‘Oh, Ol.’ I pouted. ‘Megabrand. Market domination. Lucy Williams for Murray’s specialty cakes.’ I widened my eyes. ‘Ohhhh, the possibilities.’
He sat back a moment, lips pursed, and the bridge of his nose wrinkled in thought. ‘You know, that’s not bad.’
‘Isn’t it?’ An idea popped into my head. ‘I gotta go.’
‘Where are you going?’ Oliver called as I raced towards the door.
‘I need a website! Business cards. I’m going global!’
Something tickled at my ribs, and I wasn’t sure if it was those first fireflies of feeling, or something else. Our meeting hadn’t descended into chaos and anarchy, though I had expected it to. Even with the appearance of oddly timed screensaver memories, I would say it was fun. I was proud of that. If we could keep things heading in this direction, it was going to work. I was going to be okay.
CHAPTER NINE
Iain looked at me over the top of his computer monitor as I rushed through the door of his office, which was crammed into a tiny shop at the end of a mostly abandoned arcade in central Geelong. Being the quieter of the two of us, it suited him perfectly. It was all old brown brick that had been painted over a thousand times, tessellated tiles, and 1970s inspired bright yellow window frames. For the most part, the arcade was tumbleweeds except for a hairdresser, whose shop edged the street. If Iain was lucky, he’d get a handful of people pass through each day. He considered anything more to be unlucky.
‘Here we go, she wants something.’ He stretched back in his chair, arms above his head and shirt pinching at his armpits. ‘What’s up?’
‘I need a website.’
He rubbed his hands together with rampant glee. ‘This is going to be good. What have you done?’
I looked around as stifled laughter emanated from two other desks in the office.
‘You know, I love that you are so excited to see me.’ I pulled a small container of biscuits from my bag. ‘I come bearing gifts.’
‘Much like Rumpelstiltskin, I like to spin gold.’ Iain pointed to the chair opposite. ‘Or notes, or credit. I’m easy.’
His desk was littered with photos of his kids, scribbled drawings of bulbous-headed people with claw-like fingers, the remnants of a breakfast bowl, and a stained coffee cup. I wondered how he had room to move with all his trinkets.
‘I got a job, smartarse.’
‘What about the canteen?’ he asked. ‘All party-pied out?’
‘So party-pied out.’ I laughed. ‘I’m working with Oliver.’
He reached across and clapped a hand against my forehead. ‘Are you sick?’
I giggled. ‘No.’
‘Are you broke? Dying?’
‘I don’t think so.’ I shrugged. ‘I mean, I haven’t checked my bank account yet, but maybe give it a week.’
‘Are you back together?’ he asked. ‘Is the world even ready for that?’
‘No,’ I chided. ‘I am dessert consultant of the new Murray’s of Inverleigh.’
Iain’s jaw dropped. ‘So, what, you’re actually serious? Luce, I don’t know.’
‘The wedding cakes are back, and I consult on seasonal dessert menus.’ I grinned, proudly oblivious as to how stupid it sounded. ‘Lucy Williams for Murray’s. He wanted me to bake everything as well, but I said not this time. And I’m not sure if I’ve bargained him down, or just laid out my terms really well because he didn’t quite agree to it, but—’
‘Stop and take a breath for a second.’ He wrestled with the lid on the biscuits. ‘Are you sure this is smart?’
I grabbed a biscuit. ‘I guess we’ll find out.’
‘All right.’ He blew his cheeks out with a wide-eyed puff, in older brother disapproval. ‘What do you need?’
Coming up with a decent design took far longer than I envisaged. It would have been easy enough to slap together something plain, as Iain explained, but if I was going to play in the top paddock with Oliver, I needed a site that matched what I was trying to sell. Elegant, tidy, functional, and with social media integration to boot.
‘What are these photos?’ He scrolled through my Instagram feed. ‘They’re not quite show-stopping, Luce.’
‘They’re all I’ve got.’
‘Okay. Maybe I can crop them a bit, zoom in on detail.’ His brown eyes crinkled as he squinted. ‘Or not.’
‘What do you suggest?’ I asked. ‘More photos?’
