’

As Melody scuttled back into the house, Connie sat down and scanned her surroundings. Crikey. This really was how the other half lived. But something told her Melody wasn’t all that enamoured of the lifestyle.

Her host returned a few minutes later.

‘I’d love you to try these.’ She set down a tray on which sat two terracotta dishes of pan-fried prawns, a basket of crusty bread and two glasses of fizzy pink liquid with a strawberry anchored to the rim.

‘This looks incredible,’ exclaimed Connie, as Melody placed one of the dishes in front of her.

‘Pan-fried prawns with chilli, lemon and parsley. Plus a strawberry bellini to wash them down with.’

‘Excuse me while I pinch myself. Today is just getting better and better.’

‘Don’t say anything until you’ve tried them. Or, in fact, until tomorrow. If I haven’t given you food poisoning, then you have my full permission to gush.’

‘I’m going to be gushing any second now,’ giggled Connie, tearing off a piece of bread from the chunk she’d removed from the basket and dipping it into the juice in the bowl. ‘Yep,’ she confirmed, popping it into her mouth. ‘I am definitely gushing. That is sublime.’

Melody grimaced. ‘Honestly?’

‘Honestly,’ confirmed Connie, spearing one of the butterflied prawns. ‘The flavours are amazing. They burst into life on the tongue.’

‘Gosh. Thank you.’ Melody sat down and took a sip of her bellini. ‘I know I sound pathetic but I really don’t want to be the weak link in the club.’

Connie chewed her prawn, savouring the heavenly mingling tastes of the Mediterranean. ‘Impossible,’ she declared when she’d finished. ‘On so many counts. First, because I’ve never tasted prawns like that in my entire life. And second, because there are no weak links. We’re all in it together.’

Melody didn’t look convinced as she stabbed a prawn with her fork and swirled it around in the oil. ‘The thing is, I’ve never been good at anything. I’ve never had a chance to be. From being seven, my mother dragged me around the beauty circuit. And that was my life for the next twelve years.’

‘Goodness.’ Connie picked up her drink and sat back in her chair. ‘That sounds glamorous.’

Melody shook her head. ‘Anything but. Of course, you think it’s great when you’re seven – all the attention, the sparkly frocks, people telling you how pretty you are all the time. But as I grew older, I saw another side to it. The bitchy, competitive side. Not to mention the pressure to look perfect all the time. By the time I’d reached sixteen, I was desperate to pack it all in; to concentrate on my exams and train to be a dietician. But my mother wouldn’t hear of it. She’d set her heart on my becoming Miss Bristol. And believe me, when my mother has set her mind on something, you don’t argue.’

Connie chuckled. ‘It must have been exciting, though. All the travelling about, all the different competitions.’

‘Not really. One backstage area is much like another. And we never stayed anywhere. We couldn’t afford it. We just did the show, then drove home.’

‘And how did you do in the Miss Bristol competition?’

‘Won it when I was eighteen. My mother was ecstatic. I had a year of trotting around opening supermarkets and smiling until my jaw hurt. And that was it. The achieving of all my mother’s ambitions and none of my own.’

‘But surely you could still have trained as a dietician,’ pointed out Connie, setting down her glass and breaking off another piece of bread.

Melody wrinkled her nose, still toying with her prawn. ‘In theory. But because I hadn’t had a chance to study for my exams, I didn’t have the grades. I thought about evening classes, but I didn’t have the confidence. And, if I’m honest, I never really considered myself clever enough. Instead, I took a job on the cosmetics counter in a big department store in Bristol and worked there for seven years, until I married Malcolm. As the fairy tale goes, he whisked me away from it all.’

‘Blimey,’ puffed Connie, whose own life seemed remarkably dull by comparison. Not that that was unusual. Her life seemed dull compared to that of your average earthworm. ‘Where did you meet Malcolm?’

‘On the cosmetics counter. He came in looking for a new aftershave. I served him. After that, he came in every day for a week on the pretence of wanting something or other. Then he asked me out. And I said yes – despite him being double my age.’

Connie cocked an astounded eyebrow as she picked up her fork and stabbed another prawn.

Melody shook her head. ‘I know it sounds like a huge difference, but we get on so well. All the other guys I’d been out with had been my age, and only ever interested in getting hammered. Malcolm was different. Interesting. He made me laugh. We did all the usual stuff: cinema, walks, going out for a meal. When I asked him what he did for a living, he told me he worked for a software company. It wasn’t until I’d been seeing him for four months that he fessed up to owning the company. By which point we were head over heels in love. Not that anyone believes me when I tell them that. Everyone – including the whole of Little Biddington, from the way most of them snub me – thinks I’m the archetypal dollybird who sank her claws into a rich, older man.’

