The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Italy

by Alice Ross

  ‘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 ri
ght. 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.’