Page 12 of The Second Chance Supper Club

So, this was it! Supper club day had arrived. There was no going back now. She just had to buckle up, enjoy the ride, and do her utmost to make it a success.

The dining shed was almost ready, despite the heavy rains of yesterday, which had stalled Cath’s well-laid plans.

Thankfully, the roof had held firm overnight without any leaks.

She’d checked it first thing this morning.

Unable to wait, she’d headed out to the garden in her dressing gown and wellies.

An apparition for the elderly couple next door, should they have happened to look over the fence.

She decided to take a chance and give it that final coat of exterior paint early this morning, as the sage colour still looked rather uneven.

Fingers crossed for some blustery sunshine to help it dry in time.

And then, she’d go ahead and set everything up inside later this afternoon – as well as doing the cooking. Nothing like cutting it fine!

No one on the guest list knew anything about her ‘summerhouse’ supper venue (oh, that sounded so much posher than garden shed!).

She hadn’t wanted to risk it not being ready in time, and well, she hoped it would be a lovely surprise for them.

The weather forecast was good, thank heavens, after yesterday’s downpour, with a fine evening due.

So, it was ‘wish-me-luck’ time for Cath, and all systems go.

A Kirkton stock-up was next on the list: visiting the deli for her charcuterie and cheese, fresh salads and veggies at the greengrocer, and stumbling upon a cute candle shop where she chose a pack of delicate floral-scented white tealights – a small treat.

She was soon back again at the cottage ready to put her chef’s apron on.

It was now midday, the hours slipping by all too fast, and she was in the kitchen with Radio Two on to keep her company, enjoying the buzz of cooking for a social event again.

The old Cath from years back, the one who loved cooking for a crowd, was peeking out from her shell.

Space was tight in her galley, with not a great deal of work surface, but she managed.

Firstly, to make her focaccia bread. She took Reggie’s bowl to hand – it seemed fitting to use it, like a christening of the kitchen, measuring out her ingredients into it, mixing and then kneading the dough on the surface.

She then covered the dish, leaving it to prove in the warm kitchen.

Wonderfully, she’d also spotted some fresh herbs flourishing in the garden border, one of which was a fragrant rosemary bush.

The garden was proving to be a legacy too.

She’d snipped some aromatic sprigs from that earlier, ready to pop in the top of the loaf before baking.

Next, she needed to prep her lemon king prawn tagliatelle dish, chopping and lightly frying spring onions and garlic with fresh lemon rind in olive oil and butter.

She made a green salad from fresh local leaves, which she popped in the fridge, to add her olive and vinegar dressing later.

And then, she halved juicy peaches, laying them neatly in a terracotta baking dish with a sprinkling of brown sugar and a knob of creamy butter.

Covering and leaving the dish aside until it was time to bake them later, before serving them warm with a dollop of pistachio cream.

This was one of her ‘old favourite’ recipes, an easy but delightful pudding.

Memories of summer evenings with their old friends suddenly flooded in on a wave of wistfulness.

Her life had altered so much already. But how would it be with these new friends, she couldn’t help but wonder?

With no time to waste, and putting her memories on hold, it was on to the charcuterie and cheese starter platters. She’d prep as much as she could now, slicing small wedges of cheese, fruit and celery, and then lay everything out fresh – hopefully a feast for the eyes – just before arrival time.

A welcome drink of fizz was on the cards too – two nice bottles of Prosecco were chilling in the fridge, with an alternative of Tanqueray Flor de Sevilla gin (again, brought with her from the Leeds house) and tonic.

They’d discovered this orange gin on a holiday in Majorca four years ago, just before Adam went off to uni – which was in fact one of their last happy family adventures.

A pang of nostalgia stabbed her, ready to put her off track.

She swiftly refocused, however. Today was about moving on, she reminded herself, not looking back.

And she returned to the drinks menu: a chilled white wine and a rosé were both ready to go with the meal, along with some iced water too.

Nothing too flashy, just good wholesome food using local ingredients where she could, plus a cheeky tipple or two.

In fact, at this point, she might need a little ‘Dutch courage’ herself, and she poured herself a small pinot grigio now that she was within sight of the finishing line – chef’s prerogative.

She then heaved the dining table up the garden steps, one side at a time in a hefty game of zig-zag, a tricky task single-handed.

She should have waited, or asked for some help really, but then there’d be no dining area set up in time.

And if she went to ask Andreas or Dan now, well, she’d be giving the game away.

She wanted her supper visitors to walk in, feel relaxed, and see everything set out prettily.

With a bit more pushing and shoving, and a hot-sweat in the making, she managed to wedge the table in through the wide-open glass doors, phew.

Next, setting out an assortment of chairs: two directors-style garden ones that she’d brought from home – check that thought, what was once home – the two from the cottage’s kitchen-dining area, and one new addition in a re-stained white wood which she’d found at a bargain price in a charity shop last week.

Mix and match ‘shabby chic’, which seemed to work fine.

She popped the mini vases on the table, which she’d filled with cow parsley picked from the hedgerow (it was prolific in the country lanes, so she hadn’t felt bad plucking a small bunch) mixed with bluebells and spring anemones from the garden, and a leafy-green sprig or two cut from a border shrub.

The tealights were set out on vintage floral-patterned saucers – a family heirloom passed down from her grandmother – ready to light later, as the day faded to dusk.

Hopefully by then, they’d all be settled in well.

She stepped back to take a photo of her garden shed all ready for the off, feeling a warm glow (possibly a hot flush from all that pushing and shoving of furniture!) and a real sense of pride in her achievement.

It would certainly be cosy in there, there wasn’t heaps of room, admittedly, but it was way better than the cramped kitchen. And it looked so pretty.

Wow, she’d only gone and pulled it off! Welcome to the summerhouse supper club venue.

An hour before ETA, Cath headed back up to the shed for a final check.

A gentle prod at the woodwork revealed that the sage-green side panels were still a little tacky, oops.

She’d just have to make sure she told the gang, so no one was tempted to lean against it.

But the doorframes were fine, and inside, the white paintwork that she’d completed a couple of days ago looked fresh and inviting, setting off the table display perfectly.

And there was her sage-green shelf (yes!) with Reggie’s row of aged terracotta pots, now filled with parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme – their aromatic scents filling the space.

As the minutes ticked by, however, her anxiety mounted. She wanted this to work out so badly … this evening, being part of the village, making new friends, a new life. It was like tonight was the first domino in a run for her future, how it fell or faltered really mattered.

With twenty minutes to arrival time, she topped up her wine glass, put on some easy listening music, and began to lay out the selection of local cheeses and charcuterie on wooden platters – getting a bit arty-farty with a blob of caramelised chutney here, small clusters of grapes and mini celery sticks there.

The pasta sauce was ready on the hob, just needing to be warmed through to then add the prawns and extra lemon zest. A big pan of water was also stood on the hob for the tagliatelle.

A tray of rosemary roasted potatoes were ready to bake, as well as the focaccia to serve. So far so good.

Ping. Message from Susie. Hope it all goes well this evening. You’ll smash the supper! You were always the hostess with the moistest. Enjoy! Xx

Cath had to re-read the words, moistest, really?! A silly grin was plastered over her face.

The message was swifty followed by: OMG! That was a typo – hilarious! Hostess with the mostess! .

Cath started giggling uncontrollably … and that’s exactly when the doorbell went.