Alice Ross - The Cotswolds Cookery Club - a deliciously uplifting feel-good read

A few minutes later – despite the rising temperature both inside and outside the house – Connie had not only pulled on a cardigan, and buttoned it up to her neck, but also pulled herself together and managed to hand over a cold glass of orange juice to Liam the Adonis, without allowing him to see so much as a hint of the effect he was having on her. Or at least she hoped she hadn’t – praying the traitorous clinking of ice cubes as her shaking hand passed the drink to him hadn’t given her away.

Back in the kitchen, she attempted to do some work but, again because of the decorator, couldn’t concentrate. She didn’t know who was the greater distraction – Milk and Two Sugars, or the Adonis. About whom she was experiencing quite lust-ridden thoughts. When was the last time she’d had lust-ridden thoughts, she wondered. Evidently it was so far back, she couldn’t remember. In fact, she didn’t know if she’d ever had any. A fact which, contemplating the matter further, she could only attribute to a lack of lusty-thought-provoking men in her life. Somewhat embarrassingly, Connie could count on one hand the number of romantic liaisons in which she’d partaken during her thirty-four years – and still have a finger left over. There’d been a couple of “relationships” at university, the longest lasting six months, and then an eighteen-month on-off thing with a computer geek just after she’d graduated. And then Charles for the last five years. Five completely wasted years, as it now turned out. Rather unoriginally, she’d met him in a bar on a Friday night. It hadn’t been love at first sight – in fact, now she wondered if it had ever been love at all – but they’d trundled along okay together at the start. Even then, though – in the early days when lovers are supposed to be consumed by passion – she couldn’t recall ever experiencing a burning desire to rip off every shred of his clothing, smother him in panna cotta and lick off every remaining drop. Like she did with Liam every time he came within a two-metre radius. Which wasn’t only worryingly kinky, but also completely ridiculous given she was old enough to have been his school prefect.

Admitting defeat with the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing , and with Liam still occupied upstairs, Connie slipped into the downstairs loo and studied her reflection in the mirror. While in a league as far from Melody’s as Sydney was from Sidcup, she supposed she didn’t look too bad for a woman in her mid thirties. An average size twelve, she’d benefit from some toning up, but who – apart from just about every female she’d encountered in the Cotswolds – wouldn’t? Her thick chestnut hair – in the same “style” she’d worn it since she was twelve – fell halfway down her back, but still showed no sign of grey. And her skin remained line-free – well, apart from the couple of faint ones fanning out from the corners of her eyes. But discounting those – which she frequently did – she concluded she didn’t look too bad for someone approaching those scary middle years.

Fifteen minutes before leaving for Melody’s house, Connie smoothed down her hair, ran her tongue over her lips, and mounted the stairs to inform Liam of her departure.

‘Going anywhere nice?’ he asked, grinning at her from up his ladder.

‘To a friend’s. For lunch,’ she replied, hoping that made her sound ultra-cool, popular and… young.

‘Sweet. Enjoy. I’ll be knocking off for a bite myself soon.’

Connie attempted to ignore the wave of lust that crashed over her at this proclamation, the thought of Liam biting anything conjuring up all sorts of weird and wonderful images. ‘Right. Well, I’ll, er, see you later then,’ she stammered.

‘You most certainly will,’ he replied, the ensuing wink causing her knees to weaken and her pulse to quicken.

Having given pulse and knees a strict talking to, and managed to coax Eric out from behind the sofa, Connie left the house and – somewhat reluctantly – Liam, and wound her way through the village to Melody’s abode. Her route took her past pilot – and reckless car driver – Max Templeton’s cottage. This time, though, rather than lurking behind the rhododendrons, she marched directly past, head high. Or at least she would have – had Eric not stopped to pee on the gatepost. Thankfully, though, there was no sign of the Porsche – or the matching one Mrs Templeton no doubt drove. Which most likely had pink wheels. What had Eleanor said about her again? Oh yes – that she worked for a cosmetics company. Which probably meant she was one of those women who shovelled on six inches of make-up before venturing out the door. Hopefully she’d never find out, as she had absolutely no desire to make Mrs T’s acquaintance. Eric’s piddling completed, Connie carried on her way, following Melody’s directions and turning left at the end of the street.

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.