The Cotswolds Cookery Club is opening its doors !

Connie has had enough. Enough of the city, enough of her job – and most importantly, enough of her cheating boyfriend! Finally free to chase her dreams, Connie sets up her very own Cotswolds Cookery Club – a place to share scrumptious recipes and, more importantly, a lot of wine…

Trish always dreamed of living in a little chocolate box village – but she never expected to be starting over at forty. Could joining the Cookery Club be the perfect distraction from her stroppy teenage daughter and her ex-husband’s new girlfriend?

Kate spends her life juggling her three young children and running the busy Cotswolds veterinary practice. It’s time to take charge of the disparate ingredients of her life and transform them into the perfect pot-au-feu!

But with three delicious men turning up the heat, perhaps the sleepy Cotswolds village has a few surprises in store…

Fans of Milly Johnson, Caroline Roberts and Jill Mansell will love this heartwarming read!

Also by Alice Ross

Forty Things to Do Before You’re Forty

Countryside Dreams

An Autumn Affair

A Summer of Secrets

A Winter’s Wish

The Cotswolds Cookery Club

A Taste of Italy

A Taste of Spain

A Taste of France

The Cotswolds Cookery Club

Alice Ross

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

ALICE ROSS

escaped her dreary job in the financial services industry a few years ago and has never looked back. Dragging her personal chef (aka her husband) along with her, she headed to Spain, where she began writing witty, sexy romps destined to amuse readers slightly more than the pension brochures of her previous life. Now back in her home town of Durham, when not writing, she can be found scratching out a tune on her violin, walking her dog in wellies two sizes too big (don’t ask!) or standing on her head in a yoga pose. Alice loves to hear from readers, and you can follow her on Twitter at @AliceRoss22 or on facebook.com/alice.ross.108.

Huge thanks to the fab team at HQ Digital for all their hard work on this book, particularly the lovely Charlotte Mursell whose unerring enthusiasm never ceases to inspire.

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Title Page

Author Bio

Dedication

The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Italy

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Spain

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Epilogue

The Costswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of France

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Endpages

Copyright

The Cotswolds Cookery Club:

A Taste of Italy

Alice Ross

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Chapter One

‘Happy birthday, darling.’

On the other end of the phone, Connie Partridge silently counted to three as she awaited her mother’s next comment.

It arrived on cue.

‘Goodness, I can hardly believe you’re thirty-four today.’

Connie rolled her eyes. The edge to her mother’s voice – which had made its first appearance on Connie’s thirtieth birthday – was now all too familiar. It did not infer “gosh, how time flies”, but rather “I can’t believe my only child is hurtling towards middle-age, has zero career prospects, is unmarried, technically homeless, and, with not so much as a sniff of a man on the horizon, has absolutely no hope of producing grandchildren”.

Mind you, being perfectly honest, Connie couldn’t believe her lack of achievement in these areas either. On her last birthday she’d dared to imagine she might be making some headway – in the relationship area at least. She’d imagined that, after five years together, Charles might have considered her notching up another year as the perfect time to Pop the Question. But he hadn’t. Instead, four months ago, she’d discovered him popping something – or rather someone – else: Stacey – his ridiculously glamorous co-worker. In the bed he shared with Connie.

After the initial shock of walking in on the pair – including being secretly awestruck at how immaculate Stacey’s hair looked after what appeared to have been a particularly sweaty session – Connie had engaged in much shouting, cursing and hurling about of things, before instructing Charles to vacate the premises forthwith. When he’d replied – with some diffidence – that the flat belonged to him, Connie had been forced to concede that he did have a point, and had subsequently made a hasty retreat herself – back to her parents’ three-bed semi in Surbiton – where her mother, predictably, had been less than impressed by developments.

‘Men don’t stray without reason, Constance,’ she’d sniffed, with a knowing toss of her auburn bob.

The observation had done little to revive Connie’s dwindling self-esteem, which, never buoyant at the best of times, had continued to plummet further over the ensuing months. Aided on its progress by yet more cutting – and sadly accurate – maternal remarks.

‘You really need to reconsider your career options, darling. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you have no prospects, aren’t exactly earning a fortune, and it’s not even as if you enjoy what you do.’

None of which Connie could argue with. Her parent had, once again, hit the nail on its increasingly jaded head. But the tirade hadn’t stopped there.

‘And it’s so solitary. Your job does nothing for your social life, which, let’s face it, isn’t exactly buzzing.’

Yet again, Connie could not demur. Working from home as a self-employed proofreader was incredibly solitary – zero banter with colleagues, no office politics to chunter about, and, on the rare occasion she found something to titter about in her reading matter – like an extra “t” added to the word “far”, there was nobody to titter with.

‘You need to get out more, dear. How else are you going to meet another man? After all, you’re not getting any younger.’

Her mother’s mutterings, combined with her thirty-fourth birthday lurking just around the corner – had not only made Connie feel like the world’s biggest failure, but had made her realise she really did need to make some changes to her life. Exactly what changes, she was still pondering, when she’d received an interesting phone call from her best friend, Anna.

‘Hugh’s been posted to Sydney for six months,’ she informed Connie, referring to her banker husband. ‘And I’ve wangled a temporary transfer to the agency’s office there.’

‘Trust you,’ huffed Connie. Anna had what Connie – and indeed most mere mortals – would deem The Perfect Life: a gorgeous husband who worshipped the ground she walked on, a great job as a booker for an international modelling agency, and the most to-die-for house in an idyllic Cotswolds village. As much as Connie loved her, Anna was not the woman to have around when your life resembled a plus-sized, reinforced-gusseted pair of pants. As did hers at the moment. Nevertheless, despite turning pea-green, she’d done her best to whip up some enthusiasm for her friend’s exciting news.

‘It sounds amazing. A fantastic experience for you both.’

‘I know. I can’t wait.’

‘When are you going?’

‘Next week, can you believe? I have a million things to do.’

‘I wouldn’t mind two million things to do if it meant six months Down Under,’ muttered Connie, gazing out at the drizzly May morning. ‘Make yourself a long list and crack on with it.’

‘Already have. And you’re at the top. We were wondering if you’d like to come down and housesit for us while we’re away.’

Phone pressed to her ear, Connie’s eyeballs had almost sprung from their sockets. ‘What? Move down to Little Biddington and stay in your fabulous house for six months?’

‘Yes. But only if you want to. The one stipulation being that you look after Eric – the most decrepit, indifferent, pathetic greyhound on the planet. As much as we’d love to take him with us, I’m not sure his dodgy ticker is up to the journey.’

