Читать книгу The Cotswolds Cookery Club: a deliciously uplifting feel-good read - Alice Ross - Страница 12

Chapter Four

The next morning, Connie woke on a high. Not that she’d had much sleep. She’d been too wound-up with the success of the evening. The first meeting of the cookery club had far exceeded her expectations. The group had gelled beautifully. And the food, although she said so herself, had been utterly scrumptious. But while she buzzed, poor Eric appeared traumatised by recent events, his distressed state further agitated by their having had to help home a tipsy Eleanor. Racked with guilt at having subjected him to such an ordeal, Connie determined to make it up to him that morning, starting with a leisurely amble around the village.

Yet again, it was another dazzlingly bright spring morning, the sun already high in the sky, bathing the village in an orange glow. As they pootled down the street, stopping every few seconds for Eric to pee or sniff, the newsagent’s came into view. And so, too, did the car parked outside – a very distinctive black Porsche with red wheels and tinted windows. So preoccupied with the cookery club had Connie been, she hadn’t given the vehicle – or its reckless driver – a second thought after the sighting at the supermarket yesterday. Seeing it now, though, both her anger and the urge to tell the owner exactly what she thought of him almost ploughing down her and Eric, returned with a vengeance. But with the dog engaged in a particularly intense snuffle around what was obviously a very fragrant lamp post, she could do nothing but observe as a tall figure with brown hair, wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt, loped out of the shop, jumped into the car and drove off, at – she noticed – a respectable speed.

Observing the vehicle as it glided down the street – putting Connie in mind of a big black beetle – she couldn’t decide if she felt relieved or disappointed that she hadn’t been close enough to share her opinion of his driving. Either way, her curiosity had been roused. She wouldn’t mind finding out who he was. And she knew just the person to tell her. As if on cue, Eleanor’s colourful form – adorned in red-cropped trousers and a short-sleeved yellow blouse – suddenly appeared.

‘How’s the head this morning?’ enquired Connie, as she approached.

Eleanor whipped around to her, mortification sweeping over her heavily made-up features.

‘Oh, Connie, I am so embarrassed. I’ve never nodded off like that before. It’s all these early mornings. They catch up with you.’

Connie laughed. ‘I’m sure they do. But I hope the late night hasn’t put you off coming to the next meeting.’

‘Heavens, no. I had a wonderful time. Beats a glass of sherry and a night in front of the box any day of the week. And, for all my shameful exit, and – between me and you – a slight headache, I’m feeling incredibly inspired. There’ve been a couple of recipes in the Galloping Gourmet recently that I’ve been itching to try. And what better opportunity than to experiment on you three?’

‘Absolutely. That’s what the club’s all about.’

‘That and a good old natter. Which makes a nice change for me. I pass the time of day with people in the shop but rarely have time for a proper chat.’

Spotting an appropriate opening, Connie grasped it. She cleared her throat before asking, in what she hoped was an airy tone, ‘Do you, um, know the name of the man who was in here a few minutes ago? He drives a black Porsche.’

Eleanor wrinkled her nose. ‘Black Porsche?’

‘Yes. Tall. Brown hair.’

The shopkeeper gave a self-deprecating tut. ‘Oh, of course. It’s Max Templeton. He lives in Cedarwood Cottage.’ She waved an arm in the general direction. ‘He’s a pilot and his wife is some high-flying executive for a cosmetics company or something. Why do you want to know?’

Connie hesitated, the distinct note of fondness in the older woman’s reply throwing her off-balance. ‘I’ve, um… just seen him around quite a bit, that’s all,’ she said, opting to play it safe until she knew more about him. Or until the opportunity arose when she could express her low opinion of his driving face to face. ‘Anyway, looks like it’s going to be another glorious day,’ she added, swiftly moving the conversation on.

Having finished chatting to the newsagent, Connie left the shop and, for reasons which baffled every other part of her body, found her feet carrying her in the vague direction Eleanor had indicated: towards Max Templeton’s Cedarwood Cottage. Following the revelation of his pilot occupation, she’d concluded he’d obviously confused his car with his cockpit the day he’d almost wiped out her and Eric. Not that she had the courage to hammer on his door and tell him that. Bumping into him coincidentally was one thing, seeking him out for confrontation was quite another. Still, something about that distant sighting of him earlier had intrigued her. Which was precisely why, she supposed, she now found herself discreetly reading house names on gateposts, until she located Cedarwood Cottage.

Maintaining the impeccable housing standards of the Cotswolds, the house was a stunning what looked to be former farmhouse, with a slightly higgledy-piggledy frontage, and a cute duck-egg blue front door. And there, parked outside, was the unmistakable Porsche.

Having no idea what to do next, and not wishing to alert the suspicions of the Neighbourhood Watch – nor, indeed, the apparently formidable Residents’ Committee – with her loitering, she’d just coaxed Eric into performing an about-turn, and was on the verge of retracing her steps, when, to her horror, the door to the cottage swung open.

