A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  ‘It is.’ I rubbed sweating palms on my pants. ‘Issue with the original baker, so here I am.’

  ‘Rough luck,’ he said quietly, looking behind him again. ‘It looks incredible, Lucy. You’re still unfairly talented. What is it?’ He walked across to the small distressed wood table. ‘Naked is the new black, isn’t it?’

  ‘Thank you.’ I’d be lying if I said the praise didn’t hit me in the sweet spot, even after all this time. ‘It’s citrus mud with lemon icing.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous.’ He leant in to look at the finer details.

  I stepped forward cautiously. As proud of it as I was, I didn’t think it was overly intricate, but Oliver seemed intent on inspecting it from all angles. It felt like an hour had passed before he stood back and looked at me.

  ‘Are you … are you well?’ A nervous Oliver was like Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. You knew there was one out there somewhere, but you’d be hard-pressed to find it without some serious legwork.

  I felt my tongue brush against my lips, my mouth sandpaper dry. ‘You’ve already asked that.’

  ‘I have. Right. Of course.’ He looked stuck between wanting to flee and trying to think of something else to say.

  As for me, flight mode had well and truly kicked in. ‘Okay. So, I’m going to go now. See you later, I guess.’

  ‘Luce, wait.’ He held out a hand. ‘Stay for a drink.’

  I froze on the spot, hand clutching the door handle. We watched each other silently. Seconds stretched to minutes, and Oliver looked more hopeful than he had right to.

  ‘Why are you here?’ I asked.

  He shoved his hands in the pockets of his apron and rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘Catering Edith and Barry’s wedding.’

  ‘And she picked you?’

  I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. ‘Barry got in touch a few months ago, asked if I was going to be in town. I wanted to come back and sort a few things out, and we all know he has a bit of cash to burn through, so here we are.’

  ‘Here we are,’ I repeated, scratching my forehead. Somewhere in the back of my brain, an Oliver-shaped headache was forming. ‘Are you in town long?’

  ‘Maybe.’ He brushed over my question as if in a job interview, no reaction either way.

  ‘Right.’ I turned to walk away.

  ‘Lucy, stay. I’ll make coffee.’

  I remember making the same request of him once upon a time. Stay, have a pot of tea, talk. I chose not to remind him. ‘Can’t stop, gotta go. See you later. Wedding thing. Have a great day, chef.’

  I walked so quickly I would have been disqualified from Olympic gold for having both feet off the ground. Not until I’d locked myself in the toilets and sat down on the lid did I exhale. I fired off a text to my best friend, Zoe, confident she was the only one I trusted with this information.

  Help. Oliver is here.

  Hey?

  MY HUSBAND OLIVER.

  Yes, I know who he is.

  I’m currently locked in toilets.

  Practising breathing.

  Oh. Shit.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Oliver Murray and I met as pimply fifteen-year-old apprentices. Employed by the same artisan baker, we’d spent early mornings kneading dough and lifting flour bags, and later nights studying. When I split off to study and work patisserie, he became a chef. The night we celebrated his graduation was the night he asked me to marry him.

  A week before our wedding, catering and drinks supplied as favours by friends, we moved into an old miner’s cottage in Inverleigh. Even though it meant moving away from family, real estate was cheap, and our home fitted our budget. The kitchen was small, enough space for one, and blended with the dining area. A cosy lounge kept two recliners, and the front of the house was skirted by a rickety old veranda that had once been shades of grey and white. Panels needed replacing, and the iron latticework needed painting but, for us, that only added to the charm.

  The bathroom doubled as a laundry, and the bedroom was only big enough for a double bed and standalone wardrobe that looked like Madame de La Grande Bouche. But it was ours, and we loved nothing more than nights and weekends cooking new and wonderful recipes we’d picked up at work. I’m sure if you squinted, you could still see packing boxes in the background of our wedding photos.

