a packet of wine gums instead.
‘Ooh, I can’t wait to read this month’s edition,’ Eleanor suddenly gushed, producing a pair of scissors from under the counter and snipping away the tape binding the magazines in front of her. ‘I love reading all those gorgeous recipes. Not that I ever try any. There’s no point when you’re on your own, is there?’
Another shuddering sigh and more drifting off followed this observation.
This time, Connie didn’t dwell on it. Recognising the magazine as her own favourite monthly reading matter – the Galloping Gourmet – she dived straight into the tailor-made opening. Tugging the card from her pocket, she handed it over. ‘Actually, on the subject of cooking, I wondered if you’d mind displaying this.’
Eleanor’s increasingly dilated pupils danced over the text. ‘A cookery club! Heavens. What a wonderful idea.’
Connie grimaced. ‘Do you really think so?’
The shopkeeper nodded effusively, her brassy curls bobbing up and down. ‘I most certainly do. They’ll be queuing up to join. You can count me in for starters. Oh! Starters! There you go, you see. I’m already gearing up for it.’
As she snorted with laughter, Connie couldn’t resist a giggle, relief pulsing through her that she hadn’t been laughed out of the shop.
‘I was just thinking the other day,’ continued Eleanor, beaming at her, ‘that it’s nearly four years since my husband died, and all I’ve done since then is tread water. I need to move on; do something to spice up my life a bit. Oh! Spice! There I go again.’
Connie chuckled. ‘Well, if I can find another couple of members as keen as you, I’ll be delighted.’
‘Oh, you’ll have no problem. But I wouldn’t bother with the card. You’ll be inundated. People will snap off your hand at the offer of something other than the book club. Or, for those really scraping the bottom of the barrel – bridge – which, incidentally, I have tried and found more boring than watching jelly set.’
‘Right. Remind me not to sign up for that then, however bored I get,’ chuckled Connie.
‘I’ll remind you,’ giggled Eleanor. Then, ‘I could find the cookery club members for you, if you like. How many were you thinking of?’
‘Well, I was planning to keep it small to begin with. Maybe about four of us in total, until we see how it goes. And I thought about theming the evenings – trying different cuisines from around the world – starting with Italian.’
‘Sounds perfect. Leave it with me.’
And so Connie had, floating out of the shop with a huge smile on her face at Eleanor’s parting words: ‘You’re on to a winner with this one.’
Connie had never been “onto a winner” in her entire life. But here in the sweet-smelling, flowery, picture-perfect Cotswolds, absolutely anything seemed possible – and the chance of her being “onto a winner” didn’t seem nearly so absurd as it would have back in London.
Connie was making a cup of coffee the next morning when she heard the thud of post on the doormat. Leaving the kitchen, she wandered down the polished boards of the hall to collect it. Along with a couple of envelopes addressed to Anna and Hugh were a handful of birthday cards. She flicked through them, recognising the handwriting as that of her mother, her grandmother, and three girlfriends. She immediately banished the disappointment at there being nothing from Charles. Awaiting a cheque from him after the tying up of some joint financial stuff, she’d emailed him with Anna’s address, informing him of her whereabouts for the next few months. There was no cheque. And – more poignantly – no card. Which shouldn’t surprise her. Other than her demanding answers the day after discovering he was a cheating pig:
How long had the affair been going on?
Did he love Stacey?
Had he planned, at any point, to inform Connie of his change of allegiance?
To which the answers had been:
Five months.
Yes, he did.
He really had planned to inform her – at some point.
they’d hardly spoken since the day she’d stormed out of the flat. But then again, having given their relationship serious contemplation since that fateful day, Connie had realised they’d hardly spoken in the last eighteen months they’d been together. They had, she’d concluded, grown apart. Or rather Charles had grown, while she, if anything, had diminished. When they’d first started dating they’d had things in common – both working for large corporate enterprises, both enjoying healthy social lives: two busy twenty-somethings making the most of life in the metropolis. But while Charles’s advertising career had rocketed, Connie’s professional life had dipped sharply southwards. And while his social life had become increasingly buoyant – schmoozing with clients, travelling for pitches, indulging in boozy after-work drinking sessions with the office in-crowd – Connie’s self-employed status meant she’d become increasingly isolated. She’d had no one to schmooze with, no in- or out-crowd to compare hangovers with, and the farthest she’d ever ventured during the week was to the corner shop – usually in the sweatpants and hoodies which had replaced her previously smart office clobber. Not, she hastily reminded herself, that any of the above excused Charles’s grubby behaviour. His betrayal had hit her harder than a juggernaut freewheeling down a ski slope, sending waves of shock, humiliation and anger – mainly at herself for not realising he was a two-timing prick – ricocheting through her, blasting her delicate self-esteem into a million tiny shards. It would be a long time – if ever – before she trusted a man again. Which was precisely why she’d scrubbed relationships from her to-do list. For now, she planned to concentrate on herself, rebuild her shattered confidence, do what she wanted. Like this evening’s cookery club. Sucking in a deep breath, she elbowed aside all thoughts of traitorous exes and turned them to more productive matters – like the panna cotta she still had to prepare for that evening.
Back in the kitchen, Connie snapped off chunks of thick milk chocolate and dropped them into the pan of double cream she’d brought to the boil. Stirring until they melted, she recalled the first time she’d ever tasted her favourite dessert – in Italy, its country of origin, where her love of food had first begun…
As a child, every summer, Connie and her parents – both teachers and therefore benefitting from the six-week break – had spent the entire holiday touring Europe in their camper van. Connie had loved experiencing the different cultures, languages and customs, but it had been the food that had most fascinated her.
Her highlight of every holiday had been exploring the markets – lively, bustling and colourful, they’d provided a feast for all the senses: the sight of fruit and vegetables five times the size of anything back home; the mingling aromas of strange, exotic spices; and the taste bud-busting samples – slivers of succulent ham, tiny wedges of creamy cheese, and salty gleaming olives marinated in garlic, fennel and rosemary.
Returning from their trip the year Connie was ten, her dad had set up a corner of the garden where she could grow her own vegetables. There, she’d dug, planted, weeded and tended with impressive zeal, experiencing both pride and excitement as the products of her labour flourished.
‘Goodness, what are we going to do with all this stuff?’ her mother had puffed, the day Connie had dumped a mountain of rhubarb on the kitchen table.
Connie hadn’t known. But she’d found out, amassing a host of cookery books along the way. She tried chutneys, jams, crumbles and pies. And, even if she said so herself, they weren’t half bad.
Her interest in all things culinary survived adolescence. But when it came to discussing career choices, she’d dithered. She couldn’t imagine