The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of France

by Alice Ross

  By the time he arrived at his destination, he’d been both mentally and physically exhausted. But the moment their eyes met, and her beautiful face lit up, he forgot all about the harrowing journey; all about the mental anguish. It had, he knew instantly, all been worth it.

  ‘Hi,’ she said, those incredible green eyes twinkling. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you here. I checked the attendees, but your company wasn’t listed.’

  ‘I’m not here on business,’ Rich informed her.

  ‘Oh?’ A slight flush touched her smooth, creamy cheeks.

  ‘I came to see you.’

  At which point her extremely kissable mouth broke into a wide smile and Rich’s insides turned to semolina.

  They became a couple immediately after that and, even now, fifteen years on, Rich still considered his wife the sexiest female on the planet. And a terrific businesswoman. They’d started Bubbles from scratch and, within the first year, had blasted to smithereens all of his meticulously considered financial predictions. Add to the mix his adorable six-year-old daughter, Bethany – a smaller version of Alison – and life was good. Or at least it had been.

  Until two days ago.

  When a nineteen-year-old girl appeared in the showroom.

  With news Rich could never have predicted.

  Chapter Two

  ‘This tea’s cold’.

  Jenny Rutter opened her mouth to point out to her mother that the tea wouldn’t have been cold had she drank it within the first ten minutes of Jenny setting down the cup alongside her. But she promptly clamped her lips shut again. Arguing with Phyllis Rutter, she had long since concluded, was a pointless exercise. At eighty-eight, the woman was still as sharp – and as cutting – as a bacon-slicer; could surpass any politician in the oratory field; and was so set in her ways she made a block of concrete seem pliable. But by far Phyllis’s most distinguishing trait was that, whatever the subject matter – and however well or badly informed she was thereof – she always, always, had to have the last word.

  So, rather than stating the obvious, Jenny sucked in a calming breath and, on the exhalation, calmly asked, ‘Would you like me to make you another cup?’

  Phyllis gave a derisive sniff. ‘Don’t put so much milk in it,’ she sniped, without taking her eyes off the evening TV quiz show Jenny had heard so many times, she could recite the presenter’s banter off-pat.

  Jenny picked up the lukewarm drink and wandered into the kitchen, heading straight for the biscuit barrel. Removing the lid, she picked out a chocolate-coated digestive and, as she munched it, tried not to dwell on the fact that, unless something drastic happened to change the status quo of her life, she could be listening to exactly the same banal banter, from exactly the same TV presenter, at exactly the same time of day, for years to come. She had, rather depressingly, been attempting not to dwell on the same fact for the last thirty years.

  Jenny had made a relatively late appearance in her parents’ lives. Married for almost twenty years, any reproductive hopes the Rutters might once have harboured had long since evaporated by the time their daughter bowled into the world. To describe her arrival as something of a shock, therefore, was akin to describing Niagara Falls as a steady drip.

  And it was a shock from which they seemingly never recovered. Landed with this small being, they appeared dumbfounded as to her origin, and even more dumbfounded as to her purpose. Her intrusion into their well-ordered lives was immediately lodged in the Resentment category; something Jenny had become aware of when she was scarcely out of nappies.

  Of course, Jenny was also aware that much worse parenting tales existed: hers didn’t mistreat, neglect or abuse her. They catered for all her physical needs, and even showed an interest in her education. But the two things Jenny craved above all remained sadly missing: love and affection. Never, in her entire childhood, could she recall either of her parents giving her so much as a goodnight peck on the cheek. Even when she’d been in hospital with appendicitis when she was nine, there’d been no reassuring hugs, no meaningful embraces, no heartfelt kisses; nothing more than an awkward patting of her hand.

  It was a state of affairs Jenny had come to accept. But never one with which she became comfortable. As she grew older, she consoled herself with the fact that it wouldn’t be for ever, and, to make sure, she meticulously planned her escape. University. That would be her way out. She set her heart on Edinburgh. A romantic, fun city where she imagined her young life really beginning. To ensure the fulfilment of her plan, she worked her socks off at school, desperate to achieve the requisite exam results. The day she received a letter offering her a place to study history had been the happiest of her life.

