Читать книгу The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of France - Book 3 - Alice Ross - Страница 8

Chapter Three

At the voicing of her husband’s suspected infidelity – to which she’d expected a collective horrified gasp – Kate was amazed to witness a flurry of knowing looks bounce around the trio in her kitchen.

‘Oh. My. God!’ she exclaimed, as the reason why slapped her in the face. ‘You already know.’

‘Of course we don’t know,’ countered Melody. ‘We just… might have seen them together. Occasionally.’

‘How occasionally?’

‘Just… now and then.’

‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’

‘There’s nothing to tell,’ said Connie. ‘When we have seen them, all they’ve been doing is talking.’

‘We thought she might be teaching him French,’ piped up Trish.

Kate rolled her eyes. ‘Hardly. Ugh. I feel like such an idiot.’

‘Well, you shouldn’t,’ insisted Connie. ‘Unless you’ve witnessed something you’re not telling us.’

Kate shook her head and puffed out a breath. ‘Nothing incriminating. I just… have a feeling.’

‘Based on what?’

‘Well, this is the second time in a few months that they’ve been away at the same time. And Andrew’s so grumpy these days. And Domenique’s always receiving text messages. And—’

‘But you haven’t actually seen them together together?’

‘No.’

‘Well, there you go then,’ said Melody. ‘You’re most likely blowing the whole thing out of proportion because you’re exhausted. What you need is a nice meal and a good night’s sleep.’

‘I never have a good night’s sleep.’

‘Hmm. Not much we can do about that, I’m afraid. But you can have a nice meal. Beginning right now.’

At the dinner table, having the sensation of being shrouded in a heavy fog, too tired to dwell on the Andrew/Domenique thing, Kate drifted in and out of the conversation, which skimmed topics such as baby names, teenage daughters and nervy greyhounds. And despite the food looking and smelling mouthwatering, she barely tasted it.

‘Right,’ announced Trish, what seemed to Kate eons after she’d raised the issue of her husband and the hired help. ‘It’s nearly ten o’clock. I think we should call it a night. Poor Kate is yawning her head off.’

‘I’m fine, honestly,’ Kate protested. Despite being anything but.

‘You’re not. You need to sleep. But we’re not leaving you with this lot.’ Trish indicated the mountain of dirty dishes scattered around. Some from the cookery club, others that Kate had missed in her cursory attempt to clear up earlier.

‘The dishwasher’s not working,’ she informed them with some embarrassment.

‘In that case, point us to the rubber gloves,’ instructed Melody. ‘Before we banish you to the living room.’

‘But—’

‘No arguments. Living room. Now!’

Too weak to argue, Kate dragged herself through to the lounge, chucked a muddy welly off the sofa and sank down on the grubby cushions. Where, within three seconds, she fell into a deep, much-needed sleep.

Rather than a tribe of squealing, squawking small people hurling their pyjama-clad bodies on top of her and jolting her awake, Kate eased herself into the next day at a leisurely pace, still on the sofa, but with a pillow at her head and a duvet covering her body. Revelling in such undisturbed and unaccustomed luxury, she jack-knifed upright at the sound of laughter upstairs. Noting the time of seven o’clock, horror ricocheted through her. The kids! They couldn’t possibly have slept this long. They could be wreaking all kinds of havoc while she’d temporarily relocated to the Land of Nod, dribbling into her pillow, oblivious to it all. As she scrabbled off the sofa and sprinted to the stairs, all kinds of horrific scenarios cantered through her head – swiftly culminating in her being jailed for child neglect and the children being whipped away by social services.

Rather than the anticipated scene of carnage, however, she found all three offspring under the duvet in the spare room, listening to a story from the fourth occupant of the bed: Melody.

‘I hope you don’t mind, but I stayed over,’ her surprise guest explained. ‘You were so exhausted, we didn’t want to wake you when we left. My other half’s away on business, so Connie picked up my dog and took her to her house, while I stayed here on kid-watch so you could have an undisturbed night’s sleep.’

Kate shook her woozy head in disbelief. ‘I don’t know what to say. That’s so incredibly kind.’

‘It’s been a pleasure. I can’t tell you the last time I’ve had so much fun at five in the morning. We’ve done all sorts, haven’t we, guys?’

