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

Wriggling into the seat, and pulling her dress back into place, a swarm of doubts began nibbling at Connie’s innards. Was this really a good idea? Should thirty-four-year-olds wear tight white dresses? And should thirty-four-year-olds even be going on dates?

Liam’s next comment, though, obliterated every one of her doubts. ‘You look fantastic,’ he said, head having now executed a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree turn in her direction.

Connie swivelled round to him, a dazzling smile now on her face. But at the sound of ripping fabric, the smile disappeared and her hand shot to her bottom.

‘Bugger,’ she cursed.

Liam didn’t reply. He was too busy laughing.

After a short interlude, during which Connie shot back into the house and re-emerged ten minutes later in cropped white trousers and an orange short-sleeved shirt, they headed to the pub – a lovely little country hostelry with a thatched roof, wonky beams and acres of polished brass.

‘Bring all your women here, do you?’ she asked.

‘Usually only the ones who keep their clothes on,’ Liam quipped, with another cheeky wink and a gorgeous, dimple-inducing grin.

The rest of the evening, much to Connie’s relief, passed in a blur of laughter.

‘Thanks for a lovely night,’ she said, when he dropped her back at the house later.

‘Thanks for coming.’ He turned twinkling blue eyes to her, the hint of a smile hovering about his full, moist lips, which had looked increasingly kissable as the evening wore on.

As Connie’s gaze snagged on his, a new branch of Butterfly World opened in her stomach. Was she brave enough to voice the words tickling her throat? Oh sod it, she decided, four glasses of Prosecco making the decision for her. She sucked in a deep breath. And on the exhale blurted, ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee?’

Liam’s delicious mouth curved upwards. ‘Only if I can have one of those Italian biscuits with it.’

A few days later and Connie couldn’t decide which was best: sex on a Tuesday afternoon, sex on a Tuesday night, sex on a Wednesday morning, sex on a Wednesday night. Or sex on a Thursday morning. Because, since their night at the pub, she and Liam had hardly surfaced for air. They’d been at it in the living room, in the shower, and even in the kitchen – where, perched on the bench, she’d accidentally knocked on the food mixer, at maximum speed with its flexi beater attachment. So unimpressed had Eric been that he’d stalked off into the garden, cosied up to a stone buddha, and refused to come back in until a) the flexi beater had stopped beating, b) Liam had left, and c) there was a nice bit of steak in his bowl.

Connie, conversely, had been extremely impressed. The sex had been hot, steamy, sweaty, messy, exhausting, unbelievably orgasmic and a million miles from anything she’d ever before experienced. And although part of her still couldn’t believe she’d jumped into bed – and the shower, and onto the kitchen bench – with someone she hardly knew, the greater part thought why not. They were both young – well, Liam was – free and single. Two consenting adults engaging in some harmless fun. And harmless fun was something Connie now realised had been sadly lacking in her life. It might be completely out of character for her to sleep with someone she’d known all of five minutes, but whereas in London her actions would have been viewed as reckless, here in the Cotswolds, it seemed like nothing more than a raunchy holiday romance. Liam made her feel sexy, desirable, alive and young – none of which she’d felt in years – and some of which she’d never felt in her entire life. And the fact that the relationship had no future – her returning to London in a few months, him jetting off to Oz, made it all the more enjoyable – no expectations, no stress. Just one hundred per cent pleasure – in the truest sense of the word.

‘Still think food is better than sex?’ he’d asked, nibbling her ear and doing that thing with his hand that she really liked as she lay naked on the bed.

Connie couldn’t reply. She was too busy ecstatically melting into a pool of melted ecstasy.

*

In what seemed to Connie like the blink of an eye, the date of the second cookery club meeting rolled around – to be hosted by Melody. In line with her hosting duties, she’d emailed the other members with menu details: she would be making a main course of meatballs with peperonata; Connie was to prepare a dessert; Eleanor the antipasti; and Kate the side dishes. With all her ingredients, plus a bottle of fruity merlot in her backpack, Connie clipped on Eric’s lead and set off towards Melody’s impressive abode, the dog trotting alongside her. Just as they approached the edge of the village her mobile pinged with a text from Liam:

Feeling a bit peckish. In need of a bite – of you x

Reading it, Connie experienced a pang of regret at not spending the evening with him. And a mini stomach flutter at recalling what they’d been doing twenty-four hours before. But then again, she assured herself, she could always invite him over after the club meeting – if she wanted to. Unlike her previous “relationships”, where she’d have deliberated for hours over whether she dared do something so forward, stressing about appearing too keen, too needy, or too much of a floozy, none of that mattered with Liam. Their coupling was a giggle, a bit of fun. And as far as she could see, there was nothing wrong with that at all.

Realising she’d been standing directly outside the Templetons’ cottage, most likely with a lust-struck expression on her face, Connie shoved the phone back into her pocket and marched past the house affecting her most disdainful expression. Not that she knew why. Just because the black Porsche was outside didn’t mean Max Templeton would be lurking at the window on the unlikely off-chance she might saunter by. Nevertheless, on the slim chance he might be lurking, she didn’t want him to think she’d forgotten her and Eric’s near-death experience. Or that she approved of such ostentatious, red-wheeled, tinted-windowed vehicles.

Once past the – admittedly very attractive – residence, Connie released a breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding, and began savouring the rest of her glorious surroundings – the abundance of flowers, the mix of trees, the tweeting of birds, the sweet-smelling fragrant fresh air. How she would miss it all – and the fantastic sex – when she returned to London. But she didn’t want to think about that yet. She had months left in Little Biddington. And she intended to make the most of them. This evening included.

