The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Spain

by Alice Ross

  His mouth stretched a shade wider. A little too wide in her opinion.

  ‘Right, well, er, come in,’ she said. ‘Amber isn’t back yet. We weren’t expecting you until six.’

  ‘Yes. I know.’ He stepped inside and began striding down the hall. Trish closed the door and followed him, surveying the back of his head, which contained lots more spikes. Was that fashionable? None of Amber’s male friends had that “style”.

  ‘I gave Chloe a lift into Cirencester,’ he continued. ‘And it seemed pointless going home.’

  Trish’s hair musings ground to a shuddering halt. Ian’s reference to Chloe’s flat as “home” had sent an ice-cold shiver down her spine. Not a great start to the evening. And precisely why she’d regretted her suggestion to invite him as soon as the words had departed her lips. If this was any indication of how the evening would progress, she thanked the high heavens – and the low ones – that she hadn’t spent more than twenty minutes in his company since the split. And then she thanked all the in-between heavens that she’d had the good sense not to spend all day today with him.

  Reaching the kitchen, he pulled out a chair at the table and sank down onto it, while Trish headed to the sink, her back to him, as she attempted to pull herself together.

  Running the tap and swiping up a colander from the drainer that she’d already washed, she squirted on some washing-up liquid and began scrubbing furiously. ‘We’re having meatballs in tomato sauce – the Spanish version,’ she blurted, above the sound of running water.

  ‘Sounds great. Bet you’re the star of that cookery club of yours.’

  ‘Hardly,’ replied Trish, still scrubbing. ‘The others are brilliant. I’ve picked up lots of tips even though I’ve only been to a couple of meetings.’

  ‘I bet you’ve passed lots on too. You always were a great cook.’

  Trish furrowed her brow. Had she heard him correctly? She set down the colander, turned off the tap and spun round to him. ‘You never said.’

  ‘I did. I always complimented you on your culinary skills.’

  ‘You didn’t. You used to wolf down the food while telling me about your day at work – although obviously not all about your day at work…’ she couldn’t resist adding, ‘… and never said a word about the food.’

  ‘Well, if I didn’t, I should have. I suppose I just…’

  ‘Took me and my cooking for granted?’

  He pulled a face. ‘Makes me sound like a right shit, doesn’t it?’

  Trish shrugged. ‘Yes. But I suppose it’s the same for most couples when they’ve been together a long time. I never thanked you for mowing the lawn or putting out the bins in all weathers. Two jobs I hate doing now.’

  ‘I could still come over and mow the lawn. I don’t mind.’

  Trish swung back to the sink, turned on the tap again and this time began attacking a measuring jug, also previously washed. ‘You might not, but I’m sure Chloe would. Anyway, you won’t have time. You’ll have your hands full with other stuff soon. Like dirty nappies, milk pumps and Teletubbies.’

  He didn’t reply.

  She slanted him a quick glance. Fiddling with the pepper mill, his doleful expression suggested he wasn’t totally enamoured of the prospect of dirty nappies, milk pumps and Teletubbies. Well, tough. He’d made his bed and slept in it – with Chloe and without contraception – so, he’d just have to get on with it.

  ‘How’s Amber?’ he asked at length.

  Trish turned off the tap, set down the jug and began drying her hands on a tea towel. ‘Much better. She puts on this great act of being all grown up and in control, when really she’s still just a kid. A kid who needs her parents.’

  ‘I’ll always be there for her, you know.’

  Gazing at his now-anxious face – topped off with that stupid hair – Trish couldn’t help but smile. Despite all the rubbish he’d subjected them to, she couldn’t fault him as a father. From the day Amber had been born, he’d been hands-on – changing nappies, doing night feeds, driving round the block twenty-seven times to get her to sleep. And he’d never missed a landmark occasion – first day at school, nativity plays, prize-giving. ‘I know.’ Batting back tears, she whisked back round to the sink, flicked on the tap and swiped up the jug again.

  ‘Want me to help?’ he asked, suddenly appearing at her side.