‘Because we’re only going for something simple, we don’t need to be bombarded with a thousand photos. We just need a few nice ones. If you look at Oliver’s site’ – he swung his screen further around – ‘it’s simple. Whoever designed it is quite talented, actually. There’s just a few photos to show people what they’re capable of, they suck people in and get them through the door, then you can use Instagram for location type shots.’
‘Okay.’
‘Leave it with me. I’ll need some logos and other bits. I’ll probably have to talk to Oliver for some crossover stuff, and we’ll go from there. Have you got his number? You’ll have the bare bones up tomorrow, though. Is that okay? I’m talking website, and I’ll clean out your Instagram and Facebook feeds, make it a fresh start. I’ll forward the passwords to you, but, please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t touch the website.’
‘That’s great. Can I pay you?’ While I scribbled down Oliver’s number, Iain tapped away at the website, dropping, dragging, complaining about code, and making it better than I could have ever done on my own.
‘Just bring me some cake. That syrupy orange cake.’ He offered a soft smile. ‘With double cream.’
‘Are you sure you don’t want anything else?’
‘I’m going to bill Oliver, see how that goes down.’ He winked. ‘Maybe just come around for dinner a bit more often, too, huh? Spend some time with the kids?’
It was no secret that kids weren’t my thing. Oliver and I never wanted them, and thought nothing out of the ordinary about living our lives cooking, eating, and swilling wine. Iain, on the other hand, was all about living the family life. It was parent-teacher interviews, weekend sports, and long queues in medical centres for him. Until now, I hadn’t realised he would want me around as much as he apparently did. My insides went a little soft and squishy at the thought.
‘I can’t tonight, but I promise I will.’ I slapped a kiss on his cheek. ‘Love you.’
‘Why? What’s tonight?’
‘Dinner! I’m heading out for the first time in forever.’ I stopped at the door. ‘Gotta dash.’ I stashed a USB in my bag and made a quick exit.
CHAPTER TEN
Phone screens were hard enough to read without contending with a sunset glaring over my shoulder. I’d checked for messages when I had arrived in Geelong, but had nothing. Now, as I hid in a doorway to quickly check again, I had a myriad of location photos and directional screen dumps from Patrick. As it turned out, all I had to do was follow the music.
Street vendors competed with bustling restaurants, while dancers and DJs lit up the night, all under the glow of rainbow-coloured festoon lights strung between buildings along the cobblestone path. All I had to find was …
‘Luce!’
An alley inside a laneway, its towering red-brick walls painted in homage to local identities, was crammed with bar tables, stools, and market umbrellas. At the far end, a mediocre cover band on a makeshift stage. Their music, which seemed intent on defying genre, was a little loud and shaky, but nothing you couldn’t talk over. I dashed across the road.
‘Well, hello there.’ I tossed my bag onto the seat next to me, and leant across the table to offer Patrick a kiss on his scruffy cheek.
‘Long time no see.’ He slid a menu and an empty glass across to me.
‘Right? What’s with that? What’s new?’
He puffed out his cheeks. ‘God, how long has it been? Twelve? Eighteen months?’
‘I have left you messages.’
‘Yeah, that’s my bad. I just needed a bit of downtime,
get away from people for a bit. It was all systems go for a while there and, once the dust settled, I just wanted to disappear for a while.’
I poured two glasses of water from a cloudy bottle. ‘I understand that.’
‘You do.’
‘So, what’s new with you? How’s work? Are you seeing anyone?’ I placed the bottle aside and looked at him. ‘What have I missed?’
Patrick had been on the marriage merry-go-round once before. Divorced twelve months ago which, if memory served, may have been the last time we saw each other. It was an unusual role reversal. It was suddenly my turn to remind him that he was a perfectly decent human being, and that his wife’s wandering eyes had nothing to do with his value.
‘No thank you very much.’ He grinned. ‘Very single, and incredibly happy about that. You?’
‘Nobody right now,’ I said. ‘There was someone, but, no, he’s gone.’
Patrick waved a finger by the side of his head. ‘I did hear about that one.’
