The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Spain

by Alice Ross

  In a bid to channel her energy into something positive, Trish sat at the desk in her study and attempted to progress her latest commission: Tilly the Talking Tortoise. Since that excruciating Christmas party, however, every time she’d sat down to work, her thoughts leapfrogged to the now-pregnant Chloe and how dismissive the girl had been of her “career”.

  Admitting defeat after half an hour, she gave up and logged on to her emails, slightly sinking spirits immediately restored to their previous level when she spotted a note from Melody containing details of the following week’s cookery club. Just as Trish had hoped, she’d been allocated dessert. Itching to make a start, and desperate to impress the other members, she hared over to the kitchen, donned her apron and, while looking up the recipe for chocolate mousse on the internet, discovered another, more interesting one – for chocolate and hazelnut mini pies. Thankfully having all the necessary ingredients, she dug out half a dozen ramekins and began to cook. Starting with the crust, she tossed crackers, hazelnuts, butter, oil and sugar into the food processor and mixed them to a mealy consistency. She then divided this between the ramekins, pressing it evenly over the bottom and up the sides, before moving on to the filling. Into melted chocolate, she added cornstarch, sugar, water, egg and vanilla, then ladled that into the ramekins. After baking for twenty minutes, she’d just removed the pies from the oven and was allowing them to cool before they went into the fridge, when Amber sauntered into the room.

  Hair all tousled and eyes heavy with sleep, she looked utterly adorable, causing yet another memory of when she’d been younger to slam into Trish’s head. Unfortunately, the pleasant image didn’t last long.

  ‘Wow, they look good,’ she gushed, peering into the ramekins.

  Trish blinked. Was that a compliment after all the earlier grumbling? She decided to accept it graciously. ‘They do, don’t they? You can try one later if you like? Or you could help me make some olive-oil biscuits next.’

  Amber shook her head. ‘Nah. I’m going to have a shower, then go to Jenny’s.’

  ‘On your bike?’

  ‘No. I thought you could take me.’

  Trish tilted up her chin. ‘Did you? Well, as you can see, I’m rather busy. And, as you insisted on telling me several times this morning, it’s not cool to be given lifts.’

  Amber rolled her eyes. ‘That was to the newsagent’s. This is to Jenny’s. Honestly, Mum. You have no idea, do you?’

  Then off she flounced, leaving Trish staring at the ramekins. And wondering what idea she was supposed to have an idea about.

  ‘You are going to tell her today, aren’t you?’ demanded Trish, when Ian loitered in the kitchen on Saturday morning, waiting for his daughter.

  ‘Tell me what?’ asked Amber, breezing into the room in a There’s no need to repeat yourself. I ignored you the first time T-shirt and knee-length cut-off denims, with a rip on one thigh.

  Noting the hopeful expression on her daughter’s gorgeous face, Trish’s heart stuttered.

  Ian rallied first. ‘Um, just that I might not be around next weekend,’ he blustered, tossing Trish an admonishing look. ‘I… might have to go into work. Got a lot on. With the big project and everything.’

  ‘Oh. Right,’ sniffed Amber, evidently unimpressed by the news. But not half as unimpressed as she’d be by the actual news, Trish predicted.

  ‘Have fun today,’ Trish said, as blithely as she could, returning Ian’s look with a meaningful one of her own. ‘Will you be eating out or do you want me to make something for later?’

  ‘Best make something,’ piped up Ian. ‘I’m not one hundred per cent sure how today will go.’

  Amber furrowed her smooth forehead. ‘But I thought we were going boating again.’

  ‘That’s the plan. But you never know how things might, um, pan out.’

  Three hours later and it was perfectly clear how things had panned out. The scenario was much as Trish had envisaged – only one week later: an inconsolable Amber slinging herself through the front door and up the stairs, a despondent Ian trailing behind her.

  ‘Needless to say, that went well,’ he puffed, the slam of Amber’s bedroom door reverberating through the house.

  ‘What did you expect?’

  He shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Part of me thought she might be… pleased.’

  Trish gaped at him. ‘Pleased? How on earth could you think for one moment, after fifteen years of being an only child, of having our undivided attention, that she’d be pleased at the news her dad is having another baby with someone twenty years his junior, who he’s known all of five minutes?’