  Trish started. He was so close she could smell the citrusy undertones of his aftershave – a scent so familiar it made her head spin.

  Gazing into his eyes – the same eyes she’d gazed into countless times – the rest of the room blurred and for a moment nothing else existed but the two of them.

  The moment was broken by the crash of the front door, the stomping of feet on the hall floor, and Amber bowling into the room. Stopping the moment she spotted her father.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ she murmured, looking, Trish thought, all of six years old as she stood in the doorway not knowing what to do.

  ‘Hello, sweetheart,’ said Ian.

  Trish watched as he crossed the room and enveloped Amber in an almighty hug.

  As she nestled into him and began to sob, Trish squeezed past them and made her way upstairs, allowing them a moment. And grateful for the chance – after that strange little episode – to have one of her own.

  One hour later and the atmosphere in the kitchen couldn’t have been more different. Ian having used all the means at his disposal – his unerring charm, plus, no doubt, promises of lots of things that cost lots of money – he and Amber appeared to have made up, were laughing and joking like old times and, to Trish’s astonishment, were helping make dinner.

  ‘This must be just like your cookery club,’ chortled Ian.

  ‘Er, not quite,’ said Trish, whipping the frying pan from the heat just before the crepe therein began to burn. ‘At the cookery club people know what they’re doing.’

  ‘Mum’s made some really cool stuff since she joined,’ chipped in Amber.

  ‘As in “cool stuff” that goes in the fridge?’

  Amber whacked her father with a tea towel. ‘Was that supposed to be a joke?’

  ‘No. It wasn’t supposed to be a joke. It was a joke.’

  ‘It was about as funny as your hair, Dad.’

  ‘Never mind my hair. What happened to you being vegetarian?’

  ‘I still am. During the week. But I’ve decided that it’s not really convenient on weekends. Shall I cut the apples for the crepes, Mum?’

  ‘Please, darling. And don’t forget to core them too.’

  ‘Okay.’ Amber skipped over to the cutlery drawer, humming.

  Trish and Ian exchanged a look.

  And smiled.

  With dinner over a couple of hours later, Amber hared off to her room to reply to a text from Miguel, leaving Trish and Ian alone at the table.

  ‘Thanks so much for tonight,’ he said. ‘It’s been brilliant. And an absolute pleasure eating food that didn’t come out of a carton.’

  Trish assumed that must be a reference to Chloe’s lack of culinary prowess, but she really didn’t want to know. They’d had such a pleasant evening, it would be a shame to spoil it now. ‘It has been nice, hasn’t it? I haven’t seen Amber so happy in a long time.’

  ‘Me neither. She’s a great kid. We did good there, you know.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And we’re obviously very talented as a family. That meal was superb. Especially the apple-stuffed crepes.’

  Trish laughed. ‘It turned out better than I thought.’

  ‘What are you saying? That I’m a liability in the kitchen?’

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘Huh. I’ll have you know I can rustle up a mean cheese on toast. And you’d have to go a long way to beat my scrambled eggs.’

  ‘Was that another joke?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’

  Trish giggled, amazed – given the inauspicious start to the evening – at how relaxed she now felt in his company. Just like old times. But then again,
she had consumed several large glasses of wine.

  ‘Remember that holiday in Majorca?’ Ian suddenly piped up.

  Trish’s relaxed mood dissipated in a puff of smoke. Her stomach lurched and her throat went dry. Damn. Why did he have to mention that? It was painful enough recalling that holiday alone. To pick over it together would be torture.

  ‘Er, vaguely,’ she uttered. Then, craving the refuge of the sink, she rose to her feet, snatched up her plate and marched around the table.

  ‘I think it was our best holiday ever,’ he went on, tone ringing with wistfulness. ‘And you know what I loved most?’

  Now at the sink with her back to him, Trish squeezed her eyes shut. Please don’t say the evenings.

  ‘The evenings. Just the three of us, away from all the hustle and bustle in our own little world.’