Connie’s blood turned cold and she froze in horror as she observed one long, jeaned leg appear on the step. Oh my God. This wasn’t how she’d imagined their encounter at all. She wasn’t prepared. And she couldn’t possibly adopt the moral high ground when she and Eric had been sniffing – quite literally – about outside his house. The sanctimonious lecture which had instinctively leapt into her head immediately following the near-incident, and again when she’d spotted the car at the supermarket, had, for the time being, completely deserted her. Holding her breath as she awaited the appearance of a second leg, relief rushed through her as she heard muttering which sounded like “bloody keys”, and the leg disappeared back inside.

Seizing the opportunity to remove herself from the man’s sightline post-haste, Connie yanked a bewildered Eric across the road and squatted down next to him behind a rhododendron bush. Her heart hammering harder than a woodpecker with a deadline, she blew out a huge sigh of relief as she heard the clunk of a car door and the purr of an engine, then watched the car rolling down the road.

‘Another lovely day,’ remarked an old man, tottering past with a poodle. Causing Eric to whimper, and Connie to topple forward into the bush.

During her many years as a proofreader, Connie had scoured all manner of material: some excellent, some average, some titillating, and some which, frankly, she deemed a blatant waste of words. Her current project was lodged firmly in the latter category: a huge, tedious tome on Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing, which had summoned forth the question forever hovering in the back of her mind: could she write something better herself? Probably, was the answer which customarily followed this contemplation. But she hadn’t. Who knew, though, now she was in the Cotswolds, where writers such as J M Barrie, John Betjeman and even Beatrix Potter had found inspiration, she might just set to and have a bash. Once she’d waded through the five hundred most definitely not fascinating facts.

She’d just reached a particularly boring part – involving types of rods, when the doorbell chimed. As Eric shot behind the sofa, Connie trotted down the hall to the door.

‘Decadent Décor,’ announced a middle-aged man in paint-splattered overalls, with a balding head and a bulging belly.

Connie gaped at him nonplussed.

‘Come to decorate the house,’ he added – somewhat sardonically.

Connie clapped a hand to her mouth. Of course. She’d totally forgotten Anna had mentioned the decorators. She had offered to cancel them, before swiftly tagging on that they’d been waiting five months for the company – which was apparently in great demand – and would most likely have to wait another five if they put them off. Connie had consequently confirmed that it would be no problem, but had immediately become so distracted by the cookery club that the date had completely slipped her mind.

‘Gosh. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I’d totally forgotten.’

The man sucked in a disapproving breath and folded his arms over his chest.

‘You’re not going to tell me it’s not a good time, are you? Because if you are—’

‘No. It’s fine. Honestly. It’s just that it’s not my house. I’m looking after it while my friend’s in Australia for six months.’

The man couldn’t have looked more uinterested if Connie had started reciting her twelve times table.

‘Best bring my gear in then,’ he sniffed. ‘I’ll start upstairs. And in case you’ve also forgotten, we’ll be here for two weeks.’

Connie’s eyes grew wide. ‘Two weeks?’

‘Big job. Woodwork and everything.’

‘Right. Well, yes. I suppose… with the woodwork and everything,’ she muttered, wondering what Eric would make of it all.

‘And I wouldn’t mind a coffee while I’m setting up. Milk and two sugars.’

Due to constant requests for “milk and two sugars”, by the time lunchtime rolled around, Connie had made very little progress with the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing. In fact, she concluded that if the next two weeks were to proceed in this fashion, she might as well stick her laptop in the cupboard and glue the kettle to her hand. Despair was beginning to set in when her mobile trilled.

‘Hi, Connie. It’s Melody.’

Oh. Hi.’ Connie’s sinking spirits rocketed. ‘How are you?’

‘Great, thanks. I just wanted to thank you again for last night. It’s the most fun I’ve had since I arrived in the village.’

‘Goodness, you really must get out more.’

‘Believe me, you don’t know the half,’ chuckled Melody. ‘Anyway, as well as calling to say thanks, I wanted to run something past you. I’ve never cooked for anyone other than my husband before, so I’m ever so slightly terrified about hosting the next club meeting.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ assured Connie. ‘The club is supposed to be about having fun. Enjoying your cooking. Not stressing over it.’ Blimey. That sounded a bit rich coming from someone who’d suffered several sleepless nights envisaging her name in the history books for having caused the Great Fire of the Cotswolds.

‘Well, I won’t be having fun or enjoying myself if everyone hates my menu. I can’t decide whether to go for prawns or meatballs, so I’m going to try out both before the evening and I’d like you to be a guinea pig.’

‘Fine by me,’ said Connie. ‘I’d love to be your guinea pig. I’ll have to check my hectic – not – social calendar, but I’m sure I can squeeze you in. You tell me when’s good for you and I’ll be there.’

‘Fantastic. How about Monday? You could come for lunch. Twelve-thirty?’

‘Perfect. Looking forward to it already.’

‘Me too. Oh, and bring Eric. I’d love him to meet my dog.’

‘Really? I can’t promise he’ll be very sociable. He might spend the entire time trying to squeeze himself into a plant pot.’

Melody laughed. ‘Bring him anyway. It’ll do him good to socialise.’

‘Okay. But I’ll bring a plant pot too. Just in case.’