by Alice Ross
‘You know what you should do?’ piped up Eleanor. ‘Ask Malcolm to invite her and her husband over for dinner. Then you can wow her with your cooking and spend some time with her. Show her you’re far from an empty-headed gold-digger.’
Melody pursed her lips. ‘Hmm. Interesting idea, but I’m not sure me – or my cooking – are up to it.’
‘It is and so are you,’ confirmed Kate. ‘It’s a brilliant idea. You can bowl her over with your culinary prowess. And talking about culinary prowess – or lack thereof – after this evening’s fabulously high standard, and Eleanor’s amazing gnocchi, as the next host I’m feeling under immense pressure.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ said Connie. ‘And if it’s too much disruption for the children, we can have it at my house. Well, obviously, it’s not mine, but you know what I mean. You could still run the evening and choose the menu and everything.’
Kate shook her head. ‘No. It’s only fair we all take turns. Just be warned, though – you may leave with a splitting headache – or a child or two. Oh, and if you don’t mind, I thought I’d ask my dad along. Just this once. It’ll make a nice change for him. And he can help Domenique with the kids if they kick off.’
‘What a lovely idea,’ said Connie, slanting a glance at Eleanor – who looked, she noted, ever so slightly terrified.
Connie arrived home a little after midnight, so full she knew it would be pointless trying to sleep. She contemplated texting Liam, but for one thing she didn’t have the energy. And for another, it no longer felt right. Their evening in Cirencester had made her realise just what a difference nine years could make. And the fact that she’d only received a couple of texts from him since suggested he felt the same. It had been fantastic while it lasted – a mad, passionate fling which had done wonders for her confidence. And restored her libido. But they’d both known it would never be more than that. Which was precisely why it was best not to pretend; not to drag things out. She’d speak to him at a more civilised hour, she decided. And be completely upfront.
Not wishing to dwell on Liam, Connie flicked on her laptop, brought up her blog, and was about to begin a new entry about that evening’s cookery club meeting, when she noticed how many hits the site had had. Over one thousand. Ever so slightly astounding. And very, very exciting.
Chapter Ten
Connie was relieved. Not only was the decorating finally finished – meaning she no longer had to make five hundred and thirty-six cups of coffee every day, but she’d had The Chat with Liam. To be more precise, they’d had The Chat. And although he hadn’t said as much, Connie could tell the night in Cirencester had made him realise they’d reached their expiry date.
‘It’s been great, though,’ he’d said, giving her one last kiss – so exquisitely leg-weakening that, at the time, Connie couldn’t have cared less if she’d never been kissed again.
Fortunately, she didn’t have time to dwell on the kiss – or if she ever would be kissed again – because Melody had invited her and Eric to dinner that evening, to meet her husband. Slightly anxious about the occasion, the moment Connie shook hands with Malcolm Todd, every one of her nerves dissipated. She’d been expecting someone high-powered, no-nonsense and scarily businesslike. And although she suspected he would be all those things in the workplace, she found him funny, relaxed, and the perfect host. Plus, he made an enormous fuss of Eric.
As they enjoyed the balmy evening, sitting at the wrought-iron table on the terrace, overlooking the swimming pool and watching Eric and Tilly frolicking on the lawn, Malcolm asked, ‘How old did you say he was again?’
‘Thirteen,’ replied Connie, once again astounded at the difference in her ward.
‘That’s ninety-one in dog years. In which case, I’ll have a very large portion of whatever it is you’re feeding him.’
‘No, you won’t,’ chipped in Melody, looking stunning in a white crochet dress. ‘Not when I’ve spent all day slaving over a hot Aga.’
‘I was about to add: but only if it’s been cooked by my darling wife,’ chuckled Malcolm, exchanging another tender look with her – one of many in the short time Connie had been there.
‘He had to say that,’ giggled Melody. ‘Given all the work I’ve put into this meal. Excuse me a second while I check on it.’
As she scuttled into the house, Malcolm turned to Connie.
