The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of Spain - Book 2. Alice Ross

and a soppy grin on her face, Amber had unhelpfully replied, ‘No one.’

      A few days later Trish had bumped into the mother who had – rather bravely in Trish’s opinion – hosted the party, and had discovered that “no one” was the young Spaniard, whose family had recently – and temporarily – relocated to the UK from Madrid.

      ‘So? Can I?’ asked Amber, hauling Trish back to the present.

      Trish sucked in a cheek, weighing up the safest way to respond. If she said no, the blowing of two – possibly three – gaskets would occur. And at least one item might find its way into the air. On the other hand, if she began reeling off all the possible dangers – which, in her head, were multiplying more rapidly than Ian and Chloe – she’d be accused of being a neurotic loser and the worst mother in the world.

      But it wasn’t all bad. In the “Positives” column sat the fact that a job could be the making of her daughter. Especially during these seemingly never-ending holidays, when she was doing little more than hanging round the house, moaning. The discipline of work would do her good, make her realise that money didn’t grow on trees, and hopefully instil a sense of responsibility – attributes clearly lacking in the girl’s life of late. Much to Trish’s chagrin. When it had become clear that Amber was to be an only child, Trish had determined she wouldn’t be a spoiled one. However, as much as it pained her to admit it, Amber was now more spoiled than a sunken soufflé. A state exacerbated by Ian’s departure. Both racked with guilt about the split, they’d overindulged their daughter, desperate to keep her happy. The result being that Trish now lugged about the constant feeling of cohabiting with a bubbling volcano. One a “no” could trigger with absolutely zero warning.

      ‘I tell you what,’ she piped up, a sudden brainwave striking her. ‘How about I pop over to Little Biddington and speak to the owner of the newsagent’s to find out exactly what’s involved.’

      ‘Hmm.’ Amber pursed her lips.

      Trish held her breath, awaiting the first signs of molten lava. Or a puff of smoke. Or a rumbling sound.

      ‘It’s, like, delivering papers, Mum. What’s there to find out about?’

      ‘It would make me feel better, that’s all. No biggie,’ she added, employing one of her daughter’s favourite expressions. ‘I’ll drive over there now. And once I’ve spoken to the owner, I’ll let you have my answer.’

      Amber puffed out a dramatic sigh, accompanied by a humongous eye-roll – but, thankfully, minus smoke and lava. ‘Oh, all right then. But don’t ask anything stupid.’

      Driving the short distance from Cornfield to Little Biddington, the roof of her Mini Cooper down, Trish couldn’t help but smile. She might not have much to celebrate in her life at the moment, but she had her health, and the privilege of living in the wonderful Cotswolds, with its rolling hills, stunning scenery and villages with the cutest names.

      She also had a rather nice car. Ian had bought it as a surprise for her fortieth birthday. He’d flung open the curtains that morning with a theatrical flourish. And there it had been, on the drive – a huge pink ribbon and several dollops of bird poo adorning the bonnet. Trish’s immediate reaction had been horror. She’d never been one for ostentation – and she really did like her little old Micra. Ian, though, had insisted one’s forties were for splashing out, for “one last throw of the dice”. Appreciating his efforts, and not wishing to hurt his feelings, Trish had resisted asking if she could take it back. But six months on, she discovered she’d grown rather fond of it. And on a glorious August day like today, roof down, sun on her face, the mingling aromas of the British countryside – some admittedly more pleasant than others – teasing her nostrils, she didn’t miss her Micra one bit.

      Reaching Little Biddington, she parked outside the newsagent’s – a gorgeous cream building with a cute bow window, neat thatched roof and a zillion hanging baskets all crammed with colourful trailing blooms.

      Stepping inside, the mouth-watering smell of fresh sardines hit her. A smell which instantly transported her back to the holiday she, Ian and Amber had enjoyed in Majorca. It had been the summer BC (Before Chloe). They’d rented a little villa on the beach, with a pool, an abundance of bougainvillea, and a huge barbecue that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the Starship Enterprise. During the day they’d explored the island by car, sampled the local cuisine – Trish developing a penchant for sardines, and Ian for gambas pil pil. In the evening they’d barbecued a veritable feast – meat, fish, vegetables, fruit. And when Amber had staggered off to bed, exhausted from the combination of sun, swimming and snorkelling, Trish and Ian had relaxed on the patio with a jug of sangria, the sweet smell of jasmine, and the song of cicadas. One evening, after too much alcohol, they’d skinny-dipped in the pool and made love on a sunlounger. It had been one of their best holidays ever. Recalling just how happy she’d been then, Trish’s heart squeezed. But, as she’d done many times since Ian’s departure, she immediately banished the useless sentiment, blinked away the threatening tears and focused on the matter in hand: Amber’s proposed paper round. With the slight problem of there being no one to focus the matter on.

      ‘Sorry,’ gushed a gorgeous brunette, hurtling out of a door, which Trish presumed must lead to the shop’s upstairs. ‘It’s been really quiet the last couple of hours so I nipped upstairs to do a spot of cooking.’

      ‘Well, whatever you’re making smells delicious,’ said Trish. ‘It reminds me of the sardines in vinegar I frequently enjoyed during a wonderful holiday in Majorca a couple of years ago.’

      The girl’s pretty face lit up. ‘That’s exactly what I’m making: sardines en escabeche. The fish have to chill for a day or two once cooked, which is why I’m making it now. In preparation for the cookery club meeting tomorrow night.’

      Trish cocked an eyebrow. ‘A cookery club? That sounds intriguing.’

      ‘I don’t know about intriguing, but it’s great fun. I set it up a few months ago and it’s really taken off. It’s even become a bit competitive. In a nice way.’

      Trish laughed, the girl’s bubbling enthusiasm making her wish she had something in her life to be so passionate about. ‘I love cooking but I only have my teenage daughter to try stuff out on now,’ she said. ‘Not the most enthusiastic of audiences.’

      The girl chuckled. ‘I can imagine. My only experience of teenagers is with the paper boys and girls. Which is interesting to say the least.’

      ‘You’re lucky. Living with one is like walking on eggshells – the free-range variety, of course, otherwise I’d suffer a never-ending lecture on the miserable plight of battery hens. Before I run her down too much, though, my daughter is actually the reason I’m here. She’s interested in taking up one of your paper rounds and I have a couple of questions I wondered if you’d mind answering, before I agree to it.’

      ‘Of course. I’m Connie, by the way. I’m shop-sitting for a few months while the owner is away.’

      ‘Trish Ford,’ said Trish, accepting the girl’s proffered hand. ‘And I know I’m going to sound completely neurotic, but I suppose I’m just getting used to her growing up.’

      Connie laughed. ‘Look, why don’t I make us a nice cup of tea and we can talk over any concerns you have.’

      Trish grinned, instantly feeling less neurotic and more like a normal human being. ‘That,’ she said, ‘sounds like a wonderful idea.’

      Ten minutes later, a mug of tea in hand, Connie had patiently explained all the details of the paper round.

      ‘It sounds fine,’ said Trish. ‘And I know I’m being pathetic conjuring up a million and one things that might happen to Amber, but it honestly doesn’t seem two minutes since she was a babe in arms, and now she wants a tattoo on her arm.’

      Connie giggled. ‘I don’t have kids myself but I’m sure I’d be the same. I can’t guarantee the absence of any child-snatching psychopaths at six in the morning, but as far as