  Each morning, we commuted to Melbourne for work before most of the city was awake. Often, we’d take separate cars, because anything could happen with late shifts. After ninety minutes on the freeway, Oliver’s car would disappear towards Windsor’s, a five-star restaurant in Hawthorn. I would make my way up Spring Street to Mondial, a French café where I was already head of all things éclair and buttery pastry. The owners had been floating the idea of branching out and opening another site across town, putting me front and centre as the face of their brand. It was my first chance to make my own name around Melbourne. Windsor’s, however, had other ideas.

  When they offered Oliver the role of head chef, he knocked them back. Even though he’d worked hard, he had always wanted his own restaurant. It was the next item on his bucket list. Windsor’s came back with another offer, one he couldn’t refuse. They gave him enough funding to put his name in lights with his own eatery. The catch? They wanted a European expansion, and he was their excuse. Oliver had to open in or near Paris. No choice.

  At first, we talked about our options, looked at the costs involved in moving our life across the world. Asking turned to reasoning, travel brochures, and language guides scattered around the house. When none of that worked, frustrated arguments popped up to scratch away at us. I argued that Windsor’s should test a Melbourne-based business first. Why jump headfirst into the French countryside where we knew no one? But, no, the investors were adamant on France, and sold on Oliver.

  That left me two options: stay, and continue to build on a promising career, or pack up and follow him across the world with no guarantee of anything.

  I stayed behind.

  Six years of dating and nine years of marriage disappeared down the street in the back of a yellow cab, three weeks after Oliver’s thirtieth birthday party. I had no option but to start again.

  ‘Are you okay, Pet?’ Seamus leant in.

  I was so lost in thought that I’d missed most of the ceremony. I’d sat down, said hello to my parents and, after that, my brain raced down memory lane like a Le Mans driver headed for the finish line. Left turn here, right turn there, careful of the hairpin, give way to the oncoming freight train going through Emotion City, and I pulled up in time to see Barry kiss his bride.

  Seamus gently nudged my side. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Hey?’ I asked.

  ‘You look distracted.’

  ‘Just worried about the cake,’ I said. It might not have been entirely true, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. You did a good job. I don’t know why you spend all day in a school canteen.’ He lifted my hand to his mouth and offered a damp kiss. The hair on my arms bristled.

  ‘Because I have bills to pay,’ I whispered. Seamus let go of my hand.

  Edith and Barry took their first jaunt down the aisle, emerging into the sunshine of the garden to be showered with rice, confetti, and all manner of environmentally unfriendly wedding treats. Like a leaky tap, everyone followed, and stood around looking busy while the bridal party posed for photos around the property. Was it polite to look for the bar so soon?

  Then again, being near the bar meant wandering inside and involved dealing with Oliver who, watching from the back of the pack, was already inching his way inside. When the door clapped shut behind him, I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he would disappear into the confines of the kitchen, and stay there for the evening.

  Canapés and drinks around the marquee morphed into the splashy beginnings of a reception. Bodies crowded around the small frame in the foyer to find table numbers and, before we could lift our glasses in celebration, we’
d witnessed a grand entrance, heard the MC’s introduction, and had moved directly into the first speech of the night. Each table was adorned with the shiniest cutlery, sparkling glasses, name cards, and a selection of red and white wine. I reached across the table for a red and knocked over my name card in the process.

  Scribbled in its apex, in bold black lettering, a phone number. I snatched the card up quickly and tucked it into my breast pocket. My heart leapt into my throat as I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully, Seamus was busy chatting up the girl to his right. To my left, Mum was busy trying to tell Dad he was using the wrong glass. I could hear blood rushing through my ears and the bass drum of my heart picking up speed.

  If I’d hoped Oliver would stick to the kitchen, I was sorely mistaken. It seemed he enjoyed leading by example, being a hands-on boss. He visited tables, helped serve meals, and stepped in to clarify allergy information. There was a collective gasp of recognition that rose around the room when he first emerged with plates balanced on forearms. A celebrity was about to serve dinner. Beside me, I thought my mother was about to collapse from excitement.

  ‘Lucy.’ Her fingers gripped my arm like a hawk with a salmon.

  I braced. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is that … no … Oliver?’ If she made her pointing more obvious, I was going to have to buy her a spotlight. Oliver zipped past the table again, leaving the kitchen door swinging, and Mum’s mouth slack with shock. I felt Seamus wriggle about uncomfortably next to me.

  ‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat. ‘That’s him.’

  Again, she gasped. It was scandal, delight, pure bliss. If she were a computer game, her lives would have been at full strength, victory music tinkling as she prepared to take on the world.

  ‘Hang on, wait.’ Seamus looked at me. ‘You mean to tell me that’s the guy who left you?’

  I nodded.

  ‘The one you were married to?’ He stopped himself with a pointed finger. ‘Sorry, are married to.’

  My marriage was something we hadn’t spoken about in depth. I’d tried, but conversation was shut down, or the topic changed. Oliver had been mentioned as the husband who’d left, gone on to other things. What I hadn’t stated was that he’d gone on to conquer restaurants, magazines, Michelin stars, and was more than a little bit famous – as witnessed by all the mobile phones pointed in his direction as he moved around the room with plates and, at one point, stopped to pose for a selfie.

  ‘Are you kidding me right now?’ Seamus glared across the room. If he were a meme, he’d be screaming, ‘Fight me.’

  ‘Seamus, leave it alone,’ I grumbled, embarrassed.

  ‘Leave it alone?’ He turned his anger to me. ‘Firstly, this was something important you hadn’t told me.’

  I hadn’t told him because he’d always shut me down and, well, even my mum thought it impolite to talk about Oliver in front of him. God knows why.

  ‘It’s really not.’ I watched as Oliver disappeared into the kitchen, laughing with a waitress. ‘It’s not detrimental to us.’

  ‘Detrimental? This guy … you’ve made me watch him on telly. You’re unbelievable.’ He scoffed. ‘Did you know he was going to be here?’

  ‘No.’ Not technically a lie, not entirely the truth. I had, after all, only seen him moments before the ceremony.

  ‘Honestly, Lucy, I don’t know why you’re not still with him.’

  ‘Oh, Mum! That is so rude!’ My face seared with embarrassment. Dad reached across the table, plucked a bread roll from the basket, and shoved the end in his mouth.

  ‘Thank you for that.’ Seamus scowled at her. ‘Really.’

  She reached around and grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Now, don’t be like that, Shame-us,’ she said, over-pronouncing his name as usual. ‘You’re lovely enough, but I was so hoping Lucy could make her marriage work.’

  I pressed fingers to my temples. ‘Kill me now.’

  Entrées were an alternate drop of sticky maple ham with fig jus, and lemon-marinated prawns. They both looked delicious resting atop green leaves, and I was hungry enough to want either, despite my usual hatred of seafood. Today I wasn’t fussy. Seamus refused his plate of prawns.

  ‘Send it back. It looks like shite.’ He held a hand up before the plate could so much as dint the tablecloth.

  I braced, waiting for the fallout. Looks were exchanged around the table, which was full of strangers, thrown together like some late-night speed-dating exercise. Normally, at a wedding, that’s a perfectly wonderful opportunity to meet, network, and exchange ideas. Only, tonight those ideas felt more like dirty laundry. Our waiter, a perturbed-looking teenager, disappeared back to the kitchen without another word.

  Tables around us clattered and chattered, the noise rising to a crescendo of excitement as entrées became mains. It was under this umbrella of noise that Oliver made his way across to our table.

  ‘Problem with the entrée?’ he asked, a solid hand placed on the back of my chair.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Seamus grumbled.

  ‘Good to see you, Lucy. You’re looking well.’ Oliver offered up a plate. ‘Are you still allergic to seafood?’

  ‘What?’ Seamus stood, sizing him up. ‘She’s not allergic.’

  ‘No, you’re right, but she doesn’t like it, does she?’ Oliver placed the beef in front of me, seafood in front of Seamus. ‘If you tell the kitchen you’re allergic, you’re not going to be served it, are you?’

  Seamus, a permanent frown now set on his face, glanced at me, at Oliver, and back again.

  Oliver extended his hand. ‘Oliver – it’s good to meet you.’

  ‘Shame I can’t say the same.’ Seamus refused to shake hands.