Relief and excitement had whooshed through Connie’s veins. ‘I’d love to.’

‘You don’t have to make up your mind right now. You can think about it. Call me back later.’

Connie had shaken her head. ‘Anna, I’m in my mid thirties and sleeping in a single bed in a room next to my parents. Believe me, there is nothing to think about. I’m coming.’

And she had. A few days later she’d shoehorned a mountain of bags into her little Punto and trundled down the M40, eventually swapping the fume-filled madness of the motorway for sleepy country lanes filled with fresh air and fringed with May blossom.

By the time she’d reached Little Biddington, where Anna’s gorgeous Grade II-listed house, built in golden Cotswold stone, nestled among wisteria, hydrangea and foxgloves, Connie felt like she’d entered a different world. And even now, a couple of weeks on, she still occasionally had to pinch herself to ensure she wasn’t dreaming: that this little piece of heaven was indeed hers – for the next few months at least.

‘So, are you doing anything special for your birthday?’ asked her mother, hauling her back to the present.

Perched on a stool at the island in Anna’s exquisite kitchen – where modern dove-grey units were stylishly juxtaposed with traditional beams and exposed stone – Connie cast an eye over the pile of fresh vegetables on the granite worktop – chunky carrots, glistening aubergines, bulbous onions and sun-ripened tomatoes. Next to them sat four ramekins ready to be filled with the creamy chocolate panna cotta she was about to whip up – which would then chill in the fridge for several hours before being topped off with juicy oranges later that evening. At the thought, excitement began bubbling in her stomach. ‘Er, no. Nothing special,’ she lied.

Well, it had only been a teeny tiny lie, Connie assured herself, putting down the phone after winding up the call. Indeed, some would argue it hadn’t even been a lie at all. After all, spending the evening in a kitchen, slaving over a hot stove – or, in Connie’s case, a magnificent, shocking-pink Aga – wasn’t what most people would categorise as a “special” way to spend one’s birthday. The general populace would doubtless prefer to don their Sunday best and be taxied to a culinary establishment with subdued lighting, expertly chosen wine, and a menu designed to rouse the taste buds into such a climactic state that one didn’t bat an eyelid at the number of noughts on the bill. Connie, though, had endured quite enough of those birthdays. For the last two years at least, Charles had made a great show of pretending he hadn’t forgotten the occasion. And, for reasons she really didn’t want to dwell on, she’d played along, pretending not to have heard him in the bathroom on her birthday morning, making hasty calls to expensive restaurants to reserve a last-minute table. And feigning belief when he’d slapped his palm to his forehead and called himself all kinds of names for having left her present in the office. Names Connie was now calling herself for having put up with the two-timing, egotistical, self-centred knob.

But that had been then, and this was now.

This birthday, there was no one to let her down, no one to snip away another fragment of her fragile self-esteem, no one to make her feel she deserved less than the best. This birthday, Connie occupied the driving seat, tentatively hoping she might – at last – be steering her life to a place called Positive; a place where she didn’t merely settle for the easy, non-fuss-making option, but where she assumed control, did what she wanted, rather than trying to please everyone else all the time.

And this evening would be her first foray into that brave new world.

It had been something Anna had said the day of her arrival that had sparked the idea...

‘I haven’t had time to tell the neighbours you’re housesitting so if a hunky policeman knocks on the door demanding to see your credentials, it’s all my fault.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Connie had giggled. ‘I’ll tell him I’m a Russian spy on a secret mission.’

‘You can tell him whatever you like. Make up a mysterious, intriguing past. Inject a bit of spice into the village. The place might look idyllic, but honestly, the most exciting thing that ever happens is the book club announcing its next title.’

Connie had snorted with laughter, but, at the same time, Anna’s words had struck a chord. She didn’t know a soul in the Cotswolds. And for all she wouldn’t have minded a complete reinvention of self – preferably something along the lines of Beyonce – she knew she couldn’t carry it off. What she could do, though, was maximise this opportunity: shrug off some of her inhibitions; use the change of scene to rebuild her flagging confidence; start taking steps to clamber out of the rut she’d unwittingly slithered into. After all, as her mother insisted on pointing out, she really wasn’t getting any younger. In another year she’d be nearer forty than thirty – practically middle-aged. Time was careering by at a worrying rate of knots. Which was precisely why she should stop wasting it doing things she didn’t like, and make more of it for things she enjoyed. And, above all else, there was one thing Connie absolutely adored:

Cooking!

So, mind awhirl with ways to pursue her passion, Anna’s casual remark had inspired a brainwave: if the village had a book club, why couldn’t it have a cookery club? People these days were – judging by the glut of TV programmes – mad for cooking. Surely the bored housewives and yummy mummies of Little Biddington would jump at the chance of something different to fill their time.

Five days into her stay, Connie had tentatively run the idea past Anna, who – in between enthusing about her and Hugh’s rental apartment with its view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge – had deemed it an excellent one, and confirmed she would be delighted for Connie to forge ahead with her plan.

More motivated and liberated than she’d felt in years, Connie had begun to map out her venture – compiling lists, jotting down ideas, researching other clubs. She’d spent an age agonising over the name: Connie’s Cookery Club sounded too much like a children’s picture book. The Little Biddington Cookery Club sounded too exclusive. Several other options had been briefly tossed about then discarded, before the obvious choice had slammed into her head – The Cotswolds Cookery Club.

Delighted with the moniker, she’d plucked up courage, printed out a card with basic details and her mobile number, and trotted along to the village newsagent’s.

Cementing Connie’s already established opinion that the Cotswolds formed a tiny segment of green and leafy heaven, peppered with stunning properties, grazing cows, quaint churches and tinkling streams, the village newsagent’s bore absolutely no resemblance to the establishment serving the same purpose in the overly bright, modern, tiled precinct in Surbiton. This one boasted a bow window, a thatched roof, a plethora of hanging baskets rioting with colourful blooms, and a sixty-something owner – rioting with auburn hair, pink lipstick and an orange-beaded top.

Being from the capital, and therefore acutely aware of Little Biddington’s diminutive proportions and, therefore, the likelihood of said owner being acquainted with most of the residents, Connie deemed it only polite to introduce herself.

‘Welcome to the village,’ the woman gushed, luminous lips stretching into a wide smile as she extended a hand. ‘I’m Eleanor and I’m very pleased to meet you. How are you finding it here so far? Bit different from London, eh?’

