conversation on.
Having finished chatting to the newsagent, Connie left the shop and, for reasons which baffled every other part of her body, found her feet carrying her in the vague direction Eleanor had indicated: towards Max Templeton’s Cedarwood Cottage. Following the revelation of his pilot occupation, she’d concluded he’d obviously confused his car with his cockpit the day he’d almost wiped out her and Eric. Not that she had the courage to hammer on his door and tell him that. Bumping into him coincidentally was one thing, seeking him out for confrontation was quite another. Still, something about that distant sighting of him earlier had intrigued her. Which was precisely why, she supposed, she now found herself discreetly reading house names on gateposts, until she located Cedarwood Cottage.
Maintaining the impeccable housing standards of the Cotswolds, the house was a stunning what looked to be former farmhouse, with a slightly higgledy-piggledy frontage, and a cute duck-egg blue front door. And there, parked outside, was the unmistakable Porsche.
Having no idea what to do next, and not wishing to alert the suspicions of the Neighbourhood Watch – nor, indeed, the apparently formidable Residents’ Committee – with her loitering, she’d just coaxed Eric into performing an about-turn, and was on the verge of retracing her steps, when, to her horror, the door to the cottage swung open.
Connie’s blood turned cold and she froze in horror as she observed one long, jeaned leg appear on the step. Oh my God. This wasn’t how she’d imagined their encounter at all. She wasn’t prepared. And she couldn’t possibly adopt the moral high ground when she and Eric had been sniffing – quite literally – about outside his house. The sanctimonious lecture which had instinctively leapt into her head immediately following the near-incident, and again when she’d spotted the car at the supermarket, had, for the time being, completely deserted her. Holding her breath as she awaited the appearance of a second leg, relief rushed through her as she heard muttering which sounded like “bloody keys”, and the leg disappeared back inside.
Seizing the opportunity to remove herself from the man’s sightline post-haste, Connie yanked a bewildered Eric across the road and squatted down next to him behind a rhododendron bush. Her heart hammering harder than a woodpecker with a deadline, she blew out a huge sigh of relief as she heard the clunk of a car door and the purr of an engine, then watched the car rolling down the road.
‘Another lovely day,’ remarked an old man, tottering past with a poodle. Causing Eric to whimper, and Connie to topple forward into the bush.
During her many years as a proofreader, Connie had scoured all manner of material: some excellent, some average, some titillating, and some which, frankly, she deemed a blatant waste of words. Her current project was lodged firmly in the latter category: a huge, tedious tome on Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing, which had summoned forth the question forever hovering in the back of her mind: could she write something better herself? Probably, was the answer which customarily followed this contemplation. But she hadn’t. Who knew, though, now she was in the Cotswolds, where writers such as J M Barrie, John Betjeman and even Beatrix Potter had found inspiration, she might just set to and have a bash. Once she’d waded through the five hundred most definitely not fascinating facts.
She’d just reached a particularly boring part – involving types of rods, when the doorbell chimed. As Eric shot behind the sofa, Connie trotted down the hall to the door.
‘Decadent Décor,’ announced a middle-aged man in paint-splattered overalls, with a balding head and a bulging belly.
Connie gaped at him nonplussed.
‘Come to decorate the house,’ he added – somewhat sardonically.
Connie clapped a hand to her mouth. Of course. She’d totally forgotten Anna had mentioned the decorators. She had offered to cancel them, before swiftly tagging on that they’d been waiting five months for the company – which was apparently in great demand – and would most likely have to wait another five if they put them off. Connie had consequently confirmed that it would be no problem, but had immediately become so distracted by the cookery club that the date had completely slipped her mind.
‘Gosh. Yes. Of course. Sorry, I’d totally forgotten.’
The man sucked in a disapproving breath and folded his arms over his chest.
‘You’re not going to tell me it’s not a good time, are you? Because if you are—’
‘No. It’s fine. Honestly. It’s just that it’s not my house. I’m looking after it while my friend’s in Australia for six months.’
The man couldn’t have looked more uinterested if Connie had started reciting her twelve times table.
‘Best bring my gear in then,’ he sniffed. ‘I’ll start upstairs. And in case you’ve also forgotten, we’ll be here for two weeks.’
Connie’s eyes grew wide. ‘Two weeks?’
‘Big job. Woodwork and everything.’
‘Right. Well, yes. I suppose… with the woodwork and everything,’ she muttered, wondering what Eric would make of it all.
‘And I wouldn’t mind a coffee while I’m setting up. Milk and two sugars.’
Due to constant requests for “milk and two sugars”, by the time lunchtime rolled around, Connie had made very little progress with the Five Hundred Fascinating Facts About Fly Fishing. In fact, she concluded that if the next two weeks were to proceed in this fashion, she might as well stick her laptop in the cupboard and glue the kettle to her hand. Despair was beginning to set in when her mobile trilled.
‘Hi, Connie. It’s Melody.’
Oh. Hi.’ Connie’s sinking spirits rocketed. ‘How are you?’
‘Great, thanks. I just wanted to thank you again for last night. It’s the most fun I’ve had since I arrived in the village.’
‘Goodness, you really must get out more.’
‘Believe me, you don’t know the half,’ chuckled Melody. ‘Anyway, as well as calling to say thanks, I wanted to run something past you. I’ve never cooked for anyone other than my husband before, so I’m ever so slightly terrified about hosting the next club meeting.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ assured Connie. ‘The club is supposed to be about having fun. Enjoying your cooking. Not stressing over it.’ Blimey. That sounded a bit rich coming from someone who’d suffered several sleepless nights envisaging her name in the history books for having caused the Great Fire of the Cotswolds.
‘Well, I won’t be having fun or enjoying myself if everyone hates my menu. I can’t decide whether to go for prawns or meatballs, so I’m going to try out both before the evening and I’d like you to be a guinea pig.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Connie. ‘I’d love to be your guinea pig. I’ll have to check my hectic – not – social calendar, but I’m sure I can squeeze you in. You tell me when’s good for you and I’ll be there.’
‘Fantastic. How about Monday? You could come for lunch. Twelve-thirty?’
‘Perfect. Looking forward to it already.’
‘Me too. Oh, and bring Eric. I’d love him to meet my dog.’
‘Really? I can’t promise he’ll be very sociable. He might spend the entire time trying to squeeze himself into a plant pot.’
Melody laughed. ‘Bring him anyway. It’ll do him good to socialise.’
‘Okay. But I’ll bring a plant pot too. Just in case.’
On Monday morning, Connie had just stepped out of the shower when the doorbell rang.
Her heart sank. The decorator. She’d had a pleasant