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

‘Not a peep. And no birthday card. Not that that came as any surprise.’

‘I’ll bet. He rarely remembered when you were together. I couldn’t say anything at the time, but his ego ballooned to sickening proportions. So much so that he began looking down his nose at everyone – you included.’

Connie grimaced. ‘I know. And I was too stupid to notice. I wish you had said something.’

‘I almost did. Several times. But I didn’t think it was my place.’

Connie shook her head. ‘Well, it doesn’t matter now. It’s all water under the bridge. I have learned something from it, though. And that’s never to let anyone treat me like that again. In fact, I feel like I’ve completely had it with men.’

‘Except dishy toy-boy decorators.’

‘Obviously. But they don’t count.’

Following the call with Anna, Connie made straight for the mirror in the downstairs bathroom and examined her reflection, just as she had a couple of weeks before. The image that stared back this time, however, was completely different. She did have a glow. The result of fantastic sex, masses of fresh air, and not stuffing her face with rubbish when working, like she did in London. In fact, since coming to the Cotswolds, she hadn’t craved any sugary rubbish at all. Which might explain why her clothes felt looser. She’d definitely lost a few pounds. In fact, she concluded, she looked – and felt – like an entirely different person to the exhausted, fed up, dejected one who had arrived less than six weeks before.

Connie’s mobile rang early on Saturday morning.

‘Just say if you don’t want to,’ began Melody, ‘but Malcolm’s away doing some corporate entertainment stuff today, so I’m going into Cirencester for a mooch round the shops and I wondered if you fancied coming along.’

‘I’d love to,’ said Connie. Liam was due round that evening, but other than that, a free day loomed.

‘Fantastic. I’ll pick you up at eleven.’

‘Wow,’ gushed Connie, taking in Cirencester’s bustling marketplace and eclectic mix of buildings a short while later. ‘This place is gorgeous.’

‘I know,’ agreed Melody. ‘I love it. And not just for the shops. I feel anonymous here. Like no one’s judging me. Village life can be very claustrophobic.’

Connie pulled a rueful expression. ‘It’s such a shame you’re not enjoying Little Biddington. Especially when you have everything going for you: fabulous husband, great house, zero financial worries. And you look amazing.’

Melody gave a fleeting smile. ‘Thanks. I know I’m lucky. I suppose I’ve just lost my way a bit and am floundering about trying to find a purpose. I thought the purpose might be a baby, but it’s beginning to look like that’s not meant to be. The cookery club’s helping, though. It’s given me something to think about. And Malcolm’s loving me trying out all these new recipes. He’s also commented on how much happier I am since joining the club. Which I put down to meeting you – the first person I’ve really gelled with since moving here.’

‘Goodness, I’m honoured,’ chuckled Connie.

‘So you should be. I am very particular about who I admit to my inner circle. And I’m under strict orders from my husband to invite you for dinner so he can meet you.’

‘Really? That would be great.’

‘Fantastic. I’ll sort something out. Look, this is my hairdresser’s. Do you mind if we pop in for a minute? I want to ask her something.’

Melody’s hairdresser’s, Connie discovered the moment they stepped inside, was in a completely different class to the one she frequented in London. Tucked between a pet shop and a florist, that one had been owned and run by Beryl for the last thirty-five years, and boasted two types of floral wallpaper separated by an equally floral border. Melody’s formed part of a national chain, occupied a prime spot, and contained more mirrors than a certain room in Versailles. A willowy brunette greeted them at the reception desk, home to a floral arrangement so large Connie wouldn’t have been surprised if it had its own ecosystem.

‘Hi, Melody. Lovely to see you. You don’t have an appointment today, do you?’

‘No. I was just passing. This is my friend, Connie. Connie, this is Annette. My amazing hairdresser.’

‘And I haven’t even paid her to say that,’ tittered Annette.

‘You don’t need to. But I haven’t called in just to pay you compliments. I wanted to ask what you thought about me going brunette.’

Annette’s perfectly made-up eyes grew wide. ‘Brunette? Why?’

‘Because I fancy a change. And because I want people to take me seriously. And for all it’s not guaranteed, I think there’d be more chance of that happening if I lose the blonde.’

Annette pursed her slick red lips. ‘Hmm. I suppose we could start by toning you down, adding in a few lowlights.’

Melody shook her head. ‘No. I want drastic. A complete change. You up for it?’

