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

Anyway, must plough on. I’ve been summoned to the practice by the vet who’s standing in for me. I have a horrible feeling she’s going to tell me she’s leaving.’

      ‘What will you do if she is?’

      Kate shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve had a couple of years off now. Maybe it’s time I went back. Although quite how that would work, I have no idea.’

      ‘Is your husband very hands-on?’

      ‘Andrew? God no. He’s a stockbroker. A whizz with figures but completely hopeless at anything else. And even if he was useful, he’s rarely home before ten. By which time I’ve passed out with exhaustion.’

      Connie chuckled. ‘It’ll get better when the children are older.’

      ‘That thought is the only thing that keeps me going. Anyway, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to having some Me Time this evening. Who else is coming?’

      ‘Well, there’s Eleanor, of course. And a lovely girl called Melody. She lives in the next village.’

      ‘Ah. Melody Todd? Pretty girl? Has a Jack Russell?’

      ‘Yes. That’s her.’

      Kate nodded approvingly. ‘That’s good. Very good, in fact. I’ve only met her once – when the relief vet was on holiday and I covered for a week. Melody brought the dog in for a check-up. From the little she said then, I think something like the club will do her the world of good. Right, we’re off. Should I bring anything tonight?’

      Connie shook her head. ‘No. This one’s on me.’

      ‘Okay. But only this one. Otherwise it’s not fair. We’ll make sure we all chip in in future. I’ll bring wine. And matches to prop open my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I was out after six.’

      Connie giggled. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be so enthralled by my demonstration of how to make lamb tagliata, that no matches will be required.’

      ‘Ooh. I have no idea what that is, but it sounds gorgeous. Matches or no matches, I’ll see you at seven.’

      ‘Great. See you then.’

       Chapter Three

      After waving off Kate and the twins, and with the panna cotta chilling in the fridge, Connie washed out the dirty pan, tugged off her “Food Is Better Than Sex” apron, and decided to take Eric for a walk.

      Unlike most canines – whose excitement generally knew no bounds at the mere whisper of the W-word – Eric’s huge brown eyes viewed the prospect with suspicion. But then again, Eric viewed the prospect of most things with suspicion. He’d been in the rescue centre for nine months before Anna had taken pity on him, his extended stay primarily due to his refusal to leave his kennel whenever any prospective owners had been looking around. Anna, though, hadn’t been so easily deterred. It had taken six visits – Eric cowering in the kennel, Anna chattering away to him outside – before he’d eventually popped out his head to view the disturber of his peace; three more visits before he’d dared to slink out in full; and an additional five before he’d trusted Anna enough to allow her to take him for a walk. She and Hugh had adopted him immediately after that, and although the hilarious stories about him settling in had amused Connie for weeks, it had taken a huge amount of patience and understanding from the pair to rebuild the dog’s confidence. Even now, three years on, he wasn’t exactly brimming with the stuff, and he’d still qualify as red-hot favourite for the Wussiest Hound Ever award, but he’d only hidden behind the sofa for thirty minutes when Connie arrived – a vast improvement on the four hours the first time she’d met him. He appeared to have accepted her presence in the house with reluctant resignation. And while still slightly jittery when she did anything as menacing as offering him a biscuit, he’d nevertheless permitted her to saddle him up for a walk – coaxing time beforehand now reduced to a mere twenty minutes.

      Adding to Connie’s perception that she had indeed entered another universe when she’d landed in Little Biddington, another dazzling blue sky shrouded the village this morning, bathing her surroundings in glorious golden sunlight, and making the dreary, drizzly capital seem a bazillion miles away. Indeed, for all her initial envy at Anna’s jaunt to Oz, strolling through the village with Eric that morning, past the twelfth-century church, home to the only graffiti in the area, dated 1642, past the perfectly round duck pond, with its reeds, bulrushes and cluster of mallards, marvelling at the abundance of flowers, the sense of history, the honey-coloured stone glinting in the sunshine, and the lack of lager cans and empty fag packets, she wouldn’t have swapped places with her friend had she been offered a free ticket to fly business class to Sydney in the seat next to Aidan Turner. Why, she wondered, drinking in every detail of her surroundings as Eric plodded sedately along beside her, sniffing the occasional lamp post, would anyone want to live anywhere else? Not, of course, that everyone had the option to live in such privileged surroundings. Property prices in the area were eye-wateringly high, putting the des reses in reach of only a select few: successful high-achievers, whose bank accounts included significantly more digits than the three rattling around in hers. But financial solvency wasn’t the only striking difference, she noted, as she passed yet another immaculately groomed mother pushing a designer buggy. Sartorial contrasts were also evident. Even the cluster of female joggers who’d overtaken her earlier had sported stylish lycra and full make-up and, while kicking up a respectable pace, had displayed no sweaty armpits and not one blotchy face. And then there were her fellow dog walkers – Connie, in her cut-off jeans, faded blue T-shirt and canvas pumps, her long chestnut hair scraped back in a ponytail, and wearing not a scrap of make-up, felt distinctly shabby alongside her polished, coiffed counterparts.

      The women here looked so… sorted. So in control. Well, all of them except Kate, she noted with some relief. Kate’s wardrobe might feature remnants of her children’s last meal rather than a couture label, but at least she seemed normal. And, being the village vet, was obviously extremely clever too. She’d also seemed pleased Melody would be joining them that evening, which was a relief. Although what she’d meant about the club being good for Melody, Connie had no idea. And then, of course, there was Eleanor, who knew everybody and plastered on a sunny façade, but who, Connie suspected, from the way she’d drifted off into a world of her own during their initial conversation in the shop, had her little secrets.

      Wondering what these could possibly be, Connie was gently leading Eric across the road back to the house when a black Porsche shot around the corner – so fast, the driver had to slam on the brakes to avoid knocking them over. The screech of rubber on tarmac caused Connie’s heart rate to rocket and Eric’s four creaking legs to fleetingly leave the ground. Back on terra firma, he began shaking uncontrollably.

      Had Connie been on her own, the string of invectives jamming in her throat would have been immediately unleashed on the perpetrator. But, aware such bawling would only add to Eric’s distress, she hunkered down to give him a reassuring stroke. As she did so, she heard the driver call over to them through the open car window.

      ‘Sorry!’

      Connie didn’t deign to look at him, she was far too concerned with the dog. ‘So you should be,’ she hurled back, between muttering soothing platitudes to her ward. ‘I take it you haven’t noticed the Drive Carefully signs around the village.’

      The man uttered something she didn’t hear. And she had absolutely no desire to request a repeat. She wasn’t interested in whatever pathetic excuse he’d dredged up. Frankly, there was no excuse. Had she and Eric been a metre further up the road, they’d have been toast.

      Straightening up from the dog, she tossed a disdainful look in the direction of the vehicle – which, she noticed, as if it wasn’t pretentious enough, sported a set of garish red wheels. She then coaxed a quivering Eric across the road and, eventually, back to the house.

      The dog settled on his bed and was snoring like a trooper thirty minutes later. Connie resumed her preparations for the cookery club meeting that evening,