  Trish cleared her throat and swiped away the lone tear that had escaped her eye. ‘I rather liked that holiday we had in Turkey the year before,’ she said, flicking on the tap.

  Curious about his lack of reply, she swivelled her head round to him. Meeting his gaze, she knew immediately that he hadn’t believed her. For several long seconds, with her still clasping the plate, the tap water pouring over her fingers, their gazes locked and neither of them said a word.

  The sound of a dog barking outside broke the moment.

  Ian stood up. ‘Well, I’d, er, best be making tracks. I’ll help you clear up before I go.’

  ‘No,’ snapped Trish – a little more sharply than intended. The last thing she needed was him standing beside her again. With his hair. And his aftershave. ‘It’s fine. Honestly.’ She turned off the tap and whipped up the tea towel. ‘You’d better go. Chloe will be wondering where you are.’

  He made a strange snorting sound. ‘I doubt that. She’ll still be out. She said something about going to a club.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Trish silently cursed herself for mentioning the girl’s name – the name they’d avoided all evening. ‘I’ll, er, see you out then,’ she mumbled, experiencing an overwhelming urge to be alone.

  Ian didn’t demur, leaving her wondering if he felt the same.

  ‘Say good night to Amber for me,’ he said, as Trish pulled open the front door.

  ‘I will,’ she replied, the familiar scent of his aftershave, this time mixed with the aromas of the meal they’d shared, once again tickling her nostrils.

  ‘And thanks again. It really was a brilliant night,’ he said, gazing into her eyes.

  Gazing back, Trish could do nothing but nod.

  Until he leaned across and lightly brushed his lips against her cheek.

  At which point, she thought she might pass out.

  Chapter Nine

  Trish hadn’t been as confused since the day she’d been introduced to fraction multiplications. She’d spent the last six hours in bed, mind and body tossing and turning like an antsy pancake. What had Ian meant by kissing her last night? Okay, it hadn’t been the kiss of lovers, more of mates. But it had been a kiss nonetheless. One which, when combined with the compliments he’d paid her of late, and the miserable look she’d witnessed when she’d mentioned the baby, had whipped up a batter of confusion inside her. She had no idea what to make of it. Or even how she felt about it. It had certainly been unexpected. But it had also been… nice. A reassurance. Although of what, she wasn’t sure. That she wasn’t such a failure after all? That he still had feelings for her? She suspected the main ingredients of his and Chloe’s relationship were not sugar and spice and all things nice. But did that mean he regretted his decision to leave and wanted to come back? And, more to the point, did she want him back? After the lovely evening they’d spent together, and knowing how happy it would make Amber, Trish didn’t know. For all she’d find it difficult to forgive him for what he’d put them through – if indeed she ever could – she could probably learn to live with it. Ian was weak. He’d hit middle age and made the classic, clichéd mistake of succumbing to the attentions of a younger woman. But recalling all the good times they’d enjoyed as a family – like the holiday in Majorca – Trish questioned whether it was really worth giving all that up, just because of one mistake? And if they did get back together, how would the new baby fit into their lives?

  As Amber frequently quoted – Trish had absolutely no idea.

  Completely exhausted after so little sleep, but sick of tossing and turning, she heaved her weary body out of bed and downstairs to the kitchen just as the birds began chirping outside.

  ‘What are you doing up?’ asked Amber, entering the room thirty minutes later in full make-up, white shorts and a gingham shirt.

  ‘Couldn’t sleep. Want some churros for breakfast?’

  ‘Are they fattening?’

  ‘Extremely. Want some or not?’

  ‘Oh, all right. But just one.’

  Four churros later Amber declared she was too stuffed to bike to Little Biddington.

  Trish didn’t mind. She was more than happy to take her. More than happy to do anything that took her mind off the dilemma raging in her head and the overriding question bobbing about the surface: would she take Ian back if he asked her?

  Without any grumbling from Amber, Trish parked directly outside the newsagent’s in Little Biddington, her daughter joining the kids on the pavement while she wandered inside.