  ‘There’s no need to put it like that.’

  ‘Why not, when that’s exactly how it is?’

  ‘I’ve known Chloe for almost two years now, not five minutes.’

  ‘Oh, well, that’s all right then.’

  ‘And being facetious isn’t helping anything. What are we going to do about Amber?’

  ‘We are not going to do anything. We are going to breeze out of here and go back to our pregnant mistress. Leaving me, as usual, to mop up the mess.’

  ‘But you’re so much better at these things than I am.’

  ‘It comes with practice. You should try it.’

  Ian appeared not to hear. He was too busy gazing at the ramekins on the bench – now refrigerated and waiting to be garnished with whipped cream and a hazelnut. ‘Wow. They look good. I’m starving. Would you mind if I—?’

  ‘Yes, I bloody do mind. Now get out.’

  Despite Ian’s glowing commendation, Trish failed to make any headway with Amber over the remainder of the weekend. The girl had holed herself up in her room and steadfastly refused to come out.

  ‘What about your paper round tomorrow?’ Trish asked the closed door on Sunday evening. The door did not reply.

  Nor did it reply at five-thirty on Monday morning. Leaving Trish with little option but to chuck on some clothes, drag a comb through her hair, splash some water onto her face, brush her teeth, and prepare to deliver papers herself.

  Thankfully, another glorious summer day had dawned, the sky already high in a dazzling, cornflower-blue sky. Had it been tossing down with rain, Trish doubted she’d have been half as keen, although she still wouldn’t have dreamed of letting Connie down.

  The same gaggle of kids as the previous week were outside the newsagent’s when she arrived in Little Biddington.

  ‘Morning!’ she chirped, having parked directly in front of them and climbed out of the car.

  Six bemused faces – including that of the incredibly handsome Miguel – stared back.

  ‘I’m Amber’s mum,’ she explained. Which seemed only to fuel their bewilderment. ‘Amber’s… ill, so I’ll be delivering her papers today.’

  ‘Cool,’ said one boy.

  ‘Nice car,’ said another.

  ‘What’s wrong with her?’ asked Miguel.

  Trish opened her mouth to reply, but no words came out. Probably because she hadn’t thought as far as conjuring up an actual illness. In fact, it had only just occurred to her in the car that she’d have to tell a little white lie. She couldn’t imagine Amber being very pleased if she told people the truth. ‘Sore throat,’ she blurted. ‘And a tummy bug.’

  ‘Oh. Well, tell her I hope she gets better soon.’

  ‘I will,’ replied Trish, wondering if anyone would notice if she swapped her daughter for this polite and charming young man.

  ‘Hello, you!’ gasped Connie, the moment Trish entered the shop. ‘Don’t tell me Amber’s persuaded you to give her another lift.’

  ‘No. She’s, er, not very well. And we didn’t want to let you down. Especially as she’s only just started. It doesn’t look very good, does it?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. One of the others could have done it for her. Is she all right?’

  ‘She’ll live,’ said Trish, half of her wanting to confide in her new friend, and the other half thinking this really wasn’t the time or place. ‘And I
could do with a bit of exercise. Do you want to explain to me where her round—?’

  ‘Well, hello again,’ said the van driver Trish recognised from the other day. ‘If I’d known there were two gorgeous ladies in here, I’d have pressed my accelerator a bit harder and been here ten minutes earlier for a cuppa.’

  Connie snorted with laughter. ‘Oh, you do cheer me up, Davey. This is Trish. She’s kindly offered to help me out. Bit short-staffed today.’

  ‘She can come and help me out any day of the week,’ chortled the man, dumping two loads of neatly packaged magazines onto the counter top.

  Trish laughed. ‘Thanks. I’ll bear that in mind.’

  ‘Make sure you do,’ he said, with a cheeky wink. Then, holding up a hand in farewell, he exited the shop.

  ‘I know he probably says that to all the ladies, but he has put a smile on my face,’ confessed Trish.

  ‘Good,’ said Connie. ‘He’s not normally that chipper when I’m on my own. And he’s never offered to press his accelerator harder for me. You’ve definitely retuned his engine.’

