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

Noting the concentration on her daughter’s face, Kate turned back to the sink and sighed. Jemima had always been a sweet, affectionate child, who loved anything pink and adored ice cream. Lately, though, all sweetness had evaporated and all signs of affection been replaced with constant whining. Determined to put a smile on the child’s face, Kate had recently made a forty-mile round trip, queued for three hours and spent the equivalent of a family holiday in Majorca, to secure tickets to a performance of her daughter’s beloved Beauty and the Beast. She’d kept the occasion a surprise, the outing being made under the guise of shopping – which had been greeted with some grumbling. Kate, though, had remained optimistic. When Jemima discovered the true purpose, she’d be overcome with excitement, hopping from foot to foot, like in the heady days when she’d been three and found pleasure in everything. However, arriving at the venue, her daughter’s unimpressed state had persisted.

‘If you’d told me we were coming here I’d have worn my blue dress,’ she’d huffed. Followed by a barrage of complaints about how the place was too hot, too crowded and too everything-it-shouldn’t-be.

‘Did you enjoy it?’ Kate had ventured at the end of the evening.

‘It was okay,’ had limped back the half-hearted and, frankly, ungrateful reply.

And then there were the twins – rocketing into the world like two mini torpedoes. And who, with their preformed stubborn, egotistical, single-minded personalities, had continued to wreak havoc ever since.

Why, Kate wondered, as she dunked the plate in the water for a final rinse, then wedged it between a mixing bowl and a measuring jug on the drainer, couldn’t she have had pleasant, easy-going children. Children like Cecilia, who looked forward to their violin practice every day and put their dirty clothes in the laundry basket?

Perhaps, though, it suddenly struck her – with such force that the next plate she’d selected for assault slipped from her hand – the reason her children were so difficult was because of her.

Cecilia’s mother seemed to have glided effortlessly into her maternal role. And the pack at Jemima’s nursery appeared to manage their parental duties without any of the daily fuss and drama Kate negotiated – and in immaculately clean, sweet-smelling attire, devoid of the grubby food stains she frequently sported.

Oh God, she realised – reshuffling the drying crockery to slot in the latest relatively clean item – she was, quite obviously, a Failure – with a big, fat, emboldened capital F.

‘Cecilia’s mummy always smells of roses,’ Jemima suddenly piped up, compounding her mother’s sinking despair.

‘And I bet she doesn’t wash breakfast pots at two in the afternoon either,’ muttered Kate, noting the time on the rather greasy-looking kitchen clock.

‘No. Their dishwasher works.’

For the second time in minutes, Kate opened her mouth to reprimand her daughter – this time for the accusatory edge to her voice. But, once again, she snapped it shut. The child had merely voiced the truth. It was her fault the dishwasher didn’t work. Well, not that it didn’t work. That could be attributed to the poor thing being flogged into submission as it attempted to keep pace with the family’s unceasing demand for clean pots and ability to produce mountains of dirty. Admitting defeat two weeks ago, with one last heart-wrenching whirr – so loud Milo had jumped and spilled a full pot of yoghurt over Kate’s mobile – it had refused to function ever since.

Kate knew, of course, that one phone call from her would remedy the situation – to the repairman, who would examine, diagnose and outline a plan of action. But the call hadn’t been made. For no reason other than she hadn’t found time. Events had overtaken her to such an extent that she’d scarcely had a minute to nip to the loo, never mind actually arrange anything.

Apart, that was, from her dishes for the Cotswolds Cookery Club that evening. Set up by village newcomer Connie Partridge four months ago, the club had turned out to be Kate’s saviour. It was the one thing in life she looked forward to: a culinary escape route; a place where she could relax and be herself without some little body pecking away at her. The wonderful dishes the group conjured up were only part of the attraction. It was the female camaraderie and support that Kate enjoyed above all, and she now counted its three members – Connie – temporary manager of the village newsagent’s; Melody – now five months pregnant; and Trish – the most recent member, who had a teenage daughter and an estranged husband – among her closest friends.

Their diverse lives led to all manner of topics being discussed at their biweekly meetings, which she always looked forward to immensely – except when it was her turn to host. Those occasions, needless to say, resulted in even more havoc than normal feeding time at the zoo – the children hyper with excitement at having bodies from the outside world in their home. Something that only normally happened when domestic appliances required attention and someone had bothered to call a repairman. Fully conversant with her circumstances, the other club members had offered her the opportunity to “host” at their homes, but, tempting as it might be, Kate didn’t deem it fair. So, despite feeling dead on her feet and like she could sleep for an entire month through a major resurfacing of the road outside her bedroom window, here she now was, making a feeble attempt to create some order in the chaos, in preparation for this evening’s meeting.

Summoning the energy to refresh the washing-up water, she’d just pulled out the plug when a cacophony of voices chanting “The Wheels on the Bus” blasted from her phone.

‘That’s your phone,’ sniffed Jemima, glaring at the offending item on the table.

Swiping up a tea towel that had seen better days, and giving her hands a cursory wipe, Kate dragged herself over to the table.

From Edinburgh, where he was on a training course – supposedly – husband Andrew’s name flashed angrily on the screen, causing a shooting pain through her head.

‘Hi,’ she puffed on answering, too exhausted to attempt a chirpy tone and not sure she would have, even had she not been exhausted. ‘How’s it going?’

‘All right. Kids okay?’

‘Same as usual. Apart from the twins vomiting for England all night.’

‘Nice. Are they on the mend?’

‘I think so. They’re only chucking up intermittently now.’

‘Right. Good. Well, I’ll phone tomorrow and see how they are.’

‘Okay.’

‘Is the dishwasher fixed yet?’

‘No.’

‘Christ,’ he muttered.

Before ending the call.

At his reproving tone, Kate sank down on the nearest chair, wincing as a lego piece bit into her left bum cheek. The pain coincided with the realisation that not only was she a failure as a mother, but she was completely crap at being a wife too.

‘Mummy, you’ve broken Plant Monster,’ chided Jemima.

Kate pulled the figure out from under her.

His green arms were indeed broken, his head looked a bit skewwhiff, and the expression on his face was pained.

She knew exactly how he felt.

Chapter Two (#ua3aefc6b-7495-56a8-9bdb-a566b24f4035)

The Cotswolds Cookery Club not only maintained Kate’s sanity, but had the added advantage of transporting her to slightly more exotic places via the international dishes the group made. Starting with Italian, they’d produced pastas, pizzas and panna cottas, before moving on to Spanish cuisine, the repertoire of which had included cheesecakes, churros and a variety of dishes with chorizo. This evening would be their first foray 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.