‘Just a bit,’ agreed Connie, returning the effusive handshake. ‘But I’m loving it. The village is gorgeous.’

‘Isn’t it? But I hope you don’t find it too boring. Nothing exciting ever happens here. More’s the pity.’ Her gaze slid to a spot in the middle distance while she puffed out such an almighty sigh that Connie wondered the pile of neatly packaged magazines atop the counter didn’t float to the floor.

As Eleanor then seemed to drift off into a world of her own, Connie chewed her lip, attempting to assemble an appropriate riposte. She was on the verge of uttering something about having Eric the greyhound to keep her occupied when the shopkeeper promptly rallied.

‘Oh, take no notice of me,’ she tutted, plastering another dazzling smile onto her face and waving a dismissive hand. ‘I’m just a decrepit old widow. I’m sure a youngster like you will find plenty to keep you busy. Now, what can I do for you today?’

As two green eyes – circled with heavy blue liner – pinned her with an enquiring gaze, Connie swallowed hard. Reaching into the pocket of her cardigan and making contact with her neatly written card, every bit of her newfound optimism immediately exited the building, hounded out by a battalion of terrifying questions: what if Eleanor found the cookery club idea completely absurd? What if Cotswold residents would rather die than be seen in an apron whipping up a soufflé? What if word of her preposterous plan spread through the village so that every time she left the house someone pointed or sniggered?

Heart rate gaining worrying pace, it occurred to Connie that perhaps there was much to be said for the anonymity of London. There, she would simply have handed over the ad and – after a cursory scan by the proprietor to ensure she wasn’t offering services of a dodgy nature – scuttled off.

Here in Little Biddington, she doubted one could scuttle anywhere without being observed. Perhaps, then, she should just buy a packet of wine gums instead.

‘Ooh, I can’t wait to read this month’s edition,’ Eleanor suddenly gushed, producing a pair of scissors from under the counter and snipping away the tape binding the magazines in front of her. ‘I love reading all those gorgeous recipes. Not that I ever try any. There’s no point when you’re on your own, is there?’

Another shuddering sigh and more drifting off followed this observation.

This time, Connie didn’t dwell on it. Recognising the magazine as her own favourite monthly reading matter – the Galloping Gourmet – she dived straight into the tailor-made opening. Tugging the card from her pocket, she handed it over. ‘Actually, on the subject of cooking, I wondered if you’d mind displaying this.’

Eleanor’s increasingly dilated pupils danced over the text. ‘A cookery club! Heavens. What a wonderful idea.’

Connie grimaced. ‘Do you really think so?’

The shopkeeper nodded effusively, her brassy curls bobbing up and down. ‘I most certainly do. They’ll be queuing up to join. You can count me in for starters. Oh! Starters! There you go, you see. I’m already gearing up for it.’

As she snorted with laughter, Connie couldn’t resist a giggle, relief pulsing through her that she hadn’t been laughed out of the shop.

‘I was just thinking the other day,’ continued Eleanor, beaming at her, ‘that it’s nearly four years since my husband died, and all I’ve done since then is tread water. I need to move on; do something to spice up my life a bit. Oh! Spice! There I go again.’

Connie chuckled. ‘Well, if I can find another couple of members as keen as you, I’ll be delighted.’

‘Oh, you’ll have no problem. But I wouldn’t bother with the card. You’ll be inundated. People will snap off your hand at the offer of something other than the book club. Or, for those really scraping the bottom of the barrel – bridge – which, incidentally, I have tried and found more boring than watching jelly set.’

‘Right. Remind me not to sign up for that then, however bored I get,’ chuckled Connie.

‘I’ll remind you,’ giggled Eleanor. Then, ‘I could find the cookery club members for you, if you like. How many were you thinking of?’

‘Well, I was planning to keep it small to begin with. Maybe about four of us in total, until we see how it goes. And I thought about theming the evenings – trying different cuisines from around the world – starting with Italian.’

‘Sounds perfect. Leave it with me.’

And so Connie had, floating out of the shop with a huge smile on her face at Eleanor’s parting words: ‘You’re on to a winner with this one.’

Connie had never been “onto a winner” in her entire life. But here in the sweet-smelling, flowery, picture-perfect Cotswolds, absolutely anything seemed possible – and the chance of her being “onto a winner” didn’t seem nearly so absurd as it would have back in London.

Chapter Two

Connie was making a cup of coffee the next morning when she heard the thud of post on the doormat. Leaving the kitchen, she wandered down the polished boards of the hall to collect it. Along with a couple of envelopes addressed to Anna and Hugh were a handful of birthday cards. She flicked through them, recognising the handwriting as that of her mother, her grandmother, and three girlfriends. She immediately banished the disappointment at there being nothing from Charles. Awaiting a cheque from him after the tying up of some joint financial stuff, she’d emailed him with Anna’s address, informing him of her whereabouts for the next few months. There was no cheque. And – more poignantly – no card. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Other than her demanding answers the day after discovering he was a cheating pig:

How long had the affair been going on?

Did he love Stacey?

Had he planned, at any point, to inform Connie of his change of allegiance?

To which the answers had been:

Five months.

Yes, he did.

He really had planned to inform her – at some point.

they’d hardly spoken since the day she’d stormed out of the flat. But then again, having given their relationship serious contemplation since that fateful day, Connie had realised they’d hardly spoken in the last eighteen months they’d been together. They had, she’d concluded, grown apart. Or rather Charles had grown, while she, if anything, had diminished. When they’d first started dating they’d had things in common – both working for large corporate enterprises, both enjoying healthy social lives: two busy twenty-somethings making the most of life in the metropolis. But while Charles’s advertising career had rocketed, Connie’s professional life had dipped sharply southwards. And while his social life had become increasingly buoyant – schmoozing with clients, travelling for pitches, indulging in boozy after-work drinking sessions with the office in-crowd – Connie’s self-employed status meant she’d become increasingly isolated. She’d had no one to schmooze with, no in- or out-crowd to compare hangovers with, and the farthest she’d ever ventured during the week was to the corner shop – usually in the sweatpants and hoodies which had replaced her previously smart office clobber. Not, she hastily reminded herself, that any of the above excused Charles’s grubby behaviour. His betrayal had hit her harder than a juggernaut freewheeling down a ski slope, sending waves of shock, humiliation and anger – mainly at herself for not realising he was a two-timing prick – ricocheting through her, blasting her delicate self-esteem into a million tiny shards. It would be a long time – if ever – before she trusted a man again. Which was precisely why she’d scrubbed relationships from her to-do list. For now, she planned to concentrate on herself, rebuild her shattered confidence, do what she wanted. Like this evening’s cookery club. Sucking in a deep breath, she elbowed aside all thoughts of traitorous exes and turned them to more productive matters – like the panna cotta she still had to prepare for that evening.