The hairdresser puffed out a breath. ‘If you are. But I’d hate to see you upset if you don’t like it.’

‘I’ll like it.’

‘Okay then. I’ll do it. And what about you?’ She turned to Connie. ‘Are you feeling adventurous too?’

Connie balked. She awarded herself a medal for hair-bravery on the odd occasion she had an inch chopped off. On the verge of voicing this to Annette, she stopped as a girl about her age walked past – with a sleek, modern, shoulder-length bob. ‘Do you think something like that would suit me?’ she heard herself asking.

‘Absolutely. And we could add some copper highlights to brighten you up.’

Connie snagged her bottom lip between her teeth. She hadn’t psyched herself up for this at all. Even the daring “inch off” usually required three days of mental preparation. Which suggested that being impetuous might be the only way she’d ever make changes to her barnet. Plus, the notion of being “brightened up” did appeal. ‘Okay,’ she replied, cutting short any further analysis.

‘You sure?’ asked Melody.

‘Definitely. I’m long overdue a change.’

Annette flicked through the appointment book. ‘I’ve had a cancellation this afternoon so I could squeeze you both in then, if you like.’

Connie and Melody exchanged a look, before chorusing, ‘We like.’

‘Wow. Love the hair,’ exclaimed Liam that evening. ‘Makes you look…’

‘Don’t you dare say older.’

‘…sexier.’

Connie blew out a breath of relief. Her new hair-do had cost more than all her other hair-dos added together since the age of six. But, at the time, she hadn’t cared. Stepping out of the salon, she’d felt polished and sophisticated – like she belonged in the Cotswolds. Returning home and looking in the mirror every ten minutes for the last three hours, though, doubts had set in about whether it suited her at all. ‘Honestly?’

‘Absolutely,’ affirmed Liam, unbuttoning her shirt. ‘And I’ll let you know just how sexy in approximately thirty seconds.’

Chapter Eight

Pootling around the village with Eric the next morning, it occurred to Connie that the dog had more energy than her. Which was hardly surprising. All this sex was exhausting. Thankfully, Liam had informed her he wouldn’t be around that evening. He had a pre-arranged meeting with friends to see a band. Connie had been relieved. She needed a night on her own, with a big plate of buttery toast and a good old rom-com. Blimey, she really must be getting old.

She and Eric were on their way back to the house when they bumped into Kate, clutching the hand of a small child. A rather gorgeous slim girl accompanied them, pushing the twins’ buggy.

‘Oh my God! Love the hair,’ gushed Kate. ‘It’s fabulous.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘I do. It looks amazing.’ She made another abortive attempt to run her free hand through her mass of frizz. ‘I really need to do something with this, but I don’t have three minutes to spend in the hairdresser’s. Never mind three hours.’

Connie laughed.

‘This is Jemima, who I don’t think you’ve met yet,’ said Kate, indicating the child now cowering behind her faded denim A-line skirt. ‘And this is Domenique, our au pair. Domenique, this is Connie, who’s responsible for the cookery club I’ve been telling you about.’

Domenique’s huge dark eyes, framed with long, silky lashes, gazed at Connie. ‘Ah, si. That is very good idea, I think.’

‘It is,’ agreed Kate. ‘I can’t tell you how much I’m enjoying it. It’s the most fun I’ve had in ages.’

‘Mummy, can we go now, pleeeeeese,’ came a plea from the skirt.

‘In a minute, darling.’

‘But I need the toilet.’

Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Nothing new there. Best go. I’ll see you at the next club meeting, Connie – if not before. And believe me when I say I cannot wait. It’s my one and only chance to escape.’

Back at the house later, Kate’s words ringing in her ears, Connie sat at the kitchen island with her laptop.

Bringing up a blank screen, she headed it up The Cotswolds Cookery Club Blog. And began to type: With so many pressures on us all today, what better way to escape them than spending a few hours in the kitchen with friends…

Two hours later, she read over her one thousand words. And smiled.

The next morning, after a relaxing Liam-free night in her tartan pyjamas, Connie most definitely wasn’t smiling.

‘Darling, we’re coming to visit,’ announced her mother on the phone first thing. ‘And I’m sure Anna wouldn’t mind if we stayed the night.’

Connie’s brain furiously groped around for Reasons Why Her Parents Couldn’t Possibly Stay the Night. ‘Well, I’m sure Anna wouldn’t mind,’ she blustered. ‘But it’s really not convenient. The decorator’s here. The house is upside down.’

