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

car seats, they’d managed to make themselves look as if they’d been dragged through several hedges backwards, then forwards, then backwards again.

      Approaching the giant red and yellow clog that guarded the nursery door, she spotted Frances through the window, talking to Mrs Allen, the nursery manager, who ruled over the yellow-shirts with a rod of reinforced steel.

      Attached to the end of Kate’s arm, Jemima obviously made the same observation. ‘See,’ she huffed. ‘Cecilia’s mummy looks pretty. And she smells nice.’

      Kate couldn’t comment on the smell, but she certainly wouldn’t call Frances “pretty”. In a floral, knee-length skirt and lacy white blouse, her blonde, shoulder-length hair held back with an Alice band, she put her in mind of a 1950s Stepford wife. Nevertheless, her pristine, stain-free persona still made Kate feel like a scarecrow.

      Sucking in a bolstering breath, she forced a smile onto her face and was preparing to greet the formidable pair with some pleasantry about the warm September weather when Milo emitted a spectacular war cry. Causing the women to start.

      ‘Goodness,’ gasped Mrs Allen, pressing a hand to her chest and glowering at the tiny perpetrator.

      Obviously sensing the chief’s disapproval, Jemima wailed, ‘Milo’s horrible.’

      ‘Hmph! He’s certainly… lively,’ sniffed Mrs A disapprovingly.

      ‘I bet you can’t wait for next year when the pair of them start here,’ chortled Kate, attempting to add a splash of humour to the proceedings.

      It was quelled before leaving the starting block.

      Mrs A made an indecipherable snorting sound, before throwing a look at her watch. ‘Jemima’s late. And she wasn’t here at all yesterday.’

      Kate twisted her features into an apologetic expression. ‘No. The twins were ill. Sorry, I know I should’ve called but I was too busy mopping up vomit.’

      Mrs A shook her clearly exasperated head of short grey hair, before extending a hand to Jemima. ‘Come along now, child, or you’ll miss registration.’

      A sniffling Jemima tossed one last reprimanding look at her brother, now sitting inside the wooden clog and making racing-car sounds, before tootling off with Mrs Allen.

      The encounter having sapped a deal of Kate’s limited energy, she turned her attention to Frances, who was observing Mia with a strange look on her face.

      Having evidently clocked the child’s bandage, which she’d attempted to reapply herself, Frances asked – with a definite “I think I may have to inform the relevant authorities” edge to her voice – ‘Has she hurt her head?’

      ‘Just a bump,’ breezed Kate, wishing she’d kept Jemima off nursery today too. Did other people incur all this fuss when dropping off their kids? She doubted it. Steering the conversation away from anything that might involve social services, she said, ‘Jemima wondered if she could possibly go to your house after nursery today. If you’re not too busy.’ Updating the content lists of toy boxes, or polishing your aubergines, she almost added.

      ‘Yes. That should be fine,’ sniffed Frances, her countenance completely neutral.

      Kate affected her widest smile. ‘Great. Thanks. What time should I pick her up?’

      ‘Five. Before my piano pupils arrive. She can have tea with Cecilia.’

      Kate suspected the inclusion of tea would be because the woman deemed her incapable of feeding her own children. Not that she could be bothered pushing the point.

      ‘Fantastic.’ She swooped down to pick up Mia before she tripped over her trailing bandage. ‘See you then.’

      Frances gave a curt nod, before clipping down the path to her clean, shiny car.

      ‘Shall we go too?’ Kate asked the twins.

      ‘Poo!’ shouted Milo – so loudly it resulted in several sniggers from inside the nursery, and a distant “I hate my brother” wail from Jemima.

      ‘Right,’ sighed Kate, removing the bandage from her own nose as Mia attempted to wrap it around her head. ‘Let’s find the facilities, shall we?’

       Chapter Four

      Driving back to Little Biddington, Kate realised that the encounter with Frances and Mrs Allen had added more fuel to her growing inferiority complex. A condition she’d been completely unfamiliar with before having children. In Life Before Kids, she’d been confident in her own skin, known what she’d wanted out of life and mapped out clear routes to achieve her goals. Since becoming a mother, she’d never been less certain of her abilities. Nor, with the Andrew/Domenique issue pressing down on her like a ton of bricks, had she ever been more scared. What she wouldn’t give to have her parents around right now. An impossible wish, given her mum had passed away two years ago. She’d been a wonderful, capable, level-headed woman, who’d complemented her highly intelligent, but slightly scatty, husband perfectly. She’d also been a tremendous help with Jemima when she’d been a baby, and had been so looking forward to the arrival of the twins. She’d only been acquainted with them for a matter of weeks, however, before she’d dropped down dead with a heart attack. With that unexpected trauma – plus the stress of two new babies – Kate had felt adrift. And adding to her worries had been her dad, who’d recently retired from his job as the village GP to spend more time with his wife. After her death, he’d retreated into himself, slamming the door against the world, shunning interest in everything.

      Much to Kate’s amazement and relief, though, a few months ago he’d teamed up with Eleanor – owner of the village newsagent’s – and the pair had flitted off to sample life in Spain. Other than melting in the heat, they appeared to be having a great time. And, most importantly, rubbing along well together. Which led Kate’s musings neatly back to her own relationship and the depressing fact that, along with almost every other part of her life, it, too, appeared to be failing dismally.

      To try and bolster her flagging spirits, she steered her thoughts to the one part of her life where she could claim some success: the veterinary practice. She’d set it up when she and Andrew had first moved to Little Biddington. From the refurbishing of the building, to watching the business flourish – her skills and caring reputation attracting clients from miles around – she’d loved every minute of it. It had been the culmination of a childhood dream. One she’d followed since the age of nine. During her career she’d had some amazing times, met some fantastic people, achieved some incredible results and witnessed the best and worst of animal ownership. But that was then and this was now. Could she imagine going back to it all? She didn’t think so. She’d lost the confidence to carry out the intricate, life-saving operations she’d once taken effortlessly in her stride. And she’d lost her enthusiasm. Which made her think that perhaps it was time to sell up. But, with so many other things on her mind – including the breakdown of her marriage – she felt incapable of making such major decisions. No, she concluded – as she pulled up outside the house and the twins began chanting “Old MacDonald” – as she had no idea which direction her life would be taking, now would not be a sensible time to sell. Which meant she should stop faffing about, bite the bullet and organise a locum. And as time was running out, she should do it today.

      Andrew phoned that afternoon, just as Kate was attempting to persuade the twins that they really did need to pick up Jemima as she really couldn’t live at Cecilia’s house.

      ‘How’ve they been today?’ he asked.

      ‘The usual.’

      ‘Back to normal?’

      ‘I think smothering the rocking horse in yoghurt constitutes them being back to normal.’

      ‘Right. Good.’

      ‘I rang the agency to organise another locum for the practice.’

      ‘Oh.’