‘I don’t think that. I can see how much you love Malcolm by the way your face lights up every time you mention him.’

Melody flushed. ‘I know. I can’t help it. I love the bones of him. But I want him to be as proud of me as I am of him.’

‘I’m sure he already is.’

‘I’d like to think so. I don’t want him to think the same as everyone else – that I’m just after his money. Which is why I’d have preferred a smaller house. And why I’m desperate to do something for myself. Pay my way. Because I’ve always had to exercise to stay in shape, I trained as a fitness instructor a few years ago and I’ve approached the Residents’ Committee to ask about doing classes in the village hall – Zumba, Pilates, that kind of thing.’

‘Sounds like a great idea.’

‘That’s what I thought. But apparently not. Despite putting forward what I consider a very reasoned proposal, they’ve turned me down.’

‘Hmm. Well, from what I’ve heard, they sound a bit of a bunch. Couldn’t Malcolm help?’

‘Probably. But the chair of the committee is Celia Smythe – wife of Malcolm’s right-hand man at work. And by the way she looks down her nose at me every time I see her, she’s made it dazzlingly clear she considers me the archetypal blonde bimbo who’s only interested in Malcolm’s wallet. Which is why I really don’t want to involve him. I want to sort this out myself. Show Celia Smythe I’m not what she thinks. So, I’ll keep chipping away.’

Connie shook her head in awe. ‘I totally admire your determination. You’ll have to let me know how it goes.’

‘I will. I might even rope you in. Particularly if they want me to demonstrate a class.’

‘Hmm. I’m not sure having me and lycra in the same room would help your case,’ giggled Connie. ‘But I could certainly do with more exercise. Especially if you’re going to knock up dishes like this. These prawns are superb.’

‘Malcolm said that when I made them for him last night. Not that I believed him. He’s eaten in some of the world’s best restaurants. Still, sweet of him to say so. Even if it was just to keep me happy.’

‘As lovely as he sounds,’ tutted Connie, ‘I can assure you he would not have been saying it just to keep you happy. They are outstanding. You should be more confident about your cooking.’

Melody smiled. ‘Thanks. I’m hoping the club will help with that. In fact, it would be lovely if it could improve my confidence full stop. Since moving here, I’ve felt like a fish out of water. Which is another reason I joined the club – to meet more like-minded people.’

‘And you have,’ confirmed Connie, taste buds drooling as she prepared to devour yet another prawn. ‘And I for one am incredibly pleased you signed up for it.’

Liam was still up the ladder when Connie arrived back at the house. Entering the bedroom, her eyes immediately homed in on those toned buttocks again. The only buttocks she could imagine looking sexy in a pair of white, paint-splattered overalls.

‘Impressive progress,’ she said, employing a humongous effort to drag her gaze away from his rear and onto the wall being transformed from pale lilac to moss-green. ‘That looks great.’

‘Doesn’t it. Cool choice of colour. You lived here long?’

‘Um, no,’ she uttered, trying desperately not to salivate as she focused now on his tanned bicep, which flexed every time he moved the roller. ‘I actually live in London. I’m housesitting here for a few months while my friend and her husband are in Australia.’

‘Oh. Right.’ He swivelled his head round to her. ‘I’m off to Oz in a couple of months. Got a job sorted with a mate of mine. Might stay if I like it.’

‘Really,’ squeaked Connie, as he turned back to the wall and the biceps began doing their stuff again.

‘Might as well. Nothing to keep me here.’

‘No girlfriend?’ she whimpered.

‘Nah. What about you? Boyfriend not mind you upping sticks and moving here for a bit?’

‘No boyfriend.’

He twisted round to her again, eyes glinting with mischievousness. ‘Hot babe like you? Don’t believe that for a minute.’

Connie’s cheeks flew scarlet. She’d never been called a babe before. Never mind a hot one. Most likely due to her being neither. Still, nice to hear, even if it was pure fiction.

‘Would you… like another drink?’ she blurted, having no idea where the conversation was heading. And suspecting that, wherever it was, she would be way out of her depth.

‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he said through a disarming smile, before putting down the roller and dismounting the ladder.