  ‘I’ve come to water the hanging baskets,’ she informed Connie.

  Connie blinked. ‘Blimey, that’s a bit keen.’

  ‘I know. Couldn’t sleep. Lots on my mind.’

  ‘Want to talk about it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel a bit… weird.’

  ‘Right. Let me get rid of that lot outside, then we can have a cuppa.’

  Trish smiled. Something – up until a few seconds ago – she couldn’t have imagined doing at all today. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘My pleasure. That’s what friends are for. Old or new.’

  Connie had just slipped outside, and Trish had located the watering can, when Steve appeared – in green and white lycra and his bike helmet – looking so fit and tanned that Trish immediately wished she’d ripped a leaf out of Amber’s book and spent three hours getting ready.

  ‘Morning,’ he said, beaming at her. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here today.’

  ‘Couldn’t sleep.’ Trish set down the watering can on the counter and smoothed down the stray strands of hair which had already escaped her lopsided ponytail.

  ‘You look tired. Everything okay?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, you know. Life and the universe.’ She attempted to inject some humour into her tone. The last thing Steve needed at this hour – or indeed any hour – was to listen to her whingeing.

  ‘What you need is some serious cheering up. And a slap-up meal, cooked by someone other than you, and on something more glamorous than a barbecue.’

  Trish laughed – something else she’d hadn’t imagined doing today. ‘That sounds nice. Especially if I don’t have to do the washing-up.’

  ‘You won’t. I know just the place. They wash the dishes for you and everything. I’ll pick you up at seven, shall I?’

  Her jaw dropped. Cripes! She’d thought he was just being polite. Making chit-chat. Offering a bit of sympathy. She hadn’t imagined for one moment that he was asking her out. Oh God. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with. She opened her mouth to reply but, completely distracted by his lycra-clad bum bending over the chiller, no words other than “Phwoar” – which she thankfully managed to keep to herself – sprouted forth.

  ‘Right. Must dash. I’ll see you tonight,’ he said, turning around with his drink, striding back to the counter, slapping down some coins and disappearing out of the shop.

  Leaving Trish with a head whirling faster than a food-mixer on full speed. And with a serious case of the jitters just imagining what Amber would make of it all.

  ‘What?’ spat her daughter in the car. ‘You and Miguel’s dad. Going on, like, a date?’

  ‘It’s not really
like a date,’ blustered Trish airily – or at least she hoped she sounded airy. Inside she was a wreck. She’d thought it might be best to break the news out in the open. In the car. Where there was nothing for Amber to hurl other than half a packet of mints and a pencil. On reflection, though, she should have given the matter more consideration. Great damage could be done with a pencil. Trying not to think about how much damage as she negotiated a bend in the road, she replied, ‘It’s just two people going out.’

  ‘On a date.’

  ‘Not on a date. A man and woman can just be friends, you know,’ replied Trish, wondering how to throw the pencil out of the car without Amber noticing. ‘There doesn’t have to be romantic implications.’

  Amber screwed up her nose. ‘Ugh. I think it’s disgusting. And I hope you’re not going to wear those culottes you bought last month. They’re like the worst things ever.’

  Trish’s brows shot to her hairline. ‘Ugh. I haven’t even thought about what to wear.’

  ‘Your pink dress. And the beige sandals. Not the pink ones. They look like you’re trying too hard.’

  ‘Right,’ puffed Trish. ‘Well, that’s that sorted then.’

  If Trish had considered herself nervous before the first cookery club meeting, she was positively beside herself before her date with Steve. Although she still wasn’t sure it even was a date. Nor if she wanted it to be.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’ll do you good,’ Connie had said over their cup of tea in the shop that morning. ‘You deserve a bit of pampering. Someone to treat you.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Trish had sighed. ‘My head’s all over the place about Ian.’

  Connie had pursed her lips. ‘I can’t really comment there. I don’t know him. All I will say, from the little I do know, is it looks like you’re putting everyone else before yourself. Perhaps it’s time you thought about what you want.’