Back in the kitchen, Connie snapped off chunks of thick milk chocolate and dropped them into the pan of double cream she’d brought to the boil. Stirring until they melted, she recalled the first time she’d ever tasted her favourite dessert – in Italy, its country of origin, where her love of food had first begun…

As a child, every summer, Connie and her parents – both teachers and therefore benefitting from the six-week break – had spent the entire holiday touring Europe in their camper van. Connie had loved experiencing the different cultures, languages and customs, but it had been the food that had most fascinated her.

Her highlight of every holiday had been exploring the markets – lively, bustling and colourful, they’d provided a feast for all the senses: the sight of fruit and vegetables five times the size of anything back home; the mingling aromas of strange, exotic spices; and the taste bud-busting samples – slivers of succulent ham, tiny wedges of creamy cheese, and salty gleaming olives marinated in garlic, fennel and rosemary.

Returning from their trip the year Connie was ten, her dad had set up a corner of the garden where she could grow her own vegetables. There, she’d dug, planted, weeded and tended with impressive zeal, experiencing both pride and excitement as the products of her labour flourished.

‘Goodness, what are we going to do with all this stuff?’ her mother had puffed, the day Connie had dumped a mountain of rhubarb on the kitchen table.

Connie hadn’t known. But she’d found out, amassing a host of cookery books along the way. She tried chutneys, jams, crumbles and pies. And, even if she said so herself, they weren’t half bad.

Her interest in all things culinary survived adolescence. But when it came to discussing career choices, she’d dithered. She couldn’t imagine slaving away in a steamy kitchen day after day, people constantly barking orders, the incessant din and pressure. Nor did she want to be a cookery teacher, forcing recalcitrant teenagers to turn out a jam sponge and half a dozen Eccles cakes. With those two options discarded, she could see no other way of channelling her interest. So, heeding her teachers’ advice, she’d leaned towards her second favourite subject, completing a degree in English Literature at Newcastle University. Upon graduating, she’d found a job as a proofreader with a small independent publisher, moving on to a large national house a few years later. And there she’d remained until just before her thirtieth birthday, when the company had been swallowed up by a larger fish, redundancies being the inevitable outcome.

At the time, Connie hadn’t been too bothered. She’d picked up plenty of contacts along the way and was as confident as one dared be about maintaining a regular stream of work. Plus, she liked the idea of being her own boss: nobody watching over her shoulder, monitoring how many times a day she nipped to the loo, or having to make a great show of being busy when she totally wasn’t.

Six months down the line, though, stuck in front of a computer day after day, with only the potted cactus on the desk to talk to, the novelty of self-employment had dimmed. And had continued to do so ever since. Deriving minimal satisfaction from her “career”, she’d sought her kicks elsewhere, signing up for cookery courses at the local community college. As well as experimenting with global cuisine – sushi, tapas, Greek meze and Moroccan, she’d tried her hand at making bread, pasta, canapes, macarons and pastries.

Over time, she’d built and refined her culinary skills. And always, cowering in the back of her mind, was her ultimate dream: to own her own bistro. Nothing grand, just a cosy room with ten tables, each covered in a yellow-and-white checked cloth, with a single yellow rose in a vase. The exact image of the first bistro her parents had taken her to in Italy – where she’d had her first ever taste of panna cotta. Having added orange zest and softened gelatin to the mixture, Connie poured it into the ramekins, and had just popped them into the fridge when the doorbell rang. Scurrying down the hall, she opened the door to find Kate Ellis on the step – the village vet, and the second member of the cookery club. Kate had first approached her a week ago – having been sent along by Eleanor to find out more details about the club. She’d looked then exactly as frazzled as she did now.

‘Oh, Connie, I’m so sorry to bother you again,’ she gushed, evidence of crusted egg on her navy T-shirt – in the same place there’d been a smear of ketchup on her white top several days before. ‘I can’t remember what time you said we were kicking off tonight.’

‘About seven. If that’s okay.’

Kate attempted to run a hand through her tangle of strawberry blonde curls. Becoming stuck midway, she gave up, returning the hand to the pushchair containing two rosy-cheeked toddlers, topped off with exactly the same curls.

‘Oh, of course,’ she tutted, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, I can’t believe how mush-like my brain is these days. That’s what having children does to you.’

Connie smiled. ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee or something?’

The vet heaved a despairing sigh. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more, but it’s not fair to inflict Mia and Milo on you. They’ll trash the place in less than five minutes. Before moving on to trash one another.’

‘I can’t believe that for a minute,’ said Connie, chuckling at the two cherubic faces gazing up at her. ‘They look like butter wouldn’t melt.’

Kate gave a cynical snort. ‘Don’t you believe it. Their appearance is a complete con. They’re two mini bulldozers, destroying everything in their path. Thankfully, our frighteningly competent French au pair, Domenique, is back from her holiday today, so she’s taken Jemima to her swimming lesson. I don’t think I could have coped with a changing room full of four-year-olds, and these two demons.’

Connie laughed. ‘It certainly sounds like you have your hands full.’

‘Overflowing. I really should have started having children when I was twenty-eight, not thirty-eight. I might have had the energy to cope with them then. Anyway, must plough on. I’ve been summoned to the practice by the vet who’s standing in for me. I have a horrible feeling she’s going to tell me she’s leaving.’

‘What will you do if she is?’

Kate shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve had a couple of years off now. Maybe it’s time I went back. Although quite how that would work, I have no idea.’

‘Is your husband very hands-on?’

‘Andrew? God no. He’s a stockbroker. A whizz with figures but completely hopeless at anything else. And even if he was useful, he’s rarely home before ten. By which time I’ve passed out with exhaustion.’

Connie chuckled. ‘It’ll get better when the children are older.’

‘That thought is the only thing that keeps me going. Anyway, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to having some Me Time this evening. Who else is coming?’

‘Well, there’s Eleanor, of course. And a lovely girl called Melody. She lives in the next village.’

‘Ah. Melody Todd? Pretty girl? Has a Jack Russell?’

‘Yes. That’s her.’

Kate nodded approvingly. ‘That’s good. Very good, in fact. I’ve only met her once – when the relief vet was on holiday and I covered for a week. Melody brought the dog in for a check-up. From the little she said then, I think something like the club will do her the world of good. Right, we’re off. Should I bring anything tonight?’

