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

knew that fraternising with a toy-boy decorator wouldn’t gain her any brownie points – especially now Sandra had seen firsthand how well Anna and Hugh were doing. Indeed, fraternising with any man other than a banker would now be looked on as a complete waste of time.

      With Eric cowering next to Connie on the back seat of the Volvo, they drove for thirty minutes, through sleepy Cotswold villages bursting with flora and fauna, honey-coloured stone buildings, and unique, quintessential English charm, finishing up in a pub that had featured on Midsomer Murders – ‘But we only add cyanide to the cider if you tell a bad joke,’ quipped the barman.

      At which comment Sandra had paled under her strips of orange blusher, and announced she would like to sit outside.

      The beer garden was located next to the car park. They’d just finished their lunch and the plates had been cleared, when an old brown Audi pulled into the car park, in the bay next to a gleaming silver Jag.

      Connie’s eyes grew wide as she observed Max Templeton levering his tall frame out of the car, looking utterly gorgeous in stonewashed jeans and a blue T-shirt, through which she could make out the delineation of firm pecs.

      Heavens, she mused, dragging her eyes away. Since when had she become so obsessed with men’s bodies? Since moving to the Cotswolds, she swiftly concluded. There must be something in the air. Or the water. Or the bran flakes. And her stomach had never performed so many somersaults, either, as it had since taking up residence in her temporary home. Indeed, it had just performed a rather spectacular one at the sight of Max. All somersaulting immediately ceased, however, as the passenger side door opened and out slid first one long, tanned leg, then another, followed by a very short white skirt, a green chiffony blouse, a mane of glossy dark hair, and a face that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of Vogue.

      As both sets of ridiculously long legs then began striding out of the car park towards the pub, Connie attempted to hide behind the menu – no easy task given its compact A5 proportions.

      ‘Your eyes okay, love?’ enquired her dad.

      ‘Probably on the decline with all that computer work she does,’ piped up her mother. ‘And old age, of course. I’ve always said things start to slide after thirty-three.’

      ‘She’s only been thirty-four for a couple of weeks.’

      ‘Exactly. And thirty-four is older than thirty-three, Lawrence.’

      ‘Thank you, Sandra. I do know tha—’

      ‘Hi, Connie.’

      At the sound of Max’s deep voice, Connie’s menu toppled to the floor, bouncing off Eric’s head en route.

      ‘Oh,’ she spluttered, tilting up her head and meeting his warm hazel gaze. ‘Hello.’ Her eyes darted around for the brunette. She was nowhere to be seen.

      ‘Out for a spot of lunch?’ Max asked, his smile and question encompassing them all.

      ‘Yes,’ piped up Sandra, plastering on a winsome beam. ‘We’re Connie’s parents – Sandra and Lawrence.’

      ‘Max Templeton. I live in the same village.’

      ‘Lucky you. It’s delightful.’

      ‘There are worse places.’

      ‘Have you lived there long?’

      ‘Three years.’

      ‘And before that?’

      ‘Mum!’ cut in Connie. ‘Max hasn’t come here for a grilling.’

      Max chuckled. ‘It’s fine, honestly. It’s nice to know someone finds me interesting. Well, I’d better go and find Sarah. I’ll no doubt see you around, Connie.’

      Connie nodded, wondering if her cheeks could possibly redden any further.

      ‘Goodness,’ gasped her mother, as Max loped off. ‘What a charmer. Do you know what he does for a living, Constance?’

      ‘He’s a pilot.’

      This news resulted in such a loud handclap that Eric jumped up from the grass and banged his head on the wooden table. ‘How perfect would it be if you could team up with someone like that? Good-looking, delightful manners, successful, lives in a Cotswold village—’

      ‘Married.’

      Sandra’s face dropped to the floor. Just as quickly she yanked it back up. ‘But he might have some single friends, Constance.’

      Just as she’d been consumed with a desire to escape Liam earlier, Connie now experienced the same urge to wedge several hundred miles between her and Max Templeton. Her mother, though, was of a completely different opinion, eking out their time at the pub by sipping three coffees at – what seemed to Connie – a torturously slow pace.