‘Not to worry. Just squeeze us in anywhere. See you before lunch.’

And before Connie could conjure up any further protestations, the line went dead.

‘Crap,’ she grumbled to Liam, as he prepped a wall in the living room. ‘My parents are coming.’

‘Great. I’d love to meet them,’ he replied brightly.

Thereby adding to Connie’s concerns.

Three hours later, Connie’s dad’s navy Volvo pulled up, behind Liam’s Decadent Décor van.

All of a jitter, Connie opened the door and stood on the step, braced for some cutting criticism from her mother.

‘Goodness,’ the woman puffed. ‘You look…’

Connie held her breath, awaiting the inevitable fat, old, worn out, desperate.

‘…different.’

Hmm. Good different or bad different?

‘You look amazing, darling,’ remarked her dad, enveloping her in a hug. ‘The Cotswolds obviously agree with you. You’re positively glowing.’

From behind the living-room door, Liam made a strange snorting sound. Connie ignored it.

Her mother, though, hadn’t finished. ‘And your hair. It’s…’

Too short, too coloured, too everything it shouldn’t be.

‘… gorgeous.’ Then, narrowing her eyes, ‘It looks expensive.’

‘Oh, it didn’t cost that much,’ batted back Connie, trying not to think about how her credit card had winced when she’d handed it over in the salon. ‘Would you like to come in?’

‘Of course. We haven’t come all this way to stand out here. And I am dying to see the house. Can I have a little tour?’

Winding up the tour – which had included much ooh-ing and aah-ing, her mother summarised her opinion by saying, ‘Heavens, Anna and Hugh are obviously doing very well’ – the accompanying look in Connie’s direction screaming “unlike some people”.

Connie, though, had determined not to let her mum grind her down. ‘Yes, I suppose they are,’ she agreed blithely. Then moving the subject swiftly on as they entered the living room, ‘And this is Liam. Liam, this is my mum and dad, Sandra and Lawrence.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Liam, turning to face the visitors, roller in hand.

‘Liam’s the decorator,’ added Connie – rather unnecessarily given the roller in hand.

‘And doing a sterling job,’ gushed Sandra. ‘The place looks fabulous.’

‘Thank you. We aim to please. One hundred per cent satisfaction guaranteed – that’s the company motto,’ said Liam. With a cheeky wink at Connie.

She returned it with a reprimanding glare, having issued him with strict instructions earlier to be on his best behaviour and not say anything. She knew that if her mother gleaned the slightest inkling of anything going on between them, she’d never hear the last of it.

‘Ready for a cup of tea?’ she asked, with more enthusiasm than she’d intended. Liam opened his mouth to reply. But before he could utter a word, Connie had whisked her parents from the room.

‘So, what have you been up to?’ her dad asked a few minutes later as Connie bustled about making tea in the kitchen.

From the hall, she heard Liam give a meaningful cough.

‘Oh, this and that,’ she breezed, deciding that, as soon as they’d finished their tea, she was removing them all from the house – and as far away from Liam as possible. ‘I’ve set up a cookery club in the village. We’ve only had two meetings so far, but it’s going really well.’

‘A cookery club?’ sniffed her mother. ‘What’s one of those?’

‘Well, it’s a bit like a book club, I suppose,’ explained Connie, strongly suspecting – as she wasn’t making any money out of it – that her mother would fail to see the point. ‘But rather than sharing literary opinions, we share recipes, make a few dishes together. And then eat them.’

‘Sounds great,’ said her dad.

Her mother pursed her lips. ‘But are you making any money out of it?’

‘No, Mum. It’s purely for pleasure.’

Sandra puffed out a long, disapproving breath. ‘You know I’ve always encouraged your interest in food, Constance, but at your age, don’t you think it would be more sensible to direct your efforts into something that’s going to pay a decent wage?’

Connie felt a prick of annoyance. She quashed it. She should have known better than to even mention the club. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mum,’ she conceded levelly. ‘But I’ve never had a chance to do anything like this before. The fact I’m only here temporarily is incredibly liberating. Which is why I’m using the time to experiment a bit.’

She ignored Liam’s snort of muffled laughter as it floated in, and the ensuing stab of irritation. ‘And I’ve met some lovely people. Like Kate, the village vet.’

The mention of Kate’s high-profile profession had the desired effect.