‘You did?’
‘Let’s say Oliver had a lot to say about it one night in the café. He did not like that idea at all.’
‘I don’t care what he likes.’ I shrugged. ‘He left.’
‘And this is exactly what I told him.’ He pushed the menu closer. ‘Pick your food – I’m starving.’
And that was as deep as we delved into relationships. It didn’t help that we were both desperate for food, and something other than water to drink. Patrick slipped from his stool, left instructions should I have to order food, and disappeared into a sea of people. While he was away, I ordered and then immersed myself in a slowly growing pile of unanswered phone messages.
‘Did you order?’ A jug of soft drink sloshed its way across the bench.
I looked up, surprised to see him back already. ‘I did.’
‘Excellent.’ He propped himself up again.
‘You didn’t want a beer?’ I asked.
Patrick shook his head, almost ashamed. ‘No, I gave up the alcohol.’
‘Oh.’
‘I just … I had a really bad night there at one point and I thought: I don’t want to end up like that again. So, no more.’
The weight of his admission hung in the air for a moment, like one of those Charlie Brown speech bubbles full of grawlixes. We both looked around nervously, another couple walking in past our table nuzzling into each other.
‘That’s okay,’ I said. ‘How’s home? Is it done?’
‘Well.’ He rubbed his faced with a hand. ‘Home is finished. I moved in about six months ago. Just have to finish the deck and I can sit outside and watch the water all night while pretending to be content.’
Home for Patrick was ninety minutes of twisting, winding roads through the Great Otway National Park until he hit Apollo Bay, smack dab on the Great Ocean Road. It was a picturesque seaside town, full of takeaway shops and tourist traps, and a beach that glistened in shades of aqua and white on a warm day.
‘Pretending.’ I blew him a raspberry. ‘Are you not content?’
‘I’m never content – you know that.’
I was grateful for the sight of a sashaying waitress and plates of greasy food, because there’s not much better on a Friday night than fried chicken, mac and cheese, and piping hot, salty chips. Maybe a wine or two would finish the meal off nicely.
‘Anything you want to talk about?’ I asked.
‘No.’ Patrick shoved a chip in his mouth. ‘What about you? I heard there’s a job in the works?’
I looked up from my plate, nodded, shrugged, wriggled about. ‘I’m all right. I’m waiting to hear from Oliver tonight about that. Not sure he’s entirely thrilled with my counteroffer.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’ He rested his elbows on the table. ‘So, what, a consulting baker? There’s good money in consulting.’
‘I did a bit of an internet search earlier, and it seems like a good deal.’
‘Tell him no less than $115,000 a year.’
Choking on a greasy drumstick was not how I envisaged my end-of-life scene but, right then, I came close. ‘I won’t be full-time.’
‘Maybe not, but it’ll get you closer to what you’re worth.’ Patrick picked up a frosty glass, condensation leaving a wet ring on the table. ‘On the other hand, the global brand wants the best. They won’t be throwing around peanuts for wages.’
In the bottom of my bag, my phone began vibrating wildly. A paper towel couldn’t appear quickly enough as I scrambled with slippery fingers to answer the call. The band at the end of the alley was, hopefully, starting to wind down for the night. Fingers crossed that lasted until the end of my call. After that, they could do as they pleased. All we had to contend with now was the racket of other diners and passers-by.
‘Hello?’ I shouted into the receiver.
‘Lucy? It’s me.’
‘Hello, me.’ I pointed to my phone and mouthed, ‘Oliver’.
‘How are you feeling about the job?’ he asked. ‘Have you had time to think about it this afternoon?’
‘I’m excited about it,’ I said. ‘I think consulting would work well.’
‘Yeah,’ he drawled. ‘I’ve been thinking about that.’
‘And?’ I hoped like hell he was on board with the idea, because anything less was a deal breaker, and left me firmly back at square one. “I’ve been thinking about that” was kind of along the same lines as: “We need to talk”. There was rarely good news at the end.
‘I think you might be right. It’ll give us a bit of breathing space, too. You know, you and me.’
I smiled in relief. ‘I like the sound of that.’
