she could see no other way of channelling her interest. So, heeding her teachers’ advice, she’d leaned towards her second favourite subject, completing a degree in English Literature at Newcastle University. Upon graduating, she’d found a job as a proofreader with a small independent publisher, moving on to a large national house a few years later. And there she’d remained until just before her thirtieth birthday, when the company had been swallowed up by a larger fish, redundancies being the inevitable outcome.
At the time, Connie hadn’t been too bothered. She’d picked up plenty of contacts along the way and was as confident as one dared be about maintaining a regular stream of work. Plus, she liked the idea of being her own boss: nobody watching over her shoulder, monitoring how many times a day she nipped to the loo, or having to make a great show of being busy when she totally wasn’t.
Six months down the line, though, stuck in front of a computer day after day, with only the potted cactus on the desk to talk to, the novelty of self-employment had dimmed. And had continued to do so ever since. Deriving minimal satisfaction from her “career”, she’d sought her kicks elsewhere, signing up for cookery courses at the local community college. As well as experimenting with global cuisine – sushi, tapas, Greek meze and Moroccan, she’d tried her hand at making bread, pasta, canapes, macarons and pastries.
Over time, she’d built and refined her culinary skills. And always, cowering in the back of her mind, was her ultimate dream: to own her own bistro. Nothing grand, just a cosy room with ten tables, each covered in a yellow-and-white checked cloth, with a single yellow rose in a vase. The exact image of the first bistro her parents had taken her to in Italy – where she’d had her first ever taste of panna cotta. Having added orange zest and softened gelatin to the mixture, Connie poured it into the ramekins, and had just popped them into the fridge when the doorbell rang. Scurrying down the hall, she opened the door to find Kate Ellis on the step – the village vet, and the second member of the cookery club. Kate had first approached her a week ago – having been sent along by Eleanor to find out more details about the club. She’d looked then exactly as frazzled as she did now.
‘Oh, Connie, I’m so sorry to bother you again,’ she gushed, evidence of crusted egg on her navy T-shirt – in the same place there’d been a smear of ketchup on her white top several days before. ‘I can’t remember what time you said we were kicking off tonight.’
‘About seven. If that’s okay.’
Kate attempted to run a hand through her tangle of strawberry blonde curls. Becoming stuck midway, she gave up, returning the hand to the pushchair containing two rosy-cheeked toddlers, topped off with exactly the same curls.
‘Oh, of course,’ she tutted, shaking her head. ‘Honestly, I can’t believe how mush-like my brain is these days. That’s what having children does to you.’
Connie smiled. ‘Would you like to come in for a coffee or something?’
The vet heaved a despairing sigh. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing I’d like more, but it’s not fair to inflict Mia and Milo on you. They’ll trash the place in less than five minutes. Before moving on to trash one another.’
‘I can’t believe that for a minute,’ said Connie, chuckling at the two cherubic faces gazing up at her. ‘They look like butter wouldn’t melt.’
Kate gave a cynical snort. ‘Don’t you believe it. Their appearance is a complete con. They’re two mini bulldozers, destroying everything in their path. Thankfully, our frighteningly competent French au pair, Domenique, is back from her holiday today, so she’s taken Jemima to her swimming lesson. I don’t think I could have coped with a changing room full of four-year-olds, and these two demons.’
Connie laughed. ‘It certainly sounds like you have your hands full.’
‘Overflowing. I really should have started having children when I was twenty-eight, not thirty-eight. I might have had the energy to cope with them then. Anyway, must plough on. I’ve been summoned to the practice by the vet who’s standing in for me. I have a horrible feeling she’s going to tell me she’s leaving.’
‘What will you do if she is?’
Kate shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I’ve had a couple of years off now. Maybe it’s time I went back. Although quite how that would work, I have no idea.’
‘Is your husband very hands-on?’
‘Andrew? God no. He’s a stockbroker. A whizz with figures but completely hopeless at anything else. And even if he was useful, he’s rarely home before ten. By which time I’ve passed out with exhaustion.’
Connie chuckled. ‘It’ll get better when the children are older.’
‘That thought is the only thing that keeps me going. Anyway, I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to having some Me Time this evening. Who else is coming?’
‘Well, there’s Eleanor, of course. And a lovely girl called Melody. She lives in the next village.’
‘Ah. Melody Todd? Pretty girl? Has a Jack Russell?’
‘Yes. That’s her.’
Kate nodded approvingly. ‘That’s good. Very good, in fact. I’ve only met her once – when the relief vet was on holiday and I covered for a week. Melody brought the dog in for a check-up. From the little she said then, I think something like the club will do her the world of good. Right, we’re off. Should I bring anything tonight?’
Connie shook her head. ‘No. This one’s on me.’
‘Okay. But only this one. Otherwise it’s not fair. We’ll make sure we all chip in in future. I’ll bring wine. And matches to prop open my eyes. I can’t remember the last time I was out after six.’
Connie giggled. ‘I’m hoping you’ll be so enthralled by my demonstration of how to make lamb tagliata, that no matches will be required.’
‘Ooh. I have no idea what that is, but it sounds gorgeous. Matches or no matches, I’ll see you at seven.’
‘Great. See you then.’
After waving off Kate and the twins, and with the panna cotta chilling in the fridge, Connie washed out the dirty pan, tugged off her “Food Is Better Than Sex” apron, and decided to take Eric for a walk.
Unlike most canines – whose excitement generally knew no bounds at the mere whisper of the W-word – Eric’s huge brown eyes viewed the prospect with suspicion. But then again, Eric viewed the prospect of most things with suspicion. He’d been in the rescue centre for nine months before Anna had taken pity on him, his extended stay primarily due to his refusal to leave his kennel whenever any prospective owners had been looking around. Anna, though, hadn’t been so easily deterred. It had taken six visits – Eric cowering in the kennel, Anna chattering away to him outside – before he’d eventually popped out his head to view the disturber of his peace; three more visits before he’d dared to slink out in full; and an additional five before he’d trusted Anna enough to allow her to take him for a walk. She and Hugh had adopted him immediately after that, and although the hilarious stories about him settling in had amused Connie for weeks, it had taken a huge amount of patience and understanding from the pair to rebuild the dog’s confidence. Even now, three years on, he wasn’t exactly brimming with the stuff, and he’d still qualify as red-hot favourite for the Wussiest Hound Ever award, but he’d only hidden behind the sofa for thirty minutes when Connie arrived – a vast improvement on the four hours the first time she’d met him. He appeared to have accepted her presence in the house with reluctant resignation. And while still slightly jittery when she did anything as menacing as offering him a biscuit, he’d nevertheless permitted her to saddle him up for a walk – coaxing time beforehand now reduced to a mere twenty minutes.
Adding to Connie’s perception that she had indeed entered another universe when she’d landed in Little Biddington,