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

‘I’ll second that,’ agreed Kate. ‘And I can only think, Connie, that your ex must be mad to let you go when you can cook like that.’

‘Hmm. I don’t know,’ sighed Connie. ‘Now I think about it, he never really said much about my cooking.’

‘Bad case of jealousy. Another reason you’re well rid. You deserve better. Someone who appreciates your amazing skill.’ Licking the last of the creamy panna cotta from her spoon, Kate set it down, glanced at the railway clock on the wall, and groaned. ‘Bum. It’s after eleven. I’ll have to shoot. Milo wakes up around now and, if I’m not there, he’ll go into meltdown. Let me quickly help with the clearing up, though, before I go.’

‘No, honestly,’ Connie assured her. ‘I can manage.’

‘I’ll stay and help,’ cut in Melody. ‘But should we agree on the next meeting before we all disappear? I’m happy to host it if you like.’

‘Fantastic,’ said Kate. ‘Why don’t we take it in turns? The host can choose the menu and allocate the rest of us the starter, dessert or side dish. And I think we should make the meetings bi-weekly, rather than monthly. I’ve had such a great time, I don’t want to wait another month.’

‘Me neither,’ agreed Melody. ‘Plus, I vote for sticking with the Italian theme until we’ve all had a turn hosting. That was so delicious, Connie, I can’t wait to sample more. What do you think, Eleanor?’

They all turned to Eleanor, who’d taken a biscuit over to Eric in an attempt to coax him out from behind the sofa.

The sofa on which she now lay – fast asleep.

‘Must be all those early starts with the newspapers,’ giggled Melody.

‘And absolutely nothing to do with the amount of wine she’s drunk,’ tittered Kate.

Chapter Four

The next morning, Connie woke on a high. Not that she’d had much sleep. She’d been too wound-up with the success of the evening. The first meeting of the cookery club had far exceeded her expectations. The group had gelled beautifully. And the food, although she said so herself, had been utterly scrumptious. But while she buzzed, poor Eric appeared traumatised by recent events, his distressed state further agitated by their having had to help home a tipsy Eleanor. Racked with guilt at having subjected him to such an ordeal, Connie determined to make it up to him that morning, starting with a leisurely amble around the village.

Yet again, it was another dazzlingly bright spring morning, the sun already high in the sky, bathing the village in an orange glow. As they pootled down the street, stopping every few seconds for Eric to pee or sniff, the newsagent’s came into view. And so, too, did the car parked outside – a very distinctive black Porsche with red wheels and tinted windows. So preoccupied with the cookery club had Connie been, she hadn’t given the vehicle – or its reckless driver – a second thought after the sighting at the supermarket yesterday. Seeing it now, though, both her anger and the urge to tell the owner exactly what she thought of him almost ploughing down her and Eric, returned with a vengeance. But with the dog engaged in a particularly intense snuffle around what was obviously a very fragrant lamp post, she could do nothing but observe as a tall figure with brown hair, wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt, loped out of the shop, jumped into the car and drove off, at – she noticed – a respectable speed.

Observing the vehicle as it glided down the street – putting Connie in mind of a big black beetle – she couldn’t decide if she felt relieved or disappointed that she hadn’t been close enough to share her opinion of his driving. Either way, her curiosity had been roused. She wouldn’t mind finding out who he was. And she knew just the person to tell her. As if on cue, Eleanor’s colourful form – adorned in red-cropped trousers and a short-sleeved yellow blouse – suddenly appeared.

‘How’s the head this morning?’ enquired Connie, as she approached.

Eleanor whipped around to her, mortification sweeping over her heavily made-up features.

‘Oh, Connie, I am so embarrassed. I’ve never nodded off like that before. It’s all these early mornings. They catch up with you.’

Connie laughed. ‘I’m sure they do. But I hope the late night hasn’t put you off coming to the next meeting.’

‘Heavens, no. I had a wonderful time. Beats a glass of sherry and a night in front of the box any day of the week. And, for all my shameful exit, and – between me and you – a slight headache, I’m feeling incredibly inspired. There’ve been a couple of recipes in the Galloping Gourmet recently that I’ve been itching to try. And what better opportunity than to experiment on you three?’

‘Absolutely. That’s what the club’s all about.’

‘That and a good old natter. Which makes a nice change for me. I pass the time of day with people in the shop but rarely have time for a proper chat.’

Spotting an appropriate opening, Connie grasped it. She cleared her throat before asking, in what she hoped was an airy tone, ‘Do you, um, know the name of the man who was in here a few minutes ago? He drives a black Porsche.’

Eleanor wrinkled her nose. ‘Black Porsche?’

‘Yes. Tall. Brown hair.’

The shopkeeper gave a self-deprecating tut. ‘Oh, of course. It’s Max Templeton. He lives in Cedarwood Cottage.’ She waved an arm in the general direction. ‘He’s a pilot and his wife is some high-flying executive for a cosmetics company or something. Why do you want to know?’

Connie hesitated, the distinct note of fondness in the older woman’s reply throwing her off-balance. ‘I’ve, um… just seen him around quite a bit, that’s all,’ she said, opting to play it safe until she knew more about him. Or until the opportunity arose when she could express her low opinion of his driving face to face. ‘Anyway, looks like it’s going to be another glorious day,’ she added, swiftly moving the conversation on.

Having finished chatting to the newsagent, Connie left the shop and, for reasons which baffled every other part of her body, found her feet carrying her in the vague direction Eleanor had indicated: towards Max Templeton’s Cedarwood Cottage. Following the revelation of his pilot occupation, she’d concluded he’d obviously confused his car with his cockpit the day he’d almost wiped out her and Eric. Not that she had the courage to hammer on his door and tell him that. Bumping into him coincidentally was one thing, seeking him out for confrontation was quite another. Still, something about that distant sighting of him earlier had intrigued her. Which was precisely why, she supposed, she now found herself discreetly reading house names on gateposts, until she located Cedarwood Cottage.

Maintaining the impeccable housing standards of the Cotswolds, the house was a stunning what looked to be former farmhouse, with a slightly higgledy-piggledy frontage, and a cute duck-egg blue front door. And there, parked outside, was the unmistakable Porsche.

Having no idea what to do next, and not wishing to alert the suspicions of the Neighbourhood Watch – nor, indeed, the apparently formidable Residents’ Committee – with her loitering, she’d just coaxed Eric into performing an about-turn, and was on the verge of retracing her steps, when, to her horror, the door to the cottage swung open.

Connie’s blood turned cold and she froze in horror as she observed one long, jeaned leg appear on the step. Oh my God. This wasn’t how she’d imagined their encounter at all. She wasn’t prepared. And she couldn’t possibly adopt the moral high ground when she and Eric had been sniffing – quite literally – about outside his house. The sanctimonious lecture which had instinctively leapt into her head immediately following the near-incident, and again when she’d spotted the car at the supermarket, had, for the time being, completely deserted her. Holding her breath as she awaited the appearance of a second leg, relief rushed through her as she heard muttering which sounded like “bloody keys”, and the leg disappeared back inside.