Connie shook her head. ‘No. This one’s on me.’

‘Okay. But only this one. Otherwise it’s not fair. We’ll make sure we all chip in in future. I’ll bring wine. And matches to prop open my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I was out after six.’

Connie giggled. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be so enthralled by my demonstration of how to make lamb tagliata, that no matches will be required.’

‘Ooh. I have no idea what that is, but it sounds gorgeous. Matches or no matches, I’ll see you at seven.’

‘Great. See you then.’

Chapter Three

After waving off Kate and the twins, and with the panna cotta chilling in the fridge, Connie washed out the dirty pan, tugged off her “Food Is Better Than Sex” apron, and decided to take Eric for a walk.

Unlike most canines – whose excitement generally knew no bounds at the mere whisper of the W-word – Eric’s huge brown eyes viewed the prospect with suspicion. But then again, Eric viewed the prospect of most things with suspicion. He’d been in the rescue centre for nine months before Anna had taken pity on him, his extended stay primarily due to his refusal to leave his kennel whenever any prospective owners had been looking around. Anna, though, hadn’t been so easily deterred. It had taken six visits – Eric cowering in the kennel, Anna chattering away to him outside – before he’d eventually popped out his head to view the disturber of his peace; three more visits before he’d dared to slink out in full; and an additional five before he’d trusted Anna enough to allow her to take him for a walk. She and Hugh had adopted him immediately after that, and although the hilarious stories about him settling in had amused Connie for weeks, it had taken a huge amount of patience and understanding from the pair to rebuild the dog’s confidence. Even now, three years on, he wasn’t exactly brimming with the stuff, and he’d still qualify as red-hot favourite for the Wussiest Hound Ever award, but he’d only hidden behind the sofa for thirty minutes when Connie arrived – a vast improvement on the four hours the first time she’d met him. He appeared to have accepted her presence in the house with reluctant resignation. And while still slightly jittery when she did anything as menacing as offering him a biscuit, he’d nevertheless permitted her to saddle him up for a walk – coaxing time beforehand now reduced to a mere twenty minutes.

Adding to Connie’s perception that she had indeed entered another universe when she’d landed in Little Biddington, another dazzling blue sky shrouded the village this morning, bathing her surroundings in glorious golden sunlight, and making the dreary, drizzly capital seem a bazillion miles away. Indeed, for all her initial envy at Anna’s jaunt to Oz, strolling through the village with Eric that morning, past the twelfth-century church, home to the only graffiti in the area, dated 1642, past the perfectly round duck pond, with its reeds, bulrushes and cluster of mallards, marvelling at the abundance of flowers, the sense of history, the honey-coloured stone glinting in the sunshine, and the lack of lager cans and empty fag packets, she wouldn’t have swapped places with her friend had she been offered a free ticket to fly business class to Sydney in the seat next to Aidan Turner. Why, she wondered, drinking in every detail of her surroundings as Eric plodded sedately along beside her, sniffing the occasional lamp post, would anyone want to live anywhere else? Not, of course, that everyone had the option to live in such privileged surroundings. Property prices in the area were eye-wateringly high, putting the des reses in reach of only a select few: successful high-achievers, whose bank accounts included significantly more digits than the three rattling around in hers. But financial solvency wasn’t the only striking difference, she noted, as she passed yet another immaculately groomed mother pushing a designer buggy. Sartorial contrasts were also evident. Even the cluster of female joggers who’d overtaken her earlier had sported stylish lycra and full make-up and, while kicking up a respectable pace, had displayed no sweaty armpits and not one blotchy face. And then there were her fellow dog walkers – Connie, in her cut-off jeans, faded blue T-shirt and canvas pumps, her long chestnut hair scraped back in a ponytail, and wearing not a scrap of make-up, felt distinctly shabby alongside her polished, coiffed counterparts.

The women here looked so… sorted. So in control. Well, all of them except Kate, she noted with some relief. Kate’s wardrobe might feature remnants of her children’s last meal rather than a couture label, but at least she seemed normal. And, being the village vet, was obviously extremely clever too. She’d also seemed pleased Melody would be joining them that evening, which was a relief. Although what she’d meant about the club being good for Melody, Connie had no idea. And then, of course, there was Eleanor, who knew everybody and plastered on a sunny façade, but who, Connie suspected, from the way she’d drifted off into a world of her own during their initial conversation in the shop, had her little secrets.

Wondering what these could possibly be, Connie was gently leading Eric across the road back to the house when a black Porsche shot around the corner – so fast, the driver had to slam on the brakes to avoid knocking them over. The screech of rubber on tarmac caused Connie’s heart rate to rocket and Eric’s four creaking legs to fleetingly leave the ground. Back on terra firma, he began shaking uncontrollably.

Had Connie been on her own, the string of invectives jamming in her throat would have been immediately unleashed on the perpetrator. But, aware such bawling would only add to Eric’s distress, she hunkered down to give him a reassuring stroke. As she did so, she heard the driver call over to them through the open car window.

‘Sorry!’

Connie didn’t deign to look at him, she was far too concerned with the dog. ‘So you should be,’ she hurled back, between muttering soothing platitudes to her ward. ‘I take it you haven’t noticed the Drive Carefully signs around the village.’

The man uttered something she didn’t hear. And she had absolutely no desire to request a repeat. She wasn’t interested in whatever pathetic excuse he’d dredged up. Frankly, there was no excuse. Had she and Eric been a metre further up the road, they’d have been toast.

Straightening up from the dog, she tossed a disdainful look in the direction of the vehicle – which, she noticed, as if it wasn’t pretentious enough, sported a set of garish red wheels. She then coaxed a quivering Eric across the road and, eventually, back to the house.

The dog settled on his bed and was snoring like a trooper thirty minutes later. Connie resumed her preparations for the cookery club meeting that evening, the burning rage she’d experienced in the street being slowly nudged aside by fizzing excitement. Along with making the tagliata, she planned to ask for her guests’ assistance in preparing a few side dishes – for which she still needed some ingredients, plus a couple of bottles of wine to break the ice and wash down their culinary efforts. Focused on that task, and with Eric out for the count, she snatched up her bag and keys, jumped into her car and headed over to the outskirts of Cirencester, home to – she’d been reliably informed by Anna – the biggest supermarket in the area.

