The Cotswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of France - Book 3. Alice Ross

into French gastronomy, and, commensurate with her hosting duties, Kate had selected the main course and allocated the others to the rest of the group.

      Ever since her first French lesson at school, cracking open a new text book to reveal Madame Bertillon mincing along to the market to buy bread and cheese, Kate had been a committed Francophile. Even at the tender age of eight, she’d fallen in love with the language, the scenery, the architecture, the fashions and – with that first virtual sniff of continental pain and fromage – the food. So much so that, during her summer breaks from veterinary training at uni, she’d taken holiday jobs over there – assisting at animal-rescue centres, waitressing, grape-picking – and even – when her French reached a decent level – as a receptionist at a veterinary practice. She’d explored the country, spending time in Paris, Strasbourg and Toulouse. But it had been the south where she’d garnered her most special memories. And the south she one day dreamed of retiring to – buying a little farmhouse in the hills of the Côte d’Azur, with its hot summers, mild winters and unique blend of natural beauty, enchanting medieval villages and sophisticated resorts.

      With recent events, however, Kate’s love of all things Gallic had begun to wane. When the twins had barrelled into the universe, she’d been determined to care for her children herself. But it hadn’t taken long before the reality of looking after three small beings had hit hard. That, combined with the pressure of managing the village veterinary practice she’d set up twelve years ago, had proved too much.

      With Andrew working as a stockbroker in the City, rarely home before seven in the evening, and Kate worn into the ground, she’d subsequently – and reluctantly – agreed to his suggestion that they employ live-in help. They could afford it, they had a spare room, and, he’d reasoned, if they opted for a foreigner, it would be an excellent opportunity for the children to learn another language. That final benefit had swung it for Kate, who, naturally, had decided on a French speaker. The biggest mistake – or, as the French would say, la plus grosse erreur – of her life.

      The rest of the afternoon passed in the usual haze of mundane activity. The twins, dog-tired from their lack of slumber the previous night, had staggered about like two little blond zombies, falling asleep on the bottom stair, in the laundry basket, and slumped over a wooden rocking horse, which, with its one beady eye, missing tail and raggy mane adorned with dried egg – or something similar – had looked increasingly depressed by developments. Kate suspected all this impromptu nodding-off would mean another sleepless night ahead, but she couldn’t be bothered worrying about that now. She didn’t have the energy. Jemima, in her self-sufficient little way, had occupied herself with some serious colouring-in of My Ballerina, while Kate had done her best to create an illusion of order in the kitchen before her guests arrived. And she’d prepared her main course of pot-au-feu – a lovely autumnal classic dish, perfect for late September – which thankfully involved little more than chucking a load of meat and veg into an enormous pot.

      ‘Is that a witch’s cauldron?’ Jemima asked, as Kate heaved the crock from the pantry.

      ‘No, darling. It’s for the cookery club dinner this evening. My friends are coming round later. Remember I told you?’

      Jemima wrinkled her tiny nose. ‘Oh.’ She went back to her colouring-in. Then, as she concentrated on something blue, ‘Cecilia’s mummy always wears pretty dresses when her friends come round. And she brushes her hair.’

      The pot now in place, Kate picked up a turnip and, with great relish – and much more force than necessary – plunged a knife into it. ‘That,’ she muttered, ‘is because Cecilia’s mummy is a…’

      Jemima jerked up her head.

      ‘…piano teacher,’ added Kate swiftly, changing from her original – less complimentary – description of smug, patronising snob.

      She added a smile for effect.

      Jemima didn’t return it. ‘When’s Domenique coming back from France?’ the child asked.

      ‘Saturday,’ huffed Kate, riving the knife from the root vegetable, then stabbing it back in again.

      ‘The day after Daddy comes back?’

      Kate’s hand slipped, and the turnip and knife tumbled to the floor. ‘Yes.’

      The child pursed her lips as she studied her pot of felt-tip pens. ‘I think it’s rubbish they’ve both been away at the same time again.’

      ‘So do I,’ agreed Kate. But for completely different reasons.

      Unlike that paragon of domesticity, otherwise known as Cecilia’s mummy, Kate didn’t brush her hair or don a pretty dress before the cookery club meeting that evening. And not just because she didn’t have time. Her wardrobe, once jammed with classic trouser suits and silk shirts, now consisted of a jumble of elasticated leggings, baggy T-shirts and shapeless cardigans – the majority stained with things she’d rather not think about. Occasionally in the pickle, there’d be a sighting of one of her old jackets or a pair of suit trousers, but she never bothered rescuing the item. First, because she’d never find the other half, and second, because nothing would fit her now courtesy of the extra stone she lugged about. Her sartorial preparations were therefore brief, consisting of a quick hose down in the shower while the twins were zonked out in front of CBeebies, Jemima under strict instructions to call her the moment they woke.

      At a holler of ‘Mummyyyyyyyy’, Kate flung herself out of the bathroom, hair still slick with conditioner, grabbed a clean-ish pair of leggings and a T-shirt, and hurtled down the stairs dripping wet and starkers.

      To find Mia doing a headstand in her potty.

      Milo stuffing a green felt-tip up his nose.

      And Jemima standing in the doorway looking terrified.

      ‘Mummy’s boobies,’ roared Milo.

      At which point Jemima burst into tears.

      Mia toppled over onto the rocking horse.

      And Kate emitted a very long, despairing sigh.

      ‘Wow. Something smells good,’ Connie exclaimed, being the first to arrive that evening.

      ‘Thanks. I managed to grab a shower,’ Kate replied.

      Her guest giggled. ‘I meant the food. It smells delicious. And…’ She bent her head to her host and inhaled deeply. ‘…You smell rather nice too.’

      Kate laughed. ‘Sorry. Blimey, it comes to something when you count a wash among your list of daily achievements. In fact, come to think of it, that’s probably been my only achievement today. I’ve been so knackered, I didn’t have the energy to take poor Jemima to nursery.’

      ‘There are worse things,’ said Connie. ‘I think it’s a major achievement just getting through a day with everything you have on your plate: three tots and still managing the veterinary clinic.’

      ‘Keep talking like that for the next seventy-two hours and I might feel marginally less of a failure than I currently do.’

      Connie tutted. ‘You’re far from a failure. It’s just too much for one person to cope with on their own…’

      She broke off as Mia waddled into the room – a bandage around her head, which she’d insisted on following the toppling-out-of-the-potty incident. Having been subjected to heaven only knew what since its application, it had slipped down and now covered one of her huge blue eyes. She swiped up a toy fire engine from the floor, then toddled off again.

      ‘So cute,’ chuckled Connie.

      ‘Bloody nightmare,’ countered Kate.

      ‘It’ll be better when Domenique’s back. It’s such a shame her holiday coincided with Andrew’s course.’

      Kate puckered her forehead. Did she detect a hint of something she couldn’t quite put her finger on in her friend’s tone? Or was tiredness causing her to hallucinate?

      ‘They’re