The Cotswolds Cookery Club: a deliciously uplifting feel-good read

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

The Costswolds Cookery Club: A Taste of France (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)

Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

The Cotswolds Cookery Club:

A Taste of Italy

Alice Ross

ONE PLACE. MANY STORIES

Chapter One (#ulink_797bb23f-e25e-57e1-9bd7-5b2b9f119c85)

‘Happy birthday, darling.’

On the other end of the phone, Connie Partridge silently counted to three as she awaited her mother’s next comment.

It arrived on cue.

‘Goodness, I can hardly believe you’re thirty-four today.’

Connie rolled her eyes. The edge to her mother’s voice – which had made its first appearance on Connie’s thirtieth birthday – was now all too familiar. It did not infer “gosh, how time flies”, but rather “I can’t believe my only child is hurtling towards middle-age, has zero career prospects, is unmarried, technically homeless, and, with not so much as a sniff of a man on the horizon, has absolutely no hope of producing grandchildren”.

Mind you, being perfectly honest, Connie couldn’t believe her lack of achievement in these areas either. On her last birthday she’d dared to imagine she might be making some headway – in the relationship area at least. She’d imagined that, after five years together, Charles might have considered her notching up another year as the perfect time to Pop the Question. But he hadn’t. Instead, four months ago, she’d discovered him popping something – or rather someone – else: Stacey – his ridiculously glamorous co-worker. In the bed he shared with Connie.

After the initial shock of walking in on the pair – including being secretly awestruck at how immaculate Stacey’s hair looked after what appeared to have been a particularly sweaty session – Connie had engaged in much shouting, cursing and hurling about of things, before instructing Charles to vacate the premises forthwith. When he’d replied – with some diffidence – that the flat belonged to him, Connie had been forced to concede that he did have a point, and had subsequently made a hasty retreat herself – back to her parents’ three-bed semi in Surbiton – where her mother, predictably, had been less than impressed by developments.

‘Men don’t stray without reason, Constance,’ she’d sniffed, with a knowing toss of her auburn bob.

The observation had done little to revive Connie’s dwindling self-esteem, which, never buoyant at the best of times, had continued to plummet further over the ensuing months. Aided on its progress by yet more cutting – and sadly accurate – maternal remarks.

‘You really need to reconsider your career options, darling. I don’t mean to sound harsh, but you have no prospects, aren’t exactly earning a fortune, and it’s not even as if you enjoy what you do.’

None of which Connie could argue with. Her parent had, once again, hit the nail on its increasingly jaded head. But the tirade hadn’t stopped there.

‘And it’s so solitary. Your job does nothing for your social life, which, let’s face it, isn’t exactly buzzing.’

Yet again, Connie could not demur. Working from home as a self-employed proofreader was incredibly solitary – zero banter with colleagues, no office politics to chunter about, and, on the rare occasion she found something to titter about in her reading matter – like an extra “t” added to the word “far”, there was nobody to titter with.

‘You need to get out more, dear. How else are you going to meet another man? After all, you’re not getting any younger.’

Her mother’s mutterings, combined with her thirty-fourth birthday lurking just around the corner – had not only made Connie feel like the world’s biggest failure, but had made her realise she really did need to make some changes to her life. Exactly what changes, she was still pondering, when she’d received an interesting phone call from her best friend, Anna.

‘Hugh’s been posted to Sydney for six months,’ she informed Connie, referring to her banker husband. ‘And I’ve wangled a temporary transfer to the agency’s office there.’

‘Trust you,’ huffed Connie. Anna had what Connie – and indeed most mere mortals – would deem The Perfect Life: a gorgeous husband who worshipped the ground she walked on, a great job as a booker for an international modelling agency, and the most to-die-for house in an idyllic Cotswolds village. As much as Connie loved her, Anna was not the woman to have around when your life resembled a plus-sized, reinforced-gusseted pair of pants. As did hers at the moment. Nevertheless, despite turning pea-green, she’d done her best to whip up some enthusiasm for her friend’s exciting news.

‘It sounds amazing. A fantastic experience for you both.’

‘I know. I can’t wait.’