Three little heads nodded. Noting how adorable they looked with their messy blond curls and huge blue eyes, Kate felt a rush of love. ‘I’ll go and make us all breakfast, shall I?’ she suggested.

‘No need,’ said Melody. ‘We’ve already had ours. We’ve left you some granola. And we’re staying right here until you’ve had a nice relaxing bath. Mummy deserves a bit of Me Time, doesn’t she?’

The little heads nodded again.

At which point, swamped with gratitude, Kate scampered over and enveloped them all in an enormous hug.

Kate couldn’t believe the difference. Not only at her spending more than thirty seconds in the bathroom, but at the entire household, and, indeed, the house. Melody had somehow managed to make breakfast, tidy the kitchen, match up several socks, and dress the children, all with the minimum of fuss. However, as refreshing as it was, her competence had compounded Kate’s feelings of inadequacy. Not that she intended confessing that to her friend.

‘You’re going to make a wonderful mother,’ she told her instead as they sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee apiece.

Melody pulled a face. ‘Hmm. I’m not so sure. I keep waking up in the middle of the night panicking that I won’t have a clue what to do with a baby.’

‘Nonsense. You’ll be brilliant. And at least you’re starting at a sensible age. I wish I’d had mine in my twenties rather than my late thirties. I think I’d have coped much better.’

‘But look what you did instead. Had a brilliant career and set up your own practice.’

‘Ah yes. The practice. I used to be so proud of it. And I loved working there. But now it feels like a huge weight around my neck. And with the locum leaving in a few weeks, I honestly haven’t a clue what to do with it.’

‘You could always go back. Put the children into nursery.’

‘I could. And I have considered that. On the brief occasion there’s room in my head to consider anything. But I suspect I’d only be making my life two hundred times more stressful.’

Melody grimaced. ‘It’s not really my place to say, but maybe Andrew should pull his weight a bit more.’

Kate blew out a sigh. ‘Hmm. Another problem. Just as I have no idea what to do about the practice, I’m absolutely clueless what to do about Andrew. I might be being completely neurotic, but, as I said last night, this isn’t the first time he and Domenique’s trips away have coincided. A couple of months ago Andrew was supposedly in Liverpool. And she was supposedly in York. And, I’ve noticed that whenever there’s a cookery club meeting, he’s home much earlier than usual, possibly because it’s a chance to spend more time with her.’

‘Or because he’s trying to help; thinks he should be there to sort out the kids so you can relax when you’re at the club.’

Kate shook her head. ‘Somehow, I don’t think the notion of me needing to relax ever enters Andrew’s head.’

Waving Melody off a short while later, Mia clamped to one leg, Jemima to the other, and Milo perched on her hip, Kate experienced a pang of sadness. For what, she wasn’t sure. For Melody carrying her first baby and the accompanying hope and excitement? For her friend’s wonderful – and much appreciated – help? For the fact that she’d have to wait another two weeks before the next cookery club meeting? Or because her life was completely pants?

‘Please can I go to Cecilia’s house after nursery?’ asked Jemima, a note of desperation to her tone.

Blimey. Was it really that bad here? Setting down Milo and watching him and Mia thunder down the hall kicking a tennis ball en route and knocking over a scooter, Kate concluded it must be.

‘Of course, sweetheart. If it’s okay with Cecilia’s mummy. We’ll ask her when we drop you at nursery, shall we?’

After the usual pantomime of finding shoes – or, in Milos’s case, Paddington Bear wellies – gathering together enough snacks and juice bottles to sustain the entire village for a fortnight, and selecting a battalion of cuddly toys to accompany them, Kate bundled everybody into the car and headed to Jemima’s nursery in the neighbouring village of Cornfield. Klever Klogz Childcare was housed in a traditional Cotswold house with lots of glass extensions. It boasted computers, a sandpit, a library, several squishy sofas and an army of uber-efficient staff in yellow polo shirts – who were great with the kids, but adopted a Gestapo-like approach when dealing with the parents. Or at least when dealing with Kate.

Running late, as usual, she realised she would probably have missed Cecilia’s mummy: the nauseatingly punctual Frances. Which would mean phoning the woman. A call she really should have been making to the dishwasher repairman.