Congratulating herself on finding her destination with only one wrong turn, Connie parked the car, wrestled out a trolley from the bay, and was on the verge of entering the shop when she noticed a black Porsche with red wheels parked up – almost certainly the same Porsche that had come close to flattening her and Eric earlier. It looked to be empty. A fortunate circumstance for the driver, because the mere sight of the vehicle had reignited her rage. Had he been present, all the anger she’d held back for Eric’s sake that morning would have been unleashed with interest.

Inside the supermarket, intent on her shopping, Connie threw her required items into the trolley, tossed in a few treats for Eric, added three bottles of Italian wine and three cartons of juice – to cover any “I don’t drink” eventualities – duly paid for her purchases, and was trundling back to the car when, a little way ahead, she noticed the Porsche gliding up one of the lanes, before stopping to allow an old lady to totter across. The ageing shopper safely at her destination, the vehicle continued on its route, passing Connie on the way. On the off-chance the driver might recognise her, she hastily arranged her features into a haughty expression for the split second it was driving by. Whether her efforts were in vain or not, she had no idea, because, along with the vulgar red wheels, the car also sported tinted windows – perfectly topping off the picture of pretention.

At six-fifty-two that evening, the doorbell chimed, causing Eric to vault two feet out of his basket – as usual – and Connie to vault two feet off her stool. In the ensuing hours since returning from the supermarket she’d worked herself into a tizzy, conjuring up all manner of depressing scenarios, like what if she burned something? Or what if she burned everything? Including Anna’s gorgeous house? And Anna had forgotten to take out insurance? And the fire engine couldn’t get through because of a herd of marauding cows on the road?

As soon as she answered the door, though, to find Melody beaming at her, a wave of calmness washed over her.

Connie’s first encounter with Melody had been in the newsagent’s, when she’d been out with Eric and had popped in to buy an ice cream.

‘Ah, here she is,’ Eleanor had declared from behind the counter. ‘What perfect timing. I was just telling Melody here about the cookery club and she’s very interested.’

Connie’s initial thought, as Melody had whipped around to her, had been one of astonishment. With her razor-sharp cheekbones, mane of shiny blonde hair and huge turquoise eyes, the woman was so stunning, she’d literally taken Connie’s breath away. And despite her lack of make-up, and her casual outfit of khaki combats and white T-shirt, she’d made Connie feel like something that had crawled out from under a mouldy stone. But the moment she’d smiled, Connie had warmed to her.

‘The club sounds great,’ she’d gushed, a west country lilt to her voice. ‘I’m not much of a cook, but I’m determined to get better.’

‘I’ve told her it’s all about learning,’ Eleanor had chipped in. ‘I’m no expert myself, but I enjoy a dabble. And at least you have someone to cook for, Melody.’ She turned to Connie. ‘Melody got married a few months ago.’

‘Oh. Right. Congratulations,’ Connie had offered.

Melody’s smooth velvety cheeks had flushed pink. ‘Thanks,’ she’d muttered, smile wavering somewhat.

‘So, I think she’d be a perfect candidate for the club,’ Eleanor had concluded. ‘What do you think, Connie?’

With Melody’s huge eyes gazing at her hopefully, Connie had been left with little option but to agree. Thankfully, though, all her instincts had told her Melody would be a welcome addition to the club. A sentiment reinforced by the woman’s evident excitement this evening – and the lovely bunch of cerise germinis and bottle of merlot she handed over.

‘Not very original. But I had no idea what to bring.’

‘You didn’t have to bring anything,’ Connie replied, accepting the gifts. ‘But thank you. The flowers are gorgeous. And I’m sure we can make good use of the wine. Come on in and I’ll pour us both a glass.’

‘Goodness, this all looks very professional,’ gasped Melody, upon reaching the kitchen and spotting all the measured-out ingredients in glass bowls, and the basket of veg waiting to be chopped. ‘It’s like something off the telly. And it’s doing nothing for my poor nerves. I’m really worried I’m going to be the dunce of the class.’

Connie laughed, gesturing to her guest to sit down on a stool at the island. ‘Don’t worry. It’s not a competition. It’s all about enjoying good food with like-minded people. To be honest, I’m a bit nervous myself. I’ve never done anything like this before.’

‘Really? You must be a pretty good cook, though.’

‘I don’t know about that.’ Connie set down the flowers and wine on the granite bench and began rooting around in the cupboards for a vase. ‘I’m a complete amateur but I love it. It’s been a passion of mine since I was a child.’

‘You’re lucky,’ puffed Melody. ‘I’m twenty-seven and I still haven’t found my passion.’

Mid rummage, Connie cocked an enquiring eyebrow at the obvious regret in her guest’s tone. By the time she turned back to her, though, Eric had made his presence known, peeping out from behind the sofa where he’d taken refuge immediately after the trauma of the chiming doorbell.

‘Hello, gorgeous,’ gushed Melody, sliding off her stool and scurrying over to him. ‘What’s your name?’

She was deprived of the chance to find out as the bell rang again, and Eric once again took refuge.

‘Evening, Melody,’ exclaimed Eleanor, marching into the room behind Connie a few seconds later. ‘Good to see you.’

‘And you,’ said Melody, returning to her stool. ‘Have you had a busy day in the shop?’

‘Busy doesn’t cover it,’ puffed Eleanor, placing the bottle of wine she’d been carrying onto the island top before tugging off her cardigan. ‘Up until ten minutes ago, it was looking increasingly likely that I wouldn’t be able to make it tonight. Problem with the ice-cream supplier. I’ve only just finished a fifty-minute call to them. Honestly, it’s times like this when I wonder if I’m not too old for this newsagent malarkey. If I shouldn’t just sell up and retire to Benidorm.’

‘Don’t you dare,’ protested Melody. ‘Yours is one of the few friendly faces I’ve seen in almost a year of living here. In fact, when Malcolm’s away on business, yours is sometimes the only friendly face I see all day.’

‘Don’t tell me that. How can I go and collapse on a sunlounger and sip pina coladas all day now, knowing no one is talking to you here?’

‘You can’t,’ giggled Melody. ‘Which is why you have to stay.’

‘Ah. Not necessarily. Connie’s here now. And she has a very friendly face.’

‘But she’s not staying. The lucky thing is only here temporarily.’

Connie laughed as, having located a vase and filled it from the tap, she began arranging the flowers. ‘Surely it’s not that bad here.’

Melody gave a contemptuous snort. ‘Obviously you haven’t encountered the Residents’ Committee yet.’

‘No. I haven’t.’ Pleased with the arrangement of blooms, Connie placed the vase on the windowsill before moving back to the island and cracking open the bottle of merlot Melody had brought.