  But, three months before her start date, a tragic event occurred which completely destroyed every one of Jenny’s dreams and, for all she didn’t know it at the time, her entire life plan. While eating his lunch at the desk in the office where he’d worked as an accountant for thirty years, her father collapsed and died of a heart attack. Along with the remainder of his ham and chutney sandwich, on the desk lay an A4 sheet of lined paper, headed up ‘Jenny’s University Costs’, below which nestled a neat column of figures in the distinctive green ink of Cyril Rutter’s fountain pen.

  When informed of this fact, and being furnished with the aforementioned list, Phyllis Rutter’s attitude to her daughter – lukewarm at the best of times – slid into glacial territory.

  ‘Of course we all know what killed him,’ became the woman’s long-standing mantra, predictably followed by a meaningful glower in Jenny’s direction.

  Although never close to her father, Jenny had nonetheless been distraught at his death, her reaction not helped by Phyllis’s snide accusations. And as much as Jenny tried to convince herself that it couldn’t possibly have been the university costs that had caused his death – her parents weren’t badly off, and she fully intended contributing financially herself – she couldn’t shake off the heavy cloak of guilt that Phyllis had so callously dumped over her young shoulders.

  ‘Of course you realise there’s no way you can go to university now,’ Phyllis announced completely out of the blue one evening. Jenny could still recall the moment as if it were yesterday. It was a Thursday and she’d been whipping up omelettes for tea. They’d had omelettes for tea every Thursday since.

  ‘But why ever not?’ she asked. ‘If it’s about money, you won’t have to contribute a penny. I’ve already got my grant, and I’ll get a part-time job. Waiting on tables, or working in a shop or a –’

  ‘It’s not about money. It’s about me. You’ll have to stay and look after me.’

  Jenny stared at her mother, nonplussed. What was she talking about? The woman wasn’t old. She enjoyed good health and was more than capable of looking after herself. She was about to voice all of this reasoned argument when Phyllis’s next comment drew the strings of Jenny’s cloak of guilt tight around her neck and tied them in an undoable knot.

  ‘It’s your fault your father’s dead, so the least you can do is carry out his dying wish and stay here with me.’

  The ringing of the doorbell jolted Jenny back to the present. She waited for the unfailing response from the living room. It came immediately.

  ‘There’s someone at the door. You’d better answer it.’

  Jenny didn’t bother to reply. Her mother tacked the same unhelpful comment on to every ringing of the doorbell.

  Momentarily deserting her tea-making duties, she wandered along the hall and pulled open the front door to find Joe, the window cleaner, on the step, come to collect payment for services rendered earlier that day.

  ‘Evening, Miss Rutter. How are you?’ he asked, with a smile that instantly lifted Jenny’s spirits.

  ‘Very well, thank you, Joe,’ she lied, forcing the corners of her own lips upwards. Jenny liked Joe. He had what she termed “a sunny personality”, and he did a brilliant job cleaning the windows. She’d never had to so much as rub a sill down since h
e’d taken over the round a year or so ago. ‘How’re things with you?’ she asked, reaching for her purse on the hall table. ‘Keeping busy?’

  ‘Snowed under,’ replied the young man, accepting the ten-pound note Jenny handed him. ‘The round’s going from strength to strength.’

  ‘That’s because you do such a good job,’ Jenny replied. ‘No wonder your services are so in demand.’

  A strange sound came from Joe’s throat, which he quickly turned into a cough. ‘Er, thanks,’ he muttered, a flush spreading over his cheeks. ‘Well, I’d best be off. You take care and I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.’

