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

How long had the affair been going on?

       Did he love Stacey?

       Had he planned, at any point, to inform Connie of his change of allegiance?

      To which the answers had been:

       Five months.

       Yes, he did.

       He really had planned to inform her – at some point.

      they’d hardly spoken since the day she’d stormed out of the flat. But then again, having given their relationship serious contemplation since that fateful day, Connie had realised they’d hardly spoken in the last eighteen months they’d been together. They had, she’d concluded, grown apart. Or rather Charles had grown, while she, if anything, had diminished. When they’d first started dating they’d had things in common – both working for large corporate enterprises, both enjoying healthy social lives: two busy twenty-somethings making the most of life in the metropolis. But while Charles’s advertising career had rocketed, Connie’s professional life had dipped sharply southwards. And while his social life had become increasingly buoyant – schmoozing with clients, travelling for pitches, indulging in boozy after-work drinking sessions with the office in-crowd – Connie’s self-employed status meant she’d become increasingly isolated. She’d had no one to schmooze with, no in- or out-crowd to compare hangovers with, and the farthest she’d ever ventured during the week was to the corner shop – usually in the sweatpants and hoodies which had replaced her previously smart office clobber. Not, she hastily reminded herself, that any of the above excused Charles’s grubby behaviour. His betrayal had hit her harder than a juggernaut freewheeling down a ski slope, sending waves of shock, humiliation and anger – mainly at herself for not realising he was a two-timing prick – ricocheting through her, blasting her delicate self-esteem into a million tiny shards. It would be a long time – if ever – before she trusted a man again. Which was precisely why she’d scrubbed relationships from her to-do list. For now, she planned to concentrate on herself, rebuild her shattered confidence, do what she wanted. Like this evening’s cookery club. Sucking in a deep breath, she elbowed aside all thoughts of traitorous exes and turned them to more productive matters – like the panna cotta she still had to prepare for that evening.

      Back in the kitchen, Connie snapped off chunks of thick milk chocolate and dropped them into the pan of double cream she’d brought to the boil. Stirring until they melted, she recalled the first time she’d ever tasted her favourite dessert – in Italy, its country of origin, where her love of food had first begun…

      As a child, every summer, Connie and her parents – both teachers and therefore benefitting from the six-week break – had spent the entire holiday touring Europe in their camper van. Connie had loved experiencing the different cultures, languages and customs, but it had been the food that had most fascinated her.

      Her highlight of every holiday had been exploring the markets – lively, bustling and colourful, they’d provided a feast for all the senses: the sight of fruit and vegetables five times the size of anything back home; the mingling aromas of strange, exotic spices; and the taste bud-busting samples – slivers of succulent ham, tiny wedges of creamy cheese, and salty gleaming olives marinated in garlic, fennel and rosemary.

      Returning from their trip the year Connie was ten, her dad had set up a corner of the garden where she could grow her own vegetables. There, she’d dug, planted, weeded and tended with impressive zeal, experiencing both pride and excitement as the products of her labour flourished.

      ‘Goodness, what are we going to do with all this stuff?’ her mother had puffed, the day Connie had dumped a mountain of rhubarb on the kitchen table.

      Connie hadn’t known. But she’d found out, amassing a host of cookery books along the way. She tried chutneys, jams, crumbles and pies. And, even if she said so herself, they weren’t half bad.

      Her interest in all things culinary survived adolescence. But when it came to discussing career choices, she’d dithered. She couldn’t imagine slaving away in a steamy kitchen day after day, people constantly barking orders, the incessant din and pressure. Nor did she want to be a cookery teacher, forcing recalcitrant teenagers to turn out a jam sponge and half a dozen Eccles cakes. With those two options discarded, she could see no other way of channelling her interest. So, heeding her teachers’ advice, she’d leaned towards her second favourite subject, completing a degree in English Literature at Newcastle University. Upon graduating, she’d found a job as a proofreader with a small independent publisher, moving on to a large national house a few years later. And there she’d remained until just before her thirtieth birthday, when the company had been swallowed up by a larger fish, redundancies being the inevitable outcome.

      At the time, Connie hadn’t been too bothered. She’d picked up plenty of contacts along the way and was as confident as one dared be about maintaining a regular stream of work. Plus, she liked the idea of being her own boss: nobody watching over her shoulder, monitoring how many times a day she nipped to the loo, or having to make a great show of being busy when she totally wasn’t.

      Six months down the line, though, stuck in front of a computer day after day, with only the potted cactus on the desk to talk to, the novelty of self-employment had dimmed. And had continued to do so ever since. Deriving minimal satisfaction from her “career”, she’d sought her kicks elsewhere, signing up for cookery courses at the local community college. As well as experimenting with global cuisine – sushi, tapas, Greek meze and Moroccan, she’d tried her hand at making bread, pasta, canapes, macarons and pastries.

      Over time, she’d built and refined her culinary skills. And always, cowering in the back of her mind, was her ultimate dream: to own her own bistro. Nothing grand, just a cosy room with ten tables, each covered in a yellow-and-white checked cloth, with a single yellow rose in a vase. The exact image of the first bistro her parents had taken her to in Italy – where she’d had her first ever taste of panna cotta. Having added orange zest and softened gelatin to the mixture, Connie poured it into the ramekins, and had just popped them into the fridge when the doorbell rang. Scurrying down the hall, she opened the door to find Kate Ellis on the step – the village vet, and the second member of the cookery club. Kate had first approached her a week ago – having been sent along by Eleanor to find out more details about the club. She’d looked then exactly as frazzled as she did now.

      ‘Oh, Connie, I’m so sorry to bother you again,’ she gushed, evidence of crusted egg on her navy T-shirt – in the same place there’d been a smear of ketchup on her white top several days before. ‘I can’t remember what time you said we were kicking off tonight.’

      ‘About seven. If that’s okay.’

      Kate attempted to run a hand through her tangle of strawberry blonde curls. Becoming stuck midway, she gave up, returning the hand to the pushchair containing two rosy-cheeked toddlers, topped off with exactly the same curls.

      ‘Oh, of course,’ she tutted, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, I can’t believe how mush-like my brain is these days. That’s what having children does to you.’

      Connie smiled. ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee or something?’

      The vet heaved a despairing sigh. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more, but it’s not fair to inflict Mia and Milo on you. They’ll trash the place in less than five minutes. Before moving on to trash one another.’

      ‘I can’t believe that for a minute,’ said Connie, chuckling at the two cherubic faces gazing up at her. ‘They look like butter wouldn’t melt.’

      Kate gave a cynical snort. ‘Don’t you believe it. Their appearance is a complete con. They’re two mini bulldozers, destroying everything in their path. Thankfully, our frighteningly competent French au pair, Domenique, is back from her holiday today, so she’s taken Jemima to her swimming lesson. I don’t think I could have coped with a changing room full of four-year-olds, and these two demons.’

      Connie laughed. ‘It certainly sounds like you have