Pulling up outside the shiny red gates, bracing herself for a chorus of disapproving sniffs and synchronised eye-rolling from the yellow-shirts, Kate breathed a sigh of relief as she spotted Frances’s immaculate 4x4 – naturally devoid of the squashed raisins, used tissues, random shoes, and eau de vomit that Kate’s vehicle boasted. Disgorging her brood from the car, she ushered them towards the entrance, wondering, as she watched the twins tramp ahead, how, in the space of ten minutes, and in the confines of their car seats, they’d managed to make themselves look as if they’d been dragged through several hedges backwards, then forwards, then backwards again.

Approaching the giant red and yellow clog that guarded the nursery door, she spotted Frances through the window, talking to Mrs Allen, the nursery manager, who ruled over the yellow-shirts with a rod of reinforced steel.

Attached to the end of Kate’s arm, Jemima obviously made the same observation. ‘See,’ she huffed. ‘Cecilia’s mummy looks pretty. And she smells nice.’

Kate couldn’t comment on the smell, but she certainly wouldn’t call Frances “pretty”. In a floral, knee-length skirt and lacy white blouse, her blonde, shoulder-length hair held back with an Alice band, she put her in mind of a 1950s Stepford wife. Nevertheless, her pristine, stain-free persona still made Kate feel like a scarecrow.

Sucking in a bolstering breath, she forced a smile onto her face and was preparing to greet the formidable pair with some pleasantry about the warm September weather when Milo emitted a spectacular war cry. Causing the women to start.

‘Goodness,’ gasped Mrs Allen, pressing a hand to her chest and glowering at the tiny perpetrator.

Obviously sensing the chief’s disapproval, Jemima wailed, ‘Milo’s horrible.’

‘Hmph! He’s certainly… lively,’ sniffed Mrs A disapprovingly.

‘I bet you can’t wait for next year when the pair of them start here,’ chortled Kate, attempting to add a splash of humour to the proceedings.

It was quelled before leaving the starting block.

Mrs A made an indecipherable snorting sound, before throwing a look at her watch. ‘Jemima’s late. And she wasn’t here at all yesterday.’

Kate twisted her features into an apologetic expression. ‘No. The twins were ill. Sorry, I know I should’ve called but I was too busy mopping up vomit.’

Mrs A shook her clearly exasperated head of short grey hair, before extending a hand to Jemima. ‘Come along now, child, or you’ll miss registration.’

A sniffling Jemima tossed one last reprimanding look at her brother, now sitting inside the wooden clog and making racing-car sounds, before tootling off with Mrs Allen.

The encounter having sapped a deal of Kate’s limited energy, she turned her attention to Frances, who was observing Mia with a strange look on her face.

Having evidently clocked the child’s bandage, which she’d attempted to reapply herself, Frances asked – with a definite “I think I may have to inform the relevant authorities” edge to her voice – ‘Has she hurt her head?’

‘Just a bump,’ breezed Kate, wishing she’d kept Jemima off nursery today too. Did other people incur all this fuss when dropping off their kids? She doubted it. Steering the conversation away from anything that might involve social services, she said, ‘Jemima wondered if she could possibly go to your house after nursery today. If you’re not too busy.’ Updating the content lists of toy boxes, or polishing your aubergines, she almost added.

‘Yes. That should be fine,’ sniffed Frances, her countenance completely neutral.

Kate affected her widest smile. ‘Great. Thanks. What time should I pick her up?’

‘Five. Before my piano pupils arrive. She can have tea with Cecilia.’

Kate suspected the inclusion of tea would be because the woman deemed her incapable of feeding her own children. Not that she could be bothered pushing the point.

‘Fantastic.’ She swooped down to pick up Mia before she tripped over her trailing bandage. ‘See you then.’

Frances gave a curt nod, before clipping down the path to her clean, shiny car.

‘Shall we go too?’ Kate asked the twins.

‘Poo!’ shouted Milo – so loudly it resulted in several sniggers from inside the nursery, and a distant “I hate my brother” wail from Jemima.

‘Right,’ sighed Kate, removing the bandage from her own nose as Mia attempted to wrap it around her head. ‘Let’s find the facilities, shall we?’