  Jenny’s smile widened as she stood in the open doorway, watching Joe lope down the lane. She’d heard a bit of tittle-tattle around the village about his window-cleaning exploits – or should that be sexploits – and she couldn’t say she was surprised. He was a good-looking, likeable lad. He should be making the most of his youth; enjoying himself. Savouring every minute of his life because, as Jenny could vouch with authority, it passed you by in the blink of an eye. That depressing thought whirring about her head, she closed the door and headed back into the kitchen to the biscuit barrel.

  ***

  ‘You cannot be serious.’ Echoing the words of an ageing tennis player, Jasper Pinkington-Smythe’s plummy voice raged across the North Atlantic at his sister. ‘I thought Dad was minted.’

  Portia sighed wearily. Despite his advancing years, her brother still acted like a sulky, spoilt adolescent. And although he hadn’t actually said it, his actions had made it blatantly obvious that he viewed their father’s death as nothing more than a minor inconvenience, which had rudely interrupted his long sojourn at a friend’s villa in Cuba. Appearing fleetingly for the funeral, he’d stayed two nights, then flitted off again, leaving Portia to tie up all the loose ends. Of which, she had since discovered, there were many threadbare ones.

  ‘None of us thought money was an issue,’ she explained. ‘But we never gave any consideration to where it came from. A combination of poor investment decisions, low interest rates and excessive spending means lots has been going out, and nothing’s been coming in.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ seethed Jasper. ‘Well, what am I supposed to do now, with no allowance?’

  The question ignited a dart of red-hot fury in Portia’s gut. ‘For God’s sake, Jasper, you’re forty years old. You’ve milked Dad your entire life. And I hate to say it, but you have to take some responsibility for this state of affairs. Isn’t it about time you got off your backside and went out and found a job? Did something useful for a change? Like normal people.’

  ‘But I’m not normal,’ he whinged. ‘And I can’t do anything. Who’s going to give me a job? No, there’s nothing else for it. We’ll have to sell Buttersley Manor.’

  Portia’s fury intensified. ‘Over my dead body! There is no way we’re selling the manor,’ she spat. Before jabbing the end call button.

  Shaking with rage, tears rolling down her cheeks, she wandered out onto the balcony of her Canary Wharf apartment. Despite it being June, the afternoon was dull, the grey sky heavy with the threat of rain. Dressed in only a T-shirt and cotton skirt, her long legs bare, she shivered as she sucked in the cool air.

  Of course she really shouldn’t have called Jasper until she’d felt stronger. She’d known exactly how he’d react to the news of their unexpected penury; had predicted his response with startling accuracy: Me. Me. Me. Typical Jasper. Throughout his entire life her brother had never considered anyone but himself. Shunning adult responsibilities, he was like a child, completely ill-equipped to deal with real life. God, if he’d witnessed the things she had during her career –

  Portia flicked a mental switch, efficiently summoning an impenetrable barrier which abruptly shut down that avenue of thought. She had enough to deal with in the present, never mind reliving events of the past.

  She’d given the dire financial situation a great deal of consideration since her meeting with Dillon, concluding that it wasn’t just the pitiful state of their inheritance that was so depressing, but the fact that centuries of Pinkington-Smythe history were now at an end. Everything her ancestors had fought and worked for over the last few hundred years, everything they’d striven to preserve, now amounted to nothing more than a house – and a fairly decrepit one at that. Selling it would be tantamount to zipping up a body bag.

  She wandered back inside, flopped down on the Italian leather sofa, and surveyed her surroundings. She’d owned the flat for five years but, due to her hectic work schedule, had never spent more than a couple of weeks at a time in it. It was bright, trendy, equipped with every desirable gadget, and in a good location – exactly what every young, fun-loving city-dweller desired.

  But, Portia suddenly realised, it was no longer what she desired. Nor did she want dirty, crowded streets, or neighbours she didn’t even recognise, never mind talked to.

  She wanted peace and quiet, fresh air, and her best friend, Annie O’Donnell.

  And the one place she could have all of that was … Buttersley.