  Trish snorted with laughter. ‘That’ll be the day. Anyway, when I’ve walked off a bazillion calories delivering Amber’s papers, I’ve brought a treat for us afterwards. A couple of chocolate and hazelnut mini pies.’

  Connie groaned with delight. ‘Oh my God. You don’t know how much I crave chocolate at this time of day. It comes with getting up at the crack of dawn. Hurry up and deliver those papers so we can devour those pies.’

  ‘On it. Just show me my bag.’

  Leaving the shop a few minutes later, fully furnished with papers and directions, and with a definite spring in her step after her brief encounter with the van driver, Trish fulfilled all paper-delivering requirements without getting:

  a) lost

  b) her hand stuck in a letterbox

  c) any bites from domestic – or non-domestic – animals.

  On her way back to the newsagent’s, looking forward to a cuppa and a chocolate and hazelnut pie, she’d just turned a corner when she found herself face-to-face with something equally as scrumptious: Steve, the isotonic-drinking, firm-buttocked, helmet-wearing bike rider. This time in blue and white lycra. Pushing his bike.

  ‘Oh,’ she muttered, all other words once again deserting her at the vision he presented.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, returning her stupefied look with another of his gorgeous grins. ‘Another lovely one, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trish, silently sending out a virtual helicopter to search for all her words and return them in a witty, amusing order.

  ‘I see you’re, er, helping out Connie again,’ he added, indicating the canvas bag across her torso.

  ‘Yes.’ She caught her bottom lip between her teeth, aware he was regarding her strangely. She didn’t blame him. If she’d been attempting a conversation with someone equally as monosyllabic, she’d regard them strangely too. ‘Amber’s… sick. So I’m covering for her.’ Hallelujah. Words! And in a sensible – if not witty – order.

  ‘I see. Well, it’s very good of you to step in.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Trish. Again. Hmm. She’d obviously been a bit previous with her Hallelujah. Too embarrassed to meet his – very green, she’d noticed – gaze, her eyes darted around for inspiration, settling on his bike’s very flat tyre. ‘I see you have a flat,’ she said, immediately cursing herself for stating the obvious.

  ‘As a pancake, unfortunately. And too bad to repair. I’ve had to push it the last mile.’

  ‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ Trish continued gazing at the tyre. ‘Do you, um, like pancakes?’ Oh God. Where on earth had that sprung from? And what difference did it make to anything if he liked pancakes or not? Unable to recall any other instances in her life when she’d felt quite such a numpty, she convinced herself it must be the early start. Human beings weren’t programmed to be up at this hour.

  Adding to her bewilderment, Steve burst into laughter. ‘I do actually. I’ve even been known to knock up a few of the blueberry variety for breakfast. What about you? Are you a pancake fan?’

  ‘Er, yes,’ mumbled Trish, beginning to find the situation ever so slightly surreal. Here she was, at stupid o’clock in the morning, talking – or rather attempting to talk – to a very gorgeous man, about whose buttocks she’d had a rather rude dream – about bloody pancakes. Come to think of it, though, the reason she was so flustered might well be that buttock-themed dream.

  ‘Well, best get my skates on,’ said Steve, who, from the lilt of humour colouring his tone, seemed to be finding the situation equally as baffling. ‘I’ll be late for work at this rate.’

  ‘Yes,’ uttered Trish. Again.

  ‘I’ll see you around, no doubt,’ he said, flashing her another disarming smile.

  Trish opened her mouth to say ‘Yes’, then clamped her lips together. ‘Bye,’ she mumbled instead.

  Honestly, she seethed, stomping her way along Little Biddington’s delightful streets, past the pretty twelfth-century church and the perfectly round duck pond, that man must think her the biggest loser on the planet – to coin one of Amber’s favourite phrases. In fact, she shouldn’t be allowed out of the house without a T-shirt saying Danger: Keep Well Clear. And even then, only for a couple of hours – fully supervised. And not permitted within ten feet of anyone in lycra.

  So furious was Trish with herself that she didn’t at first notice the couple deep in conversation on the other side of the street. But when she did notice them, she discovered one half to be Kate’s husband, Andrew. And the other to be a gorgeous, very French-looking girl, who she assumed must be their au pair.

