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

when the cold, dark mornings kick in, the lure of the duvet might just win out.’

      ‘Don’t worry. I’m sure she won’t be the only one. I’m fully expecting a mass exodus come October. But that’s my problem, not yours.’

      Trish smiled. ‘Thanks so much for giving her a chance. I had no idea she was even considering it.’

      ‘That’s because anything resembling communication with parents when you’re a teenager is so not cool. She seems like a really nice kid, though.’

      ‘She has her moments,’ puffed Trish, trying to recall any in the last few months and failing dismally. ‘But I’m hoping this job might teach her a bit of self-discipline. And show her that money doesn’t grow on trees.’

      ‘You never know. Does she share your love of cooking?’

      Trish shook her head. ‘Not any more. We used to spend many an afternoon baking together when she was younger. But now all she does is whinge about how many calories are in everything. Which is why your cookery club sounds so appealing. It must be lovely to cook for someone who appreciates your efforts. Even when my husband and I were together, he was never overly enthusiastic about anything I served up. Which might, now I come to think of it, have been a reflection on what I served up.’

      Connie gave a snort of laughter. ‘I’m sure that’s not the case. But listen, if you really would like to cook for an appreciative audience, why don’t you come along to the cookery club? The next meeting is tomorrow night – which I know is short notice. But as we’ve all been allocated our dishes, you wouldn’t need to bring anything other than yourself.’

      Trish gawped, the invitation completely knocking her for six. The only other invite she’d received that year had been to a smear test. It was hugely flattering to be asked but she couldn’t possibly join the club. For one thing, she wouldn’t know anyone. And for another, she wasn’t sure her cooking would be up to the required standard.

      ‘I’m hosting it at my friend Anna’s house,’ Connie went on, obviously sensing her reticence. ‘It’s a small group – just me, Kate the village vet, and Melody, who’s now pregnant. Eleanor – the owner of the newsagent’s – was also a member, but she’s moved to Spain. We’ve been talking about looking for someone to replace her for a while now, and I think you’d fit in beautifully.’

      Trish’s already widened eyes widened a shade further. The way she currently felt about herself, she couldn’t imagine fitting into a made-to-measure dress.

      ‘You could come along and see what you think. And if you decide it’s not for you, you need never see any of us ever again.’

      Trish was on the verge of saying thanks, but no thanks, when it struck her that the club sounded perfect. A small group of – if Connie was any indication – friendly, welcoming women, all sharing a love of food. Why shouldn’t she join them? Or at least try it? It wasn’t like she had a million other social engagements to work around. Indeed, other than putting out the bins on a Tuesday night, all her diary contained was blank pages.

      ‘Hey, sexy.’

      Trish started as a hunky guy strode into the shop. He was about to embrace Connie when the object of his desires gave a meaningful cough. ‘Max, this is Trish. Trish, this is my boyfriend, Max.’

      The man turned sparkling hazel eyes to Trish. ‘Woops. Sorry. Didn’t see you there.’

      Trish laughed. ‘No need to apologise. I was just going. And yes, Connie,’ she said, with a sudden surge of assertiveness, ‘I’d love to come along tomorrow, if you’re sure that’s okay.’

      ‘It’s more than okay. It’s brilliant.’ Connie turned to Max. ‘I’ve persuaded Trish to give the cookery club a go. I think she’ll fit in perfectly.’

      ‘I have no doubt she will,’ agreed Max. Then, winking at Trish, ‘Although between you and me, it’s a bit sexist. I think it needs a couple of men in there to liven things up.’

      Connie shook her head in mock despair. ‘Take no notice, Trish. Men would only cause a stack more washing-up. By the way, I should tell you that we’re working our way around world cuisine – we’ve exhausted Italy and have now moved on to Spain. France is next but we’ve banned frogs’ legs in any shape or form. We’ll be meeting at seven o’clock tomorrow evening at Primrose Cottage, just along the road. Look forward to seeing you then.’

      Trish said her goodbyes and left the shop with a fizzle of something unfamiliar in her stomach. Something she subsequently recognised as excitement. A sudden urge to phone Ian and tell him about the cookery club overtook her. Followed by the crushing realisation that she couldn’t. Because he was no longer her Significant Other. He was Chloe’s. Were the two of them as in love as Connie and Max obviously were, she wondered? Did they share the same playful banter and loving looks, just as she and Ian had when they’d first teamed up? It seemed a million light years ago, firmly lodged in the past. A past there was absolutely no point dwelling on. She had the future to get on with now. And although it would include a distinct lack of loving looks and playful banter – especially between her and Amber – it did include a cookery club – which, at the moment, was quite enough excitement.

Chapter Three

      It was a different Trish that drove back to Cornfield. A much happier, optimistic one. All thanks to the lovely Connie, with whom she’d felt an immediate connection. Although she had no idea why. Connie seemed like a woman in control; one who knew what she wanted and wouldn’t dwell on the past, or pine for lost loves. Unlike Trish, who’d made a hobby out of dwelling and pining. That Connie had obviously liked her enough to invite her to the cookery club, however, had massively boosted her confidence, despite the fact that she’d probably only extended the invitation out of pity. Being slighter looser of tongue than she’d intended, Trish imagined she’d come across as Mrs Sad of Sadsville – moaning about Amber, then bleating about how her and Ian were no more. Honestly, she really should get over it and get a life. Including a social one. Since the split, her socialising had dropped to pitiful levels. She and Ian had never been party animals, but they had gone out a couple of times a month. With other couples – couples who obviously weren’t comfortable with her newfound single status. Evidently, they didn’t want an odd number messing up their seating plans. Either that, or her place was now occupied by Chloe’s toned buttocks.

      Thinking of Ian reminded Trish that she’d better inform him of Amber’s latest venture. The man might have impregnated a girl little more than a decade older than his daughter, but he was still Amber’s father. And as much as Trish hated him for what he’d done to their family, she forced herself to rise above it; to act like a sensible, mature woman. When all she really wanted to do was paint obscenities on his car and squeeze hair-removal cream into his shampoo bottle.

      Preferring to have the conversation without Amber earwigging, she swung the car into a layby next to a field of cows and stabbed his number into her phone. He answered on the first ring, sounding surprisingly pleased to hear from her.

      ‘Trish. Hi. How are you?’

      His amiable tone knocked Trish off-guard. The last thing she wanted was a “Fine. How are you?” conversation. Not when there lurked a high chance the reply might include phrases like “ecstatically happy”, or “thrilled to bits”, or “feeling like the luckiest man alive”. And God forbid her good manners should lead her to enquiring after Chloe’s health. As there was a danger of “blooming”, “radiant”, or “her boobs are even bigger” coming back at her in response to that – when all Trish really wanted to hear was “puking up”, “bigger than a beached whale” and “suffering with piles” – she cut out any preamble. ‘Amber wants to get a paper round,’ she announced matter-of-factly.

      Down the line rocketed a sharp intake of breath, followed by, ‘A paper round? What on earth for? She’ll have to get up at the crack of dawn.’

      ‘She’s