‘Wow, you look great,’ exclaimed Melody, opening the door to them. ‘And I’m so pleased you’ve brought Eric. Tilly’s been pining for him. For a whole three days after you left, she hardly moved from the spot on the terrace where he’d been lying.’

‘Aww, that’s so sweet,’ said Connie. ‘And he obviously feels the same. I’ve never known him walk so fast.’

‘Aah. Canine love,’ giggled Melody, pressing a hand to her chest as Connie unclipped Eric’s lead and he shot off at the speed of sound in search of Tilly.

‘No need to stand on ceremony, Eric,’ Melody called after him.

Connie grimaced. ‘Hmm. I’d better tell him not to look so desperate. It’ll turn Tilly right off.’

‘I doubt that. She’s smitten. Well, as Eric’s making himself at home, I think you should do the same. Come on in. Unsurprisingly, I’m in the kitchen. In fact, I’ve been so inspired since your last visit, I’ve hardly been out of it.’

‘For all the right reasons, I hope.’

‘Absolutely. I’m loving trying new recipes. And I’m loving the Italian theme. Malcolm and I honeymooned on Capri and it’s bringing it all back.’

‘Blimey. Sounds like you’re all loved up in this house – you, Malcolm and Tilly.’

Melody laughed. ‘I suppose we are. But I’m still really nervous about this evening. I hardly slept a wink last night. In fact, at one stage, I thought I might just admit defeat and scoot down to the supermarket to buy a couple of pizzas.’

‘What! And deprive us of your gorgeous meatballs. Then you really would be in trouble.’

‘Oo, in that case, it’s just as well I didn’t then.’

Eleanor arrived next, gushing about Melody’s house and buzzing about her dishes.

‘Now, I know I’ve gone a bit over the top,’ she informed them, flipping open the myriad plastic containers she’d set down on the black granite counter. ‘And I’ve made far too much. But I couldn’t help myself. It’s such a pleasure having people to try these things out on.’

‘I’m not complaining,’ said Melody, peering into the boxes. ‘That roast pepper salad looks gorgeous.’

‘Wait until you try the roast aubergine parcels,’ said Eleanor, glowing with pride. ‘They are to die for.’

‘I can see. And are those tomatoes stuffed with pesto?’

‘They are.’

‘Well, I don’t think we need bother with anything else,’ chuckled Melody, heading out of the kitchen as the doorbell chimed. ‘We can just gorge ourselves on all these fab starters.’

‘Fine by me,’ giggled Connie.

‘But not by me,’ said Eleanor. ‘I’ve been looking forward to these meatballs all day. And I just bet you have a yummy dessert up your sleeve, Connie.’

‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ said Connie, with a playful wink.

‘Gosh, so sorry I’m late,’ chuntered Kate, scampering into the room after Melody. ‘Chaos at the ranch, as usual.’

‘You look shattered,’ remarked Connie sympathetically.

‘I am.’ Kate plonked down her basket on the island. ‘Mia’s had a tummy bug for the last four days. Honestly, give me animals to deal with any day of the week. But let’s not talk about kids. I’ve come here to escape for a few hours and just be me. I know it’s a complete cliché, but since having children I feel like I’ve completely lost the sense of who I am. Like nothing else I’ve achieved matters now I’m a mother.’

Melody puffed out a sigh as she hooked a butcher’s apron over her head. ‘Don’t knock it. I’d love a family. We’ve been trying for the last eight months but it’s just not happening.’

Kate grimaced. ‘Oops. Me and my big mouth. Sorry. I had no idea. But don’t despair. I’m sure it will happen. It took me ages to fall pregnant the first time. And look what’s happened since.’

Melody nodded. ‘You’re right. I’m sure it will happen. I’m just being impatient. And as you don’t want to talk about kids, let’s change the subject.’

‘Thank you.’ Kate flashed a grateful smile. ‘Actually, on a non-kid positive note, I do have some news. My dad’s agreed to join the bridge club—’ She broke off as the plastic container Eleanor had just removed from the basket fell to the floor.

‘Sorry,’ she muttered, bending down to retrieve it.

Kate carried on. ‘Anyway, that might not seem remotely significant to you lot. But, having done nothing more than mope about and kick his heels since Mum died, I’m looking on it as a major leap for mankind.’

‘So you should,’ said Connie. ‘It’s lovely to hear he’s becoming interested in things again.’

‘It is. Not to mention a weight off my already overloaded mind. If he hadn’t agreed to it, I might have had to resort to desperate measures and sign him up for the cookery club.’

At which remark, Eleanor’s newly retrieved box tumbled to the floor again.

‘Crikey, for the first time in my life I think my mouth is watering,’ giggled Kate as, at the gleaming silver Aga, Melody lifted the lid on the simmering peperonata and tossed in the red and yellow peppers Eleanor had just sliced. At the kitchen island, meanwhile, Connie emptied a tub of mascarpone into a bowl, tipped in caster sugar and began furiously whisking.

‘Meatballs with peperonata followed by baked figs with mascarpone whip. Heaven on two plates,’ exclaimed Kate. ‘Although goodness only knows what my waistline will make of it all. Rather depressingly, I’ve put on two stone since having the twins.’

‘Well, if my fitness classes are ever approved by the Residents’ Committee, you’ll have to come along,’ said Melody, replacing the lid on the pan and turning up the heat. ‘But don’t hold your breath.’

‘I can’t believe they haven’t given you the green light,’ huffed Eleanor. ‘Zumba and boxercise would make a lovely change from all that ponsey Tai Chi and flower arranging they do in the hall these days.’

‘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 fuelling 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?’