‘Me, too,’ Oliver said.
‘Have you thought about a wage?’
‘How does ninety sound to you?’ he asked.
A large table of people left the laneway, and it became noticeably quieter. Patrick watched on with concerned interest, his eating slowing as if it were impeding his ability to hear.
‘Can you repeat that?’ I asked.
‘Ninety thousand.’
I grappled for the pen and notepad in Patrick’s top pocket, scribbling the figure quickly and upside down.
Patrick waved his hands like crazy. ‘No,’ he mouthed. ‘One-fifteen.’
‘I was thinking something closer to one-fifteen.’ I pinched my face up and waited for the fallout.
‘Ah, no, Lucy.’
‘Bargain with me, Oliver.’
Over on the stage, the drummer tapped on a cymbal.
‘Have you checked your bank account today?’ Oliver asked.
‘No. Should I?’
‘I made a deposit the other day, the one we spoke about. It should be through,’ he said. ‘Check your account now. I’ll wait.’
I popped him on mute and opened my banking app. With a few quick taps of the finger, I discovered I was $200,000 richer. Surely, he’d screwed up and added a few too many zeros. I mean, I know I told him he owed his share, but I didn’t seriously expect that much to come through. My next thought was that he’d use it as a bargaining chip to whittle me down in price. After fanning myself, I returned to the call.
‘You there?’ I asked.
‘Ninety-five.’
‘One-ten,’ I countered. ‘I’ve done my research. I know what I’m worth. I can do good things for you.’
Patrick shook his head and laughed.
Oliver puffed, hard. ‘One hundred, last offer. You have to remember, you’re not working for me full-time.’
‘I am a specialist, Oliver.’
‘Are you?’ he asked.
My mouth popped open in shock. ‘Don’t be rude. You know my skill set.’
‘You better prove that. One hundred. What do you say?’
I scribbled on the pad again. Patrick gave me the thumbs-up.
‘Lucy?’ he asked. ‘I’d really like an answer, so we can move forward.’
‘One hundred and one?’ I squinted.
Silence.
More silence.<
br />
Sweat ran down the back of my leg.
‘Okay, all right. One-oh-one,’ he said. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Lucy Williams for Murray’s.’
‘Let’s rendezvous during the week, shall we?’ I asked. ‘We’ll discuss arrangements going forward.’
‘Very professional.’ Patrick gave his seal of approval.
When I hung up the phone, I could barely register what had just happened. My weekend had been a whirlwind of breakups, barely there makeups, and rekindled friendships. Throw into the mix a resignation and, now, a job offer, and I wondered when the earth was going to stop spinning.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Set alight with the prospect of a new job, my mind flooded with ideas. Knowing I had the freedom to create what I wanted, to showcase my skills, was inspiring. As conversation faded, and we spent more time listening to music than talking, I pulled a notepad from my bag and listed all the cafés I wanted to try.
Notepads had been a mainstay for both Oliver and me. They were handy for jotting down quick, spurting ideas and I was sure that, at some point, we’d developed our own shorthand for recipes, directions and suggestions. We’d compare notes and discuss ideas we had based on those notes, and construct more ideas from that.
Often, my notes were scribbled while I sat on a stool in the corner of a kitchen waiting for Oliver to finish work. I kept out of everyone’s way, didn’t take up a table for paying customers, and drew inspiration from watching him cook among sizzling pans, boiling pots, and the glint of a sharp knife.
Later at home, I couldn’t sleep. My iPad worked overtime as I googled pastry chefs I admired, saved pictures, and jotted notes about what I wanted to try and how I could make it happen. When I was still awake at two o’clock in the morning, my years working in a bakery kicked in, and I crawled out of bed to bake bread.
Moments like these made me appreciate all the doubling up on engagement and wedding presents. I had mixing bowls for days, and plonked the first one I saw on the bench. A splash of warm water, a dab of yeast, and a sprinkle of sugar, and I had ten minutes to kill before that became a bubbly, foaming mess. When it did, it smelt a little like everyone’s favourite beer-infused grandfather on Christmas Day.
A Recipe for Disaster Page 8