‘You’d know if you had,’ said Eleanor. ‘They’re like Rottweilers, ready to pounce on anyone who disobeys the screeds of rules they conjure up from nowhere. Wait until you read next month’s newsletter, then you’ll see what we mean.’

‘After that build-up, I can’t wait to read it,’ chuckled Connie, filling two wine glasses and sliding them across the island to her guests. She’d just filled another for herself when the doorbell struck again – heralding the arrival of Kate.

‘I might have known I’d be the last to arrive,’ the vet chuntered, bustling into the room. ‘Milo threw a tantrum, then threw up. Which made Mia cry and Jemima wail. Thank God for the au pair. If she hadn’t been there to help calm things down, I’d never have made it.’

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ remarked Eleanor. ‘Especially as Andrew never seems to be around.’

Kate furrowed her brow as she slipped onto the stool next to Melody. ‘Andrew? Who’s he again? The name is ringing a very distant bell.’ She slapped a hand to her forehead. ‘Oh! You mean the man I occasionally wake up to find in my bed. Actually, he arrived home just as I was leaving, so I saw him for thirty seconds. Which is thirty seconds longer than most days. In fact, he was away all last week on a course and the ever so slightly terrifying thing was, we hardly even noticed.’

‘I know what you mean,’ said Melody. ‘My husband, Malcolm, works really long hours too. But he never works weekends. In fact, I’ve banned all work talk between five o’clock on a Friday and eight o’clock Monday morning.’

‘Impressive,’ said Kate, accepting the glass of wine Connie handed her. ‘You obviously know what you’re doing. But to ban all work talk would imply that you two do actually engage in conversation. Something Andrew and I do very little of these days.’

‘It can only get better,’ chipped in Eleanor. ‘At least he’s there occasionally. My Frank was nowhere near perfect but I still miss him every day. Even though it’s four years now since he passed.’

‘I know.’ Kate reached across and briefly touched Eleanor’s hand. ‘I shouldn’t grumble. Especially when I see how lonely Dad is since Mum died.’

She broke off as Eleanor sputtered on her wine.

‘Sorry. Went down the wrong way.’

Kate flashed her a sympathetic smile before going on. ‘We lost Mum two years ago,’ she explained to Connie. ‘Dad used to be a GP in the village. They’d had such plans for their retirement, but then she died. Completely unexpectedly. And since then he just rattles around without purpose. I’m trying to persuade him to take up a new hobby, but I’m not hopeful. He’s lost all interest in life. But anyway, that’s enough of my woes. What about you, Connie? Anyone special in your life?’

Connie shook her head. ‘No. I was with someone for five years, but a few months ago I came home to find him in bed with one of his work colleagues.’

‘Bloody hell,’ gasped Eleanor, blue-rimmed eyes wide as she gazed at their host over the top of her wine glass. ‘I hope you gave them what for.’

‘I suppose I did. I had one of those “seeing red” moments, where I completely lost it and threw lots of things around – including the chicken biryani I’d taken home as a surprise.’

‘Ha! Good for you,’ sniggered Melody. ‘I bet that added a bit of spice to the proceedings. And ruined the sheets.’

‘I don’t know about the sheets, but it certainly mucked up his partner in crime’s hair. As mad as it was, I couldn’t believe it still looked immaculate after what they’d obviously been doing.’

‘In that case, whatever they’d been doing can’t have been up to much,’ tittered Eleanor.

Connie giggled. ‘I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘There you go then,’ piped up Melody. ‘You’re not missing much.’

‘Definitely not,’ agreed Kate. ‘I had a similar thing once at university. I’d paid a surprise visit to my boyfriend at the time, only to discover him in bed with one of the lecturers. A male one.’

‘No!’ gasped Melody.

Kate nodded. ‘And I won’t tell you what the lecturer was wearing. Suffice to say it was red and frilly.’

‘Well, I never,’ chuckled Eleanor. ‘And I thought stuff like that only happened on the telly.’

‘Real life is so much more interesting,’ confirmed Kate. ‘In fact, I could go on. But I won’t. It might put us off our food. And talking of food, I’m starving. And so looking forward to eating something that doesn’t come in the shape of an alphabet letter. Before we start, though, I think we should raise a toast to Connie’s wonderful idea. And to the inaugural meeting of the cookery club.’ She lifted her glass. ‘To Connie and the Cotswolds Cookery Club.’

‘Connie and the Cotswolds Cookery Club,’ echoed the others, clinking their glasses to hers.

Along with her nerves about potentially setting alight the entire county of Gloucestershire, together with some parts of Wiltshire, and possibly even the odd suburb of Oxfordshire, Connie had also been slightly wary about asking her guests to help prepare the dishes. A complete waste of wariness, as she soon discovered the women couldn’t wait to help.

Connie having marinated the lamb steaks with rosemary for thirty minutes before her guests arrived, Eleanor took over the cooking of the main dish. Under Connie’s direction, she wiped off the marinade, seasoned the meat with salt and pepper, then laid the steaks – along with plum tomatoes – in a pan, searing them for two minutes. Removing the pan from the heat, she then added redcurrant jelly and vinegar, whisked it to a dressing and threw in a handful of capers. The steaks were then sliced and placed on the plate of watercress and tomatoes Melody had prepared.

‘This looks delicious,’ said Melody, crumbling feta cheese over the meat, before spooning on the dressing. ‘I’m dying to try it. Although I really shouldn’t have pigged out on those crostinis.’

‘Far too moreish,’ agreed Kate. ‘But I think I may just have a weeny bit of space left for that. And might even be able to squeeze in a little of the panna cotta too.’

‘Rude not to,’ said Eleanor. ‘And I vote we make a start on that lamb before it goes cold.’

Connie plonked a basket of crusty bread down on the island. ‘Tuck in,’ she instructed.

The group required no further encouragement…

‘God, don’t tell my husband,’ puffed Melody a short while later. ‘He paid a fortune for my birthday meal at a Michelin-starred restaurant in London last month. Tonight’s meal, though, was far better. In fact, I’d go as far to say it was one of the best I’ve ever had.’

‘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.

Seizing the opportunity to remove herself from the man’s sightline post-haste, Connie yanked a bewildered Eric across the road and squatted down next to him behind a rhododendron bush. Her heart hammering harder than a woodpecker with a deadline, she blew out a huge sigh of relief as she heard the clunk of a car door and the purr of an engine, then watched the car rolling down the road.