Connie cursed herself as Liam followed her down the stairs. Of all the days to wear a pair of crappy baggy khaki shorts, why had she picked this one? And why hadn’t she shaved her legs when she’d been meaning to for the last fortnight? Tonight, she resolved, the shorts were going in the charity bag, and there would be a serious tidying up of self. Which might even include the painting of nails. Melody’s nails had been a glossy vibrant pink, and her legs smooth, shiny and fuzz-free. Plus, she would probably prefer a month of back-to-back karaoke evenings with the dreaded Residents’ Committee than to be seen in crappy baggy khaki shorts.

Upon reaching the kitchen, Liam perched his toned buttocks on a stool at the island, while Connie, aware of his eyes on her, did her best to detract from the shorts faux pas by sashaying over to the fridge. At least she hoped she sashayed. By the bemused look Eric shot her from his basket, she suspected she might look in dire need of the loo.

‘Apple, orange or cranberry?’ she asked, aiming for a casual lounge against the fridge door – and knocking off three of Anna’s treasured magnets in the process.

A strange snorting sound came from Liam, which hastily morphed into a cough. ‘Cranberry, please,’ he replied, a definite humorous lilt to his tone.

Connie engaged in another bout of silent cursing as she bent down and scrabbled together the magnets, cringingly aware the action was drawing yet more attention to her hideous attire.

The magnets duly collected, she clamped them back onto the fridge, then opened the door and retrieved the carton of juice. Closing it again, her heart skipped a beat as she discovered Liam beside her.

‘Oh,’ she gasped, parts of her body fluttering that hadn’t fluttered in their entire thirty-four-year existence. ‘Wh-what are you doing?’

‘Reading this.’ He indicated the slogan on her apron, hanging next to the fridge. ‘Food is better than sex, eh? Whoever came up with that has obviously never had the right buttons pressed.’ The remark was accompanied by another wink and a knowing smile that brought forth those adorable dimples.

The combination caused such a rush of heat to suffuse Connie that she almost yanked open the fridge again and clambered inside.

Chapter Six

With Liam hard at work upstairs the following morning, Connie attempted to make some headway with the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing book. Thirty minutes later, she admitted defeat. Who could concentrate on rods and rudds when there was an Adonis upstairs who probably had a very impressive rod of his own? And what exactly had he meant when he’d made that “pushing the right buttons” statement? Connie couldn’t imagine. Well, actually, she could. And, indeed, had spent half the night imagining. But she was being ridiculous. The guy was young enough to be her surprise kid brother.

Giving up on Fifty-Far-From-Fascinating Facts, pushing aside all thoughts of dishy decorators and their rods, and feeling incredibly inspired after her lunch with Melody, Connie decided to try her hand at making Piedmontese cookies – old-fashioned Italian petits fours – which, if successful, she might take along to the cookery club next week.

Having weighed out all the ingredients using Anna’s trendy retro food mixer, she creamed together butter and sugar, beat in an egg yolk, added almond essence, ground almonds and plain flour, then placed the mixture in the fridge for half an hour while she returned to her laptop and attempted to find something remotely “fascinating” in the contents of her latest assignment. Failing miserably, and the allotted chilling time having passed, she subsequently removed the mixture from the fridge, rolled it, cut out the biscuits, placed them on a baking sheet, and popped them in the oven until they turned golden brown. As they cooled on a wire rack, she’d begun melting the chocolate to sandwich them together, when Liam appeared in the doorway.

‘Just nipping out to grab a sarnie,’ he announced. Then, evidently catching a whiff of baking, ‘Phwoar. They smell good.’ He strode towards her, gaze on the cookies. ‘What are they?’

‘Italian biscuits. Want to try one?’

‘Rude not to,’ he chortled, sliding onto a stool. ‘And please tell me you’re not about to smother them in chocolate.’

‘I am actually.’ Connie removed the bowl from the pan of boiling water and set it down in front of him. ‘Don’t tell me you don’t like chocolate.’

‘Who in their right mind doesn’t like chocolate? I could live off it. Want a hand?’ he asked, as she took up a spoon, smeared one side of a biscuit with the gooey mixture, then sandwiched another to it.

‘Go on then. But wash your hands first.’

‘Yes, miss,’ he chuckled.

To which Connie stuck out her tongue.

Liam, having thoroughly washed and dried his hands – and held them out for inspection, at which point Connie told him to sod off – took up another spoon and copied her method of pairing up the cookies.

