The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Italy - Book 1. Alice Ross

Connie absolutely adored:

      Cooking!

      So, mind awhirl with ways to pursue her passion, Anna’s casual remark had inspired a brainwave: if the village had a book club, why couldn’t it have a cookery club? People these days were – judging by the glut of TV programmes – mad for cooking. Surely the bored housewives and yummy mummies of Little Biddington would jump at the chance of something different to fill their time.

      Five days into her stay, Connie had tentatively run the idea past Anna, who – in between enthusing about her and Hugh’s rental apartment with its view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge – had deemed it an excellent one, and confirmed she would be delighted for Connie to forge ahead with her plan.

      More motivated and liberated than she’d felt in years, Connie had begun to map out her venture – compiling lists, jotting down ideas, researching other clubs. She’d spent an age agonising over the name: Connie’s Cookery Club sounded too much like a children’s picture book. The Little Biddington Cookery Club sounded too exclusive. Several other options had been briefly tossed about then discarded, before the obvious choice had slammed into her head – The Cotswolds Cookery Club.

      Delighted with the moniker, she’d plucked up courage, printed out a card with basic details and her mobile number, and trotted along to the village newsagent’s.

      Cementing Connie’s already established opinion that the Cotswolds formed a tiny segment of green and leafy heaven, peppered with stunning properties, grazing cows, quaint churches and tinkling streams, the village newsagent’s bore absolutely no resemblance to the establishment serving the same purpose in the overly bright, modern, tiled precinct in Surbiton. This one boasted a bow window, a thatched roof, a plethora of hanging baskets rioting with colourful blooms, and a sixty-something owner – rioting with auburn hair, pink lipstick and an orange-beaded top.

      Being from the capital, and therefore acutely aware of Little Biddington’s diminutive proportions and, therefore, the likelihood of said owner being acquainted with most of the residents, Connie deemed it only polite to introduce herself.

      ‘Welcome to the village,’ the woman gushed, luminous lips stretching into a wide smile as she extended a hand. ‘I’m Eleanor and I’m very pleased to meet you. How are you finding it here so far? Bit different from London, eh?’

      ‘Just a bit,’ agreed Connie, returning the effusive handshake. ‘But I’m loving it. The village is gorgeous.’

      ‘Isn’t it? But I hope you don’t find it too boring. Nothing exciting ever happens here. More’s the pity.’ Her gaze slid to a spot in the middle distance while she puffed out such an almighty sigh that Connie wondered the pile of neatly packaged magazines atop the counter didn’t float to the floor.

      As Eleanor then seemed to drift off into a world of her own, Connie chewed her lip, attempting to assemble an appropriate riposte. She was on the verge of uttering something about having Eric the greyhound to keep her occupied when the shopkeeper promptly rallied.

      ‘Oh, take no notice of me,’ she tutted, plastering another dazzling smile onto her face and waving a dismissive hand. ‘I’m just a decrepit old widow. I’m sure a youngster like you will find plenty to keep you busy. Now, what can I do for you today?’

      As two green eyes – circled with heavy blue liner – pinned her with an enquiring gaze, Connie swallowed hard. Reaching into the pocket of her cardigan and making contact with her neatly written card, every bit of her newfound optimism immediately exited the building, hounded out by a battalion of terrifying questions: what if Eleanor found the cookery club idea completely absurd? What if Cotswold residents would rather die than be seen in an apron whipping up a soufflé? What if word of her preposterous plan spread through the village so that every time she left the house someone pointed or sniggered?

      Heart rate gaining worrying pace, it occurred to Connie that perhaps there was much to be said for the anonymity of London. There, she would simply have handed over the ad and – after a cursory scan by the proprietor to ensure she wasn’t offering services of a dodgy nature – scuttled off.

      Here in Little Biddington, she doubted one could scuttle anywhere without being observed. Perhaps, then, she should just buy a packet of wine gums instead.

      ‘Ooh, I can’t wait to read this month’s edition,’ Eleanor suddenly gushed, producing a pair of scissors from under the counter and snipping away the tape binding the magazines in front of her. ‘I love reading all those gorgeous recipes. Not that I ever try any. There’s no point when you’re on your own, is there?’

      Another shuddering sigh and more drifting off followed this observation.

      This time, Connie didn’t dwell on it. Recognising the magazine as her own favourite monthly reading matter – the Galloping Gourmet – she dived straight into the tailor-made opening. Tugging the card from her pocket, she handed it over. ‘Actually, on the subject of cooking, I wondered if you’d mind displaying this.’

      Eleanor’s increasingly dilated pupils danced over the text. ‘A cookery club! Heavens. What a wonderful idea.’

      Connie grimaced. ‘Do you really think so?’

      The shopkeeper nodded effusively, her brassy curls bobbing up and down. ‘I most certainly do. They’ll be queuing up to join. You can count me in for starters. Oh! Starters! There you go, you see. I’m already gearing up for it.’

      As she snorted with laughter, Connie couldn’t resist a giggle, relief pulsing through her that she hadn’t been laughed out of the shop.

      ‘I was just thinking the other day,’ continued Eleanor, beaming at her, ‘that it’s nearly four years since my husband died, and all I’ve done since then is tread water. I need to move on; do something to spice up my life a bit. Oh! Spice! There I go again.’

      Connie chuckled. ‘Well, if I can find another couple of members as keen as you, I’ll be delighted.’

      ‘Oh, you’ll have no problem. But I wouldn’t bother with the card. You’ll be inundated. People will snap off your hand at the offer of something other than the book club. Or, for those really scraping the bottom of the barrel – bridge – which, incidentally, I have tried and found more boring than watching jelly set.’

      ‘Right. Remind me not to sign up for that then, however bored I get,’ chuckled Connie.

      ‘I’ll remind you,’ giggled Eleanor. Then, ‘I could find the cookery club members for you, if you like. How many were you thinking of?’

      ‘Well, I was planning to keep it small to begin with. Maybe about four of us in total, until we see how it goes. And I thought about theming the evenings – trying different cuisines from around the world – starting with Italian.’

      ‘Sounds perfect. Leave it with me.’

      And so Connie had, floating out of the shop with a huge smile on her face at Eleanor’s parting words: ‘You’re on to a winner with this one.’

      Connie had never been “onto a winner” in her entire life. But here in the sweet-smelling, flowery, picture-perfect Cotswolds, absolutely anything seemed possible – and the chance of her being “onto a winner” didn’t seem nearly so absurd as it would have back in London.

       Chapter Two

      Connie was making a cup of coffee the next morning when she heard the thud of post on the doormat. Leaving the kitchen, she wandered down the polished boards of the hall to collect it. Along with a couple of envelopes addressed to Anna and Hugh were a handful of birthday cards. She flicked through them, recognising the handwriting as that of her mother, her grandmother, and three girlfriends. She immediately banished the disappointment at there being nothing from Charles. Awaiting a cheque from him after the tying up of some joint financial stuff, she’d emailed him with Anna’s address, informing him of her whereabouts for the next few months.