‘I have to congratulate you on that cookery club idea of yours. Not only do I sample superb dishes at least three times a week, but I’ve never seen Melody happier. The club, and indeed your friendship, has really made a difference. I’m sure she’s told you she’s had difficulty settling here, it not being the most welcoming of places.’
Connie nodded. ‘She has. And it’s such a shame. From what she’s told me, there are some pretty strong characters around.’
‘Nothing pretty about them, unfortunately. Some people have such preconceived ideas, which they’re loathe to let go of.’
‘Well, all I can say is that the people concerned need to get to know Melody. And see the two of you together. I’ve only been here an hour and it’s obvious you think the world of one another.’
Malcolm grimaced. ‘Oh God, we’re not doing that sickening lovey-dovey thing, are we?’
Connie laughed. ‘Not at all. It’s the subtle little gestures which give you away.’
Malcolm shook his head. ‘It’s taken me until this grand age to find the right woman and tie the knot. But boy, was it worth waiting for.’
‘I hope you’re talking about the food,’ chipped in Melody, reappearing with a sizzling dish.
‘That smells divine,’ gasped Connie. ‘What is it?’
‘Cantonese beef. The recipe’s in this month’s Galloping Gourmet.’
‘Ah, the famous Galloping Gourmet,’ said Malcom. ‘I must write and tell them what a brilliant job they do.’
‘They do,’ agreed Connie. ‘In fact, maybe we should make that our next theme for the club – dishes from the Galloping Gourmet.’
‘Who’s hosting the next meeting?’ asked Malcolm.
‘Kate,’ replied Melody. ‘Although I don’t think she’s looking forward to it. Her house sounds complete chaos, what with the children and everything. In fact, sometimes, when I listen to Kate, I think it might be as well we haven’t fallen pregnant yet.’
‘They’re not always little, you know,’ pointed out Malcolm. ‘And Kate did have three very close together.’
‘I know,’ sighed Melody, smiling at her husband. ‘To be honest, even if it was bedlam for a couple of years, I still think it’d be worth it.’
Malcolm reached across the table and took her hand. ‘It’ll happen,’ he assured her, planting a kiss on her knuckles. ‘We just have to be patient.’
‘And if it doesn’t, it’s not the end of the world,’ said Melody. ‘We have so many other things to be thankful for.’
‘We have. Like the matching twirling spaghetti forks someone gave us as a wedding present. Have you seen them, Connie? Because if you haven’t, you’re seriously missing out.’
A couple of hours later, after the scrumptious beef, a dessert of the fluffiest lemon mousse, cheese and crackers, two cups of coffee, and an apricot liqueur – which she hadn’t really wanted, but had knocked back to be polite – Connie and Eric bade their goodbyes and began their walk home. Decidedly mellow after the lovely evening, Connie found herself experiencing unaccustomed pangs of envy after seeing Melody and Malcolm together. It wasn’t their luxury trappings that had sparked the emotion, but the special bond between them. A bond she doubted – as she reached the village and Eric began sniffing all the wheelie bins out for collection the next morning – she’d ever find. It was all very well – and rather sweet – of her dad to say she deserved someone who would treat her properly. But what were the chances of finding that person? She didn’t go anywhere to meet unattached men. Perhaps, then, she should try internet dating. But no. She couldn’t. She’d be terrified of be
ing stalked by an axe murderer, or someone who had a penchant for axes. Or stamps. Or foreign coins dating back to 1952. Thinking about just how minuscule the chances were of finding someone you not only fancied, but who made you laugh, who felt the same about you as you did about them, and who you could actually imagine spending the rest of your life with, her thoughts strayed to Charles – or, more precisely, Charles and Stacey. Had they developed that special bond? Would their relationship last? Did Stacey’s hair ever…? She and Eric executed a synchronised three-foot jump as a figure suddenly appeared out of the shadows.
Wheeling a bin.
In the tall, toned shape of Max Templeton.
‘Oh,’ he said, the surprise on his handsome face suggesting they’d startled him as much as he’d startled them. ‘I was just… putting out the bin.’
‘Yes,’ said Connie, immediately wishing she’d come up with something wittier like… well… anything.
‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ she replied. Then, boring herself with her monosyllabic answers, never mind Max, she added, ‘We’ve just been for dinner at a friend’s house.’
‘Have you now?’ He bent down and fondled Eric’s ear. ‘And did you have a nice time?’
‘We did, thanks. Especially Eric. He and my friend’s dog are a bit loved up.’
‘Lucky them.’ He straightened up and gazed directly into her eyes.
Taken aback, Connie could do nothing more than gaze back into his hazel ones. What was it about those eyes that never failed to make her stomach flutter? She had no idea. But whatever it was, she should stop it. Max was a married man, for heaven’s sake.
‘It was nice meeting your folks the other day,’ he said, breaking the strange silence that had settled over them.
Recalling that ignominious meeting, mortification swept through Connie. ‘I’m really sorry about my mum. I hope she didn’t disturb your lunch. Or interrogate you too much. She thought you were very nice, though.’ Oh no! Why had she said that? ‘And your wife,’ she hastily added. To what end she had no idea.
‘Actually—’ began Max.
At a rumble of distant thunder, Eric released a heart-wrenching whine.
‘Oh no,’ gasped Connie. ‘I’d better take him home immediately. If there’s a storm he completely freaks. According to my instructions, I’m to build him a little tent in the bedroom.’
‘Oh. Right.’ Max ran a bemused hand through his hair as he regarded the now quivering dog. ‘Well, is there anything I can do to help?’
‘No. Thank you,’ replied Connie, already scuttling down the street. ‘Nice talking to you. I’ll see you later.’
No sooner had she and Eric reached the house than the storm began in earnest – battering rain, rumbling thunder and crackling lightning. Eric dived under the duvet and Connie left him there, snuggling up against him, finding comfort from his warm, solid body.
The rain continued all the next day. Despite having loved every minute of the glorious sunshine she’d experienced since her arrival in the Cotswolds, Connie didn’t mind. It suited her mood. And it forced her to stay inside and finish the boring Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing job. She really should have finished it last week – a fact the agency had reminded her of daily – but her heart hadn’t been in it. Not, she supposed, that anybody’s heart would ever be in proofreading – or fascinating fishing facts. Nevertheless, she’d always prided herself on adhering to deadlines. With her failure to do so this time causing her minimal concern, she realised it really was time for a change; time to kick-start her life. Her time in the Cotswolds – for all very pleasant – was merely an extended holiday. Her life – and the real world – were in London. And at the terrifying rate the weeks were ticking by, she’d soon be back there. Doing… what? Not daring to think about it, she lay on the kitchen sofa with Eric, pulled a blanket over them, and fell asleep.
The rain lasted two more days, during which Connie didn’t leave the house. She returned the completed proofreading job, repositioned all the furniture after the decorating, cleaned the house, tried out a new recipe for peanut butter cookies, and added two new articles to the cookery club blog – one about baking, and another about how to set up a cookery club.
Running out of bread and dog biscuits on the first dry day, Connie decided to take Eric for a long walk, and to call at the newsagent’s on the way back to pick up some provisions and have a chat with Eleanor. Stepping outside, a clean, earthy smell – like that of freshly cut grass – hit her nostrils, and she wondered at how clean everything looked in the weak sunlight. Wandering around the village with Eric, avoiding the puddles, they eventually reached the newsagent’s.
Prepared to bring Eleanor up to date with her cookie recipe, and enjoy a nice cup of tea and a chat, Connie entered the establishment and jolted to a stop.
Because it wasn’t Eleanor’s colourful persona behind the counter, but rather the hunky, tall one of Max Templeton.
A rather pathetic ‘Oh’ escaped her lips.
Thankfully, Max appeared more lucid. ‘Morning,’ he said, beaming at her.
‘Eleanor?’ squeaked Connie.
Max’s chiselled features twisted into a contrite expression. ‘Hospital. Slipped on the wet floor at bridge club yesterday. Hurt her leg and banged her head.’
Connie’s hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh no. Is she okay?’
‘She’s fine. Just a bit shaken up. They’re keeping her in for a few days.’
‘Which hospital? I’ll go and see her.’