  ‘How did you get on?’ asked Connie the moment Trish returned to the newsagent’s.

  ‘Fine,’ breezed Trish, opting not to fess up to her mortifying encounter with Steve. Nor the sighting of Andrew and the young woman. For all the pair had looked as though they were having a serious heart to heart, the whole thing could have been entirely innocent.

  ‘I’ll stick the kettle on,’ said Connie.

  ‘And I’ll get the pies. They’re in a cool box in the car.’

  ‘My mouth is watering at the thought.’

  ‘I hope you’re not going to be disappointed.’

  ‘That, I doubt very much.’

  ‘Nope. Absolutely, well and truly not disappointed,’ declared Connie eight minutes later, setting down her empty ramekin and placing a hand on her stomach. ‘That was to die for. What was in the base?’

  ‘Graham crackers. Or you could use Maria crackers. They’d work just as well.’

  ‘Max would love it. I’m putting it on the list of treats for him when he’s home next.’

  ‘I won’t ask what other treats are on the menu.’

  As they both roared with laughter, Melody appeared.

  ‘Goodness,’ chuckled Connie. ‘Is this an impromptu meeting of the cookery club?’

  ‘It looks like it,’ replied Melody. ‘I couldn’t sleep thanks to this growing bump of mine, so thought I’d wander over for a cup of tea. Now you come to mention it, though, it would be rather nice to rattle up breakfast together. Spanish style, of course.’

  ‘I do a mean churros,’ said Trish.

  Melody’s brows shot to her hairline. ‘Seriously? I love churros.’

  ‘I have all the ingredients in Anna’s house if you want to pop down and bring them up here,’ said Connie. ‘Apart from the chocolate for the sauce, but there’s masses of that here.’

  ‘Give me the key,’ demanded Melody. ‘I’ll be back in ten minutes.’

  One hour later, the plate of churros was empty, and not a drop of chocolate remained in the dipping bowl on the counter.

  ‘Ugh. I’ve eaten way too much,’ groaned Melody. ‘But well done, Trish. Those were just as good as anything I’ve tasted in Spain.’

  ‘Thanks,’ replied Trish. ‘But I think I might have stomach ache for the rest of the day. I normally only have a bowl of cereal in the morning.’


  ‘Oh. I should have mentioned,’ said Connie, ‘that when you do a paper round, you’re allowed to eat whatever you like in the morning. Fish and chips, apple pie and custard, garlic mushrooms, you name it.’

  ‘Ugh. Now I really do feel sick.’

  ‘Shame Kate wasn’t here,’ said Melody. ‘She’d have loved those.’

  ‘She would,’ agreed Connie. ‘But the chances of her having her clan up and ready at this hour are slim to zero.’

  ‘Hmm,’ mused Melody, exchanging a strange look with Connie.

  One that Trish, following her sighting of Andrew and the girl she assumed must be the au pair, was beginning to understand.

  ‘Right. I’d better run along home and see how my daughter is,’ she said.

  ‘Absolutely,’ agreed Connie. ‘Tell her we all send our love and hope she’s better tomorrow.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Trish also hoped Amber would be better tomorrow. But perhaps not better enough to do her paper round. Because, apart from that unfortunate sighting of Kate’s husband, she’d had a very pleasant morning indeed.

  Amber was still in her room when Trish arrived home. Not that Trish was surprised. She’d begun to wonder if she’d ever see her daughter again before the girl turned twenty-one. All kinds of significant occasions might pass by, all manner of world events, natural disasters and freak incidents, and Amber still wouldn’t have moved. Trish had considered buying her a T-shirt with Twinned With Concrete printed on it, but she doubted Amber would see the funny side. She had, however, brought up the remaining chocolate and hazelnut mini pie for her, which she now left on a tray outside the door. Something she’d been doing ever since the sit-in had begun. Only to return a while later to discover the empty plates on the tray. Of course, for all Trish knew, the girl could be tipping the contents straight into the bin while starving herself to death. In two weeks’ time, she could be up in court for neglect, Amber’s rattling skeleton proffered before the jury as evidence.

  ‘I’ve done your paper round, darling,’ she informed the door. ‘And I’m leaving a little treat here for you.’