‘Oh. Well, if you’re mixing with people like that, then perhaps this club isn’t such a waste of time after all.’

Chivvying her parents out of the house, and batting away Liam’s hand as he attempted to grab her bum as she followed them down the hall, Connie decided they wouldn’t return until after five – when he’d knocked off for the day. Proud of the way she’d managed to deflect her mother’s disapproving comments so far, she nevertheless knew that fraternising with a toy-boy decorator wouldn’t gain her any brownie points – especially now Sandra had seen firsthand how well Anna and Hugh were doing. Indeed, fraternising with any man other than a banker would now be looked on as a complete waste of time.

With Eric cowering next to Connie on the back seat of the Volvo, they drove for thirty minutes, through sleepy Cotswold villages bursting with flora and fauna, honey-coloured stone buildings, and unique, quintessential English charm, finishing up in a pub that had featured on Midsomer Murders – ‘But we only add cyanide to the cider if you tell a bad joke,’ quipped the barman.

At which comment Sandra had paled under her strips of orange blusher, and announced she would like to sit outside.

The beer garden was located next to the car park. They’d just finished their lunch and the plates had been cleared, when an old brown Audi pulled into the car park, in the bay next to a gleaming silver Jag.

Connie’s eyes grew wide as she observed Max Templeton levering his tall frame out of the car, looking utterly gorgeous in stonewashed jeans and a blue T-shirt, through which she could make out the delineation of firm pecs.

Heavens, she mused, dragging her eyes away. Since when had she become so obsessed with men’s bodies? Since moving to the Cotswolds, she swiftly concluded. There must be something in the air. Or the water. Or the bran flakes. And her stomach had never performed so many somersaults, either, as it had since taking up residence in her temporary home. Indeed, it had just performed a rather spectacular one at the sight of Max. All somersaulting immediately ceased, however, as the passenger side door opened and out slid first one long, tanned leg, then another, followed by a very short white skirt, a green chiffony blouse, a mane of glossy dark hair, and a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Vogue.

As both sets of ridiculously long legs then began striding out of the car park towards the pub, Connie attempted to hide behind the menu – no easy task given its compact A5 proportions.

‘Your eyes okay, love?’ enquired her dad.

‘Probably on the decline with all that computer work she does,’ piped up her mother. ‘And old age, of course. I’ve always said things start to slide after thirty-three.’

‘She’s only been thirty-four for a couple of weeks.’

‘Exactly. And thirty-four is older than thirty-three, Lawrence.’

‘Thank you, Sandra. I do know tha—’

‘Hi, Connie.’

At the sound of Max’s deep voice, Connie’s menu toppled to the floor, bouncing off Eric’s head en route.

‘Oh,’ she spluttered, tilting up her head and meeting his warm hazel gaze. ‘Hello.’ Her eyes darted around for the brunette. She was nowhere to be seen.

‘Out for a spot of lunch?’ Max asked, his smile and question encompassing them all.

‘Yes,’ piped up Sandra, plastering on a winsome beam. ‘We’re Connie’s parents – Sandra and Lawrence.’

‘Max Templeton. I live in the same village.’

‘Lucky you. It’s delightful.’

‘There are worse places.’

‘Have you lived there long?’

‘Three years.’

‘And before that?’

‘Mum!’ cut in Connie. ‘Max hasn’t come here for a grilling.’

Max chuckled. ‘It’s fine, honestly. It’s nice to know someone finds me interesting. Well, I’d better go and find Sarah. I’ll no doubt see you around, Connie.’

Connie nodded, wondering if her cheeks could possibly redden any further.

‘Goodness,’ gasped her mother, as Max loped off. ‘What a charmer. Do you know what he does for a living, Constance?’

‘He’s a pilot.’

This news resulted in such a loud handclap that Eric jumped up from the grass and banged his head on the wooden table. ‘How perfect would it be if you could team up with someone like that? Good-looking, delightful manners, successful, lives in a Cotswold village—’

‘Married.’

Sandra’s face dropped to the floor. Just as quickly she yanked it back up. ‘But he might have some single friends, Constance.’

Just as she’d been consumed with a desire to escape Liam earlier, Connie now experienced the same urge to wedge several hundred miles between her and Max Templeton. Her mother, though, was of a completely different opinion, eking out their time at the pub by sipping three coffees at – what seemed to Connie – a torturously slow pace.

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