‘Another lovely day,’ remarked an old man, tottering past with a poodle. Causing Eric to whimper, and Connie to topple forward into the bush.

During her many years as a proofreader, Connie had scoured all manner of material: some excellent, some average, some titillating, and some which, frankly, she deemed a blatant waste of words. Her current project was lodged firmly in the latter category: a huge, tedious tome on Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing, which had summoned forth the question forever hovering in the back of her mind: could she write something better herself? Probably, was the answer which customarily followed this contemplation. But she hadn’t. Who knew, though, now she was in the Cotswolds, where writers such as J M Barrie, John Betjeman and even Beatrix Potter had found inspiration, she might just set to and have a bash. Once she’d waded through the five hundred most definitely not fascinating facts.

She’d just reached a particularly boring part – involving types of rods, when the doorbell chimed. As Eric shot behind the sofa, Connie trotted down the hall to the door.

‘Decadent Décor,’ announced a middle-aged man in paint-splattered overalls, with a balding head and a bulging belly.

Connie gaped at him nonplussed.

‘Come to decorate the house,’ he added – somewhat sardonically.

Connie clapped a hand to her mouth. Of course. She’d totally forgotten Anna had mentioned the decorators. She had offered to cancel them, before swiftly tagging on that they’d been waiting five months for the company – which was apparently in great demand – and would most likely have to wait another five if they put them off. Connie had consequently confirmed that it would be no problem, but had immediately become so distracted by the cookery club that the date had completely slipped her mind.

‘Gosh. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I’d totally forgotten.’

The man sucked in a disapproving breath and folded his arms over his chest.

‘You’re not going to tell me it’s not a good time, are you? Because if you are—’

‘No. It’s fine. Honestly. It’s just that it’s not my house. I’m looking after it while my friend’s in Australia for six months.’

The man couldn’t have looked more uinterested if Connie had started reciting her twelve times table.

‘Best bring my gear in then,’ he sniffed. ‘I’ll start upstairs. And in case you’ve also forgotten, we’ll be here for two weeks.’

Connie’s eyes grew wide. ‘Two weeks?’

‘Big job. Woodwork and everything.’

‘Right. Well, yes. I suppose… with the woodwork and everything,’ she muttered, wondering what Eric would make of it all.

‘And I wouldn’t mind a coffee while I’m setting up. Milk and two sugars.’

Due to constant requests for “milk and two sugars”, by the time lunchtime rolled around, Connie had made very little progress with the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing. In fact, she concluded that if the next two weeks were to proceed in this fashion, she might as well stick her laptop in the cupboard and glue the kettle to her hand. Despair was beginning to set in when her mobile trilled.

‘Hi, Connie. It’s Melody.’

Oh. Hi.’ Connie’s sinking spirits rocketed. ‘How are you?’

‘Great, thanks. I just wanted to thank you again for last night. It’s the most fun I’ve had since I arrived in the village.’

‘Goodness, you really must get out more.’

‘Believe me, you don’t know the half,’ chuckled Melody. ‘Anyway, as well as calling to say thanks, I wanted to run something past you. I’ve never cooked for anyone other than my husband before, so I’m ever so slightly terrified about hosting the next club meeting.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ assured Connie. ‘The club is supposed to be about having fun. Enjoying your cooking. Not stressing over it.’ Blimey. That sounded a bit rich coming from someone who’d suffered several sleepless nights envisaging her name in the history books for having caused the Great Fire of the Cotswolds.

‘Well, I won’t be having fun or enjoying myself if everyone hates my menu. I can’t decide whether to go for prawns or meatballs, so I’m going to try out both before the evening and I’d like you to be a guinea pig.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Connie. ‘I’d love to be your guinea pig. I’ll have to check my hectic – not – social calendar, but I’m sure I can squeeze you in. You tell me when’s good for you and I’ll be there.’

‘Fantastic. How about Monday? You could come for lunch. Twelve-thirty?’

‘Perfect. Looking forward to it already.’

‘Me too. Oh, and bring Eric. I’d love him to meet my dog.’

‘Really? I can’t promise he’ll be very sociable. He might spend the entire time trying to squeeze himself into a plant pot.’

Melody laughed. ‘Bring him anyway. It’ll do him good to socialise.’

‘Okay. But I’ll bring a plant pot too. Just in case.’

Chapter Five

On Monday morning, Connie had just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rang.

Her heart sank. The decorator. She’d had a pleasant weekend without him, but now kettle duty would be resumed.

Throwing on a pair of khaki shorts and a crumpled pink T-shirt, she hurtled down the stairs and yanked open the door to discover not Mr Milk and Two Sugars, but a gorgeous guy in his mid twenties, with floppy dark hair, sculpted cheekbones and piercing blue eyes.

‘Morning!’ he said, through – she couldn’t help but notice – a rather delectable mouth, which then stretched into an adorable grin. ‘Just out of the shower, are we?’ He flicked a look at her chest.

Glancing down and realising she had a bit of a wet T-shirt thing going on, Connie hastily folded her arms over the offending area, while simultaneously flushing the same colour as the Decadent Décor cherry-red van outside. ‘Um, yes,’ she uttered, completely wrong-footed. ‘I was expecting… That is, I wasn’t expecting anyone so, um…’ Gorgeous, sexy, young? ‘Early. I wasn’t expecting anyone so early.’

‘It’s half past eight. We always start at half past eight.’

‘Oh. Yes. Right,’ she blustered. ‘Well, er, you’d better come in.’

‘Might be useful,’ he said, the accompanying wink causing her stomach to flip. ‘I’m Liam by the way.’

‘Connie,’ said Connie, hoping, in her disorientated state, that she’d got that right. Evidently she must have.

‘Nice. Short for Constance?’

‘Yes. But only my mother ever calls me that. Thank God.’

He chuckled, two cute dimples appearing in his cheeks.

‘Bedrooms up here, I take it,’ he said, turning to the staircase.

‘Y-yes,’ stammered Connie, the thought of him in the bedrooms just a little too much to cope with at that precise moment. In an attempt to quash the inappropriate images suddenly trampolining into her mind, she scrabbled together several words which came out as, ‘Would you like a coffee or something before you start?’

Twinkling blue eyes turned back to her. ‘Thanks. I wouldn’t mind a juice. Or water. Anything cool. It’s supposed to be belting hot today.’

‘Yes,’ she whimpered, gaze fixed on impressively firm buttocks as he started up the stairs. ‘I believe it will be.’

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.

‘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.

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?’

‘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.