  ‘I’m just here for the food.’ Oliver patted him on the shoulder. Seamus flinched. ‘No need to get antsy.’

  Mum watched on gleefully, hoping Oliver would somehow white-knight me, perhaps sweep me away in a flurry of mashed potato and daydreams. All I wanted was to get through the night without it devolving into a fiery pit of who was right, who was wrong, or who was the better cook. As Oliver walked away, Seamus leaned in for an over-the-top, attention-grabbing, beer-infused kiss. As if I wasn’t already feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable.

  ‘Who picks fish for a wedding anyway?’ Seamus pulled his seat in. ‘What a joke.’

  ‘Seamus, please.’ I looked at him.

  ‘What?’ he asked. ‘It’s true. And I can cook better than this.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said.

  ‘Okay?’

  I huffed. ‘Yep. I’m agreeing. You can cook better than that.’

  He couldn’t. It was one thing to debone an entire carcass of meat. It was another altogether to be able to cook it, and burnt steaks weren’t my idea of a good time. He reached across and gave my knee a squeeze, satisfied grin pinching at his eyes.

  Mum’s plate had barely been cleared off before she barrelled Oliver into a corner. One minute she was eating, the next she was spilling secrets quicker than a Japanese fast train. With frown lines and his teeth dragging at his bottom lip, Oliver fixed her with a gaze that said he was drinking in every single word she had to offer. As for Seamus, he’d disappeared into a cloud of footballers by the bar. They yelled, they cheered, they shattered a beer glass on the floor.

  ‘You all right, Kiddo?’ Dad looked at me. Despite the glazed look in his eyes – too much beer – I could sense a talk coming on.

  ‘I am fine.’ I tore my eyes away from Oliver, who was watching me over my mother’s shoulder.

  ‘You’re a great liar.’ He smiled his way around the room, waving at an old family friend.

  Holding my glass steady at my mouth, I almost laughed. ‘I am not.’

  ‘That’s what I meant.’ He pointed at me with an almost empty bottle. ‘You and your mother get that look about you when you lie. It’s all distant gazes and short sentences. I say it’s great because I can spot it a mile off. Made your teenage years much easier.’

  I returned his question. �
�Are you okay?’

  He hiccupped. ‘I’m great. You know she’ll be carrying on about His Nibs for months now?’

  ‘No doubt.’ I dug around in the bottom of my handbag for my phone. Facebook was having a stellar night. Edith had already uploaded a photo of her cake, which was overflowing with likes, comments, and questions about who had baked it. Zoe was freaking out in sync with me, if her messages were anything to go by, and I had a friend request from someone in Nigeria. That was about as legit as my night was fun.

  ‘Are you really all right?’ Dad leant in to the table like it was the only thing holding him up.

  ‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ I took a deep breath and waved my phone at him. ‘Just a surprise, that’s all.’

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ He offered a gurgling laugh, like a bath plug being pulled. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing. It’s completely okay. People can choose whomever they want to cater. We’ll sort out what we need to sort out, and the sun will come up tomorrow.’ I grinned.

  ‘Buck up, Kiddo.’ He clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’ll work out in the wash.’

  Another glass shattered, tinkling across the floor. Victorious, Seamus departed the scrum and made for a microphone sat by the DJ’s station. He picked it up, inspected it, tapped it, and switched it on with a squeal that brought the room to a standstill. And then he climbed up onto the bridal table.

  ‘Good evening, friends,’ he began.

  A slightly enthusiastic cheer rose from a clueless crowd.

  ‘Jesus,’ I groaned. If I could have slid further under the table, I would have. And where was the DJ? Nowhere. Toilet break, maybe. A DJ was absolutely not going to save my life tonight.

  ‘Hello, everyone. Would you like to hear a … no, don’t take it from me, I have a story to tell you,’ Seamus started, his voice echoing through the room. ‘Get away. I want to say some words for the bride and groom.’

  A chill ran up my spine. On the list of stupid things he could do, this was going to be the one that took the cake – absolutely no pun intended. My heart raced like a hamster on a wheel. This wasn’t going to end well for anyone.