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

Kate couldn’t believe the difference. Not only at her spending more than thirty seconds in the bathroom, but at the entire household, and, indeed, the house. Melody had somehow managed to make breakfast, tidy the kitchen, match up several socks, and dress the children, all with the minimum of fuss. However, as refreshing as it was, her competence had compounded Kate’s feelings of inadequacy. Not that she intended confessing that to her friend.

‘You’re going to make a wonderful mother,’ she told her instead as they sat at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee apiece.

Melody pulled a face. ‘Hmm. I’m not so sure. I keep waking up in the middle of the night panicking that I won’t have a clue what to do with a baby.’

‘Nonsense. You’ll be brilliant. And at least you’re starting at a sensible age. I wish I’d had mine in my twenties rather than my late thirties. I think I’d have coped much better.’

‘But look what you did instead. Had a brilliant career and set up your own practice.’

‘Ah yes. The practice. I used to be so proud of it. And I loved working there. But now it feels like a huge weight around my neck. And with the locum leaving in a few weeks, I honestly haven’t a clue what to do with it.’

‘You could always go back. Put the children into nursery.’

‘I could. And I have considered that. On the brief occasion there’s room in my head to consider anything. But I suspect I’d only be making my life two hundred times more stressful.’

Melody grimaced. ‘It’s not really my place to say, but maybe Andrew should pull his weight a bit more.’

Kate blew out a sigh. ‘Hmm. Another problem. Just as I have no idea what to do about the practice, I’m absolutely clueless what to do about Andrew. I might be being completely neurotic, but, as I said last night, this isn’t the first time he and Domenique’s trips away have coincided. A couple of months ago Andrew was supposedly in Liverpool. And she was supposedly in York. And, I’ve noticed that whenever there’s a cookery club meeting, he’s home much earlier than usual, possibly because it’s a chance to spend more time with her.’

‘Or because he’s trying to help; thinks he should be there to sort out the kids so you can relax when you’re at the club.’

Kate shook her head. ‘Somehow, I don’t think the notion of me needing to relax ever enters Andrew’s head.’

Waving Melody off a short while later, Mia clamped to one leg, Jemima to the other, and Milo perched on her hip, Kate experienced a pang of sadness. For what, she wasn’t sure. For Melody carrying her first baby and the accompanying hope and excitement? For her friend’s wonderful – and much appreciated – help? For the fact that she’d have to wait another two weeks before the next cookery club meeting? Or because her life was completely pants?

‘Please can I go to Cecilia’s house after nursery?’ asked Jemima, a note of desperation to her tone.

Blimey. Was it really that bad here? Setting down Milo and watching him and Mia thunder down the hall kicking a tennis ball en route and knocking over a scooter, Kate concluded it must be.

‘Of course, sweetheart. If it’s okay with Cecilia’s mummy. We’ll ask her when we drop you at nursery, shall we?’

After the usual pantomime of finding shoes – or, in Milos’s case, Paddington Bear wellies – gathering together enough snacks and juice bottles to sustain the entire village for a fortnight, and selecting a battalion of cuddly toys to accompany them, Kate bundled everybody into the car and headed to Jemima’s nursery in the neighbouring village of Cornfield. Klever Klogz Childcare was housed in a traditional Cotswold house with lots of glass extensions. It boasted computers, a sandpit, a library, several squishy sofas and an army of uber-efficient staff in yellow polo shirts – who were great with the kids, but adopted a Gestapo-like approach when dealing with the parents. Or at least when dealing with Kate.

Running late, as usual, she realised she would probably have missed Cecilia’s mummy: the nauseatingly punctual Frances. Which would mean phoning the woman. A call she really should have been making to the dishwasher repairman.

Pulling up outside the shiny red gates, bracing herself for a chorus of disapproving sniffs and synchronised eye-rolling from the yellow-shirts, Kate breathed a sigh of relief as she spotted Frances’s immaculate 4x4 – naturally devoid of the squashed raisins, used tissues, random shoes, and eau de vomit that Kate’s vehicle boasted. Disgorging her brood from the car, she ushered them towards the entrance, wondering, as she watched the twins tramp ahead, how, in the space of ten minutes, and in the confines of their 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 (#ua3aefc6b-7495-56a8-9bdb-a566b24f4035)

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.