‘So, a hot babe who can cook,’ he said, stirring the remaining chocolate in the bowl and gazing at her through outrageously long lashes. ‘I’d say the boss moving me on to this job was a bit of a result.’

Connie did her best to stop a chuffed grin spreading onto her face. ‘Do you try and charm all your clients like this?’ she asked, making a concerted stab at nonchalance.

‘No. Why?’

‘Because working with all the Cotswolds supermodels must be manna from heaven for a good-looking lad like you.’

He shrugged. ‘Dunno about that. I can honestly say I’ve never fancied any other clients.’

At the inference that he fancied her, Connie’s half-coated chocolate biscuit tumbled to the floor, landing on her sandaled foot – chocolate side down.

Out for a stroll later that evening to stretch Eric’s legs, her soon-to-be-shaved legs, and to calm her mind, which insisted on spinning with Liam’s fancying her insinuation earlier, Connie dropped off a bag of biscuits at the newsagent’s, for which she received effusive thanks and congratulations, Eleanor having snaffled one immediately.

‘Just in case I forget to pass on my comments later,’ had been her excuse.

She was on her way back to the house when a black Porsche with red wheels and tinted windows drove by. This time putting her in mind of the large, shiny cockroach she’d once had the unfortunate privilege of sharing a bathroom with in Majorca.

The next day followed much the same pattern as the previous one – Connie trying desperately not to nod off over Five Hundred Un-Fascinating Facts. And trying even harder not to think about Liam and his rod. Her efforts were pitiful to say the least. Waking from an impromptu doze at the kitchen island at one-thirty, it occurred to her that she’d probably missed his “nipping out to grab a sarnie” announcement – and had most likely been snoring and dribbling over her laptop when he’d propelled his head round the door to inform her of this development.

Mortified to think he might have witnessed such uncomely behaviour – and even more mortified that he might be tempted to pass an “amusing” comment on it – she kept out of his way for the remainder of the afternoon, holding her breath as he entered the room at knocking-off time.

‘Um, I was wondering…’

He looked awkward but, as his gaze fused with hers, a smile touched his lips and that delicious glint of mischievousness twinkled in his eyes again.

Connie’s pulse quickened.

‘…if you fancied going out for a drink or something tonight?’

A peel of celebratory bells let rip in Connie’s head, accompanied by a burst of fireworks, a full choir chanting “Halleluya”, and the entire cast of Riverdance clomping their clogs. Battling the urge to rip off her bra and swing it round her head, she pursed her lips, pretending to award the proposition careful consideration. ‘Hmm. Tonight.’

‘About seven? I could nip home, have a shower, then come and pick you up.’

Oh God. He wanted to pick her up. Could he be any more adorable!

‘Okay,’ she eventually huffed.

He looked slightly deflated. ‘Only if you want to. I mean, if you’re busy you don’t have to.’

Crap! He was backtracking. She’d better show some enthusiasm. Quickly. ‘No. Tonight’s fine,’ she breezed, as the choir started up again. ‘See you at seven.’

No sooner had Liam left the house, Connie casually waving him off while her heart joined in the Riverdance routine, than she hurtled up to the bathroom for some serious pampering. Legs and underarms defuzzed, eyebrows plucked, toenails clipped and painted, she then moved on to the issue of what to wear – and found herself rummaging through her underwear drawer. Underwear! Oh no. That could only mean one thing. That she was considering…

But of course she wasn’t. She’d only known Liam five minutes. She couldn’t possibly sleep with someone she’d only known five minutes.

Could she?

Liam bowled up at two minutes to seven. In his Decadent Décor cherry-red van. Admittedly not the most romantic of vehicles. And not easy to climb into wearing a tight white halter-neck dress, as Connie soon discovered. Admitting defeat with her attempts at a sexy, slinky ascent, she resorted to hoisting up her dress to her knickers and scrambling in – silently fuming all the while. She’d bought the dress on a whim after seeing someone in a changing room trying it on. Admittedly, the girl had been two sizes smaller, and had had a definite bubble-butt thing going on. But, nevertheless, thinking it looked sophisticated, glamorous and… young, Connie had hared over and nabbed the last one on the rail. A manoeuvre she now regretted.

‘Don’t you dare look,’ she instructed an amused Liam as, dress almost round her waist, she clambered onto the passenger seat.

‘Spoilsport,’ he sniggered, eyes to the driver-side window.