  ***

  Sitting on the bed, fresh from the shower, with only a towel around his waist, Rich stared at the number on his mobile phone. He’d saved it under “Chlorine Supplier”. Because somehow “The daughter I didn’t know I had” didn’t seem quite right. Nor did simply inputting her name. Candi. What sort of name was that? Certainly not one Rich would have chosen. But given he hadn’t even known of her existence until a couple of days ago, he wasn’t exactly in a position to criticise.

  Alison had been out visiting potential clients when Candi turned up. Rich had been in the showroom arranging a display of chlorine tablets. So engrossed in his task had he been, that he hadn’t heard her come in.

  ‘Morning,’ she said shyly.

  A startled Rich dropped the box he’d been holding.

  ‘Here. Let me help.’ She bent down and retrieved it.

  ‘Thanks.’ Rich accepted it from her. ‘Sorry. I didn’t hear you come in. Can I help you with anything?’

  The girl diverted her gaze to her scruffy trainers and cleared her throat. ‘I’m, er, looking for Richard Stevens.’

  Rich’s mouth broke into a wide smile. ‘Well, congratulations. You’ve found him.’

  Rather than the revelation proving pleasant, the girl’s already sallow cheeks paled further, and behind her spectacles her blue eyes widened.

  As Rich waited for her to say something, he appraised her appearance. She wasn’t an attractive girl. Plain would more aptly describe her. Lank, mousy hair curtained her face, round John Lennon-type specs rested on her narrow nose, and her boyish frame was clad in a shapeless pink sweatshirt and ill-fitting jeans. With not a scrap of make-up evident, she looked about twelve. What on earth could she want with him? His brow lifted a tad higher.

  ‘I, um, think you know my mum. Bernice Wilson?’ she said at length, raising her eyes to him.

  Rich screwed up his nose. Bernice Wilson? The name rang a distant bell. But quite where from, he couldn’t recall. ‘Has she bought a tub from us in the past?’ he asked.

  The girl snorted with ironic laughter. ‘No. Nothing like that. You knew her when she was younger. A lot younger. In Leeds.’

  Rich caught his bottom lip between his teeth as his brain-racking continued. Nope. Still no recollection.

  ‘You went out with her for a while.’

  Ah! The penny dropped. With considerable force. Bernice Wilson. A feisty, party-loving brunette with a penchant for vodka. Oh, yes, he remembered her now.

  ‘Right. Er, how is she?’ he asked, now even more baffled.

  The girl didn’t reply at first, her gaze returning to the floor. ‘I’m, um, not sure if you knew, but … but at the time you broke up, she was … pregnant.’

  ‘Pregnant?’ Rich’s jaw dropped. ‘But she never … I mean I didn’t really see her after we split … We only went out for a few months then we …’

  �
��It was nineteen years ago. I’ve just had my nineteenth birthday.’

  For a brief second time stopped. Rich’s heart stuttered, his throat went dry and his vision blurred. Surely she couldn’t mean …

  ‘Are … are you trying to tell me that you’re my … my …?’

  The girl nodded. ‘Your daughter. Candi.’

  Neither of them spoke after that. Not for a good three minutes. Which seemed more like three hours to Rich. His brain flicked to overdrive. Bernice Wilson. Mother of his child. Bloody hell. Talk about a bolt from the blue. Suffused by a barrage of memories, he recalled that he hadn’t even liked Bernice much. She’d been spoilt. Stroppy. Far too fond of getting off her head on booze – or worse.

  ‘I can tell you’re a bit … shocked,’ Candi eventually muttered. ‘Maybe I should go now. Let the news sink in.’

  Unable to speak, Rich merely nodded.

  ‘Here.’ She tugged a scrap of paper from her jeans pocket and handed it to him. ‘This is my number. If you’d like to talk some more, please give me a call.’

  Then she left.

  And Rich stood beside the unfinished pyramid of chlorine tablets for the next twenty minutes.

  Somehow – although he would never know quite how – he managed to pull himself together, acting with some semblance of normality when he arrived home. But what the hell was he supposed to do now?