‘Cirencester. It’s all-day visiting. You can go any time.’
‘Right. Thanks.’ Connie chewed her lip, cursing herself for not venturing out sooner. ‘So… what’s happening with the shop?’ she asked.
Max threw open his arms. ‘It’s being run by a complete novice, who’s doing their best.’
She managed a weak smile. ‘I could help.’
He quirked an eyebrow. ‘Sure?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Great. Could you start this afternoon? If you did one till four, I’d pop back for a couple of hours after that.’
‘Okay. But you don’t need to come back. I could stay till six. I’m sure your wife would rather—’
Max opened his mouth to reply, but stopped as a short, stout woman in brown tweed, wearing a felt hat and wielding a tartan umbrella, marched in.
‘Morning, Mrs Smythe. How are you today?’
‘Eleanor still not here?’
‘No. They’re keeping her in hospital for a few days.’
‘Hmph. Well, let’s hope she doesn’t cause quite as much disruption there as she did at the bridge club yesterday. A very important league match was taking place in the next room, which will now have to be rescheduled as a result of all her carrying on.’
‘How dreadful,’ said Max. ‘I must tell Eleanor that the next time she almost breaks her leg and knocks herself unconscious, she really should do it on non-league days. Now, what can we do for you, Mrs Smythe?’
‘Fisherman’s Friends,’ puffed the woman, producing a pile of coins from her pocket and slapping them on the counter. Then, whipping up the required packet from the display, she whisked around and stalked out of the shop.
‘Don’t tell me,’ said Connie. ‘Celia Smythe of Residents’ Committee fame.’
‘The very one. And I strongly suspect those Friends will be as near to the real thing as she ever gets.’
The moment she arrived home, Connie settled Eric in his basket, looked up directions on the internet, then jumped in her car and headed straight to the hospital to visit Eleanor.
She found her in a ward with two other ladies, looking her usual glamorous self in a lime-green nightdress and full make-up. Occupying the chair next to her was a very distinguished man, with thick grey hair, wearing cream trousers and a yellow polo shirt.
‘Connie! What a lovely surprise,’ exclaimed the shopkeeper. ‘But you really shouldn’t have come. I�
�m fine. To be honest, I have no idea why they’re keeping me here.’
‘They obviously want to keep an eye on you,’ said Connie, kissing her on the cheek.
‘I suppose so. But I feel bad having everyone fussing over me. Nigel here has hardly left my side.’
Connie turned to “Nigel” and extended a hand. ‘Hello.’
‘Oh, goodness me,’ fluttered Eleanor. ‘Where are my manners? Nigel, this is Connie. Connie, this is Nigel. My ex-GP. And Kate’s father. He was my knight in shining armour yesterday. Heaven only knows what might have happened if he hadn’t been there.’
Nigel shook his head good-humouredly as he exchanged an effusive handshake with Connie. ‘She’s exaggerating. She would have been fine. All I did was call the ambulance.’
‘Yes, but they probably wouldn’t have been there half as quickly if someone else had called.’
‘They’d have been there at exactly the same time,’ said Nigel.
Eleanor beamed at him. ‘He’s too modest. And he was a brilliant GP. That surgery hasn’t been the same since he left.’
‘Most likely vastly improved,’ chuckled Nigel, then changing the subject. ‘So, you must be the Connie who set up the cookery club.’
‘I am,’ confirmed Connie. ‘And talking of cooking, I brought you these.’ She pulled a box from her bag, containing some of the cookies she’d made while housebound. ‘It’s a new recipe, but I don’t think they’ll poison you.’
‘She’s in the right place if they do,’ chortled Nigel, as Eleanor flipped off the lid and passed it to him. ‘They look delicious. Mind if I try one?’
‘Of course not. They’re okay. But not nearly as exciting as the gnocchi Eleanor made the other evening. That was superb.’
‘Was it indeed? Well, in that case, I shall be putting in my gnocchi order as soon as she’s out of here.’
‘Oh, you!’ tittered Eleanor, beaming from ear to ear.
Max was in the storeroom – surrounded by boxes – when Connie arrived at the shop at the appointed one o’clock.
