A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Wow, okay.’ He blinked a few times. ‘Déjà vu?’

  I smiled. ‘It is, isn’t it?’

  ‘So strange. Kind of makes me feel like a boy again.’ The bridge of his nose had wrinkled, lips pulled up in a smile.

  My brain conjured up visions of me throwing myself at him, in the back of the van, or in his caravan, of spending hours in there making up for lost time. Where fantasy offered one solution, real life slapped me in the face with common sense. If all he was going to do was leave all over again, there was no point to entertaining that at all. Oliver walked away, back into the shop. I rebalanced the bag of flour and followed him up the driveway and through the door.

  Men in tight shorts and even tighter polo shirts pushed their way in and out of the shop, where fittings, appliances, and signage were being rushed into the building. Wandering in and around to the front room, I squeezed myself and my hormones past a display cabinet, dodged a stack of chairs in the hallway, and found Oliver in the kitchen.

  ‘These look great.’ I marvelled at the glistening stainless-steel benchtops, still wrapped in plastic, brand-new cooktops yet to be connected, and still-boxed heat lamps. ‘How long until the mixers arrive?’

  Oliver smiled in amusement, and pulled some sliced bread from a wrapped loaf on the bench. ‘I was going to suggest we go out for breakfast and talk about all this, but then these guys showed up, so it’s a bit difficult.’

  ‘It’s all right, I’ve already eaten.’ I picked my phone from my pocket, anything to distract me from his bed hair, pyjama pants, dimples, and lack of any other clothing. Oh, look, cat videos. ‘Lots of leftover cakes from my research expedition yesterday.’

  ‘Oh, you went to Melbourne?’ he asked, switching on a camp stove.

  ‘I did,’ I said.

  ‘You sure you don’t want any? Eggs Benedict?’

  ‘The only Benedict I want near my eggs is Cumberbatch.’

  ‘Oh, so, you’ll let him, but not me?’ Oliver feigned offence.

  ‘Calm down, rooster,’ I chuckled at the stupidity of my own joke, thinking how very clever I was.

  ‘You sure you don’t want anything to eat?’ he tried again.

  ‘No, I’m fine, thanks.’ Honey Badger videos, I love him.

  ‘Are you okay?’ He forced himself into my line of sight.

  ‘No. You need to get dressed. This is business, and it’s a business meeting. Put business clothes on.’

  ‘Business,’ he mouthed back at me.

  ‘Get dressed,’ I said.

  ‘If there is one person who has seen everything there is to see, it’s you.’

  ‘Yeah, except that’s not me any more, is it?’ I looked up at him, his face crestfallen. ‘So, go and get dressed.’

  ‘Watch my eggs?’ he teased, shuffling backwards into the next room.

  ‘Never watched mine,’ I mumbled.

  ‘I can hear you.’

  ‘Good!’

  He returned, a shade more sheepish than before, to poached eggs on fresh buttered wholegrain, and a hollandaise that was almost thick enough to use. It was scary, the ease at which we fell into such an innocuous routine in the space of ten minutes.

  ‘We’ll make a cook out of you yet.’ He grinned, ungraciously slapping blobs of sauce on his eggs. ‘You sure you don’t want any?’

  ‘You’re funny.’ I helped myself to the coffee machine, almost burying my head in the pot of fresh coffee beans, inhaling a deep, rich aroma. ‘When is this kitchen going to be ready? I’m ready to bake. I’ve got my website and social media happening. I’m planning to test some recipes this week.’

  ‘Actually, do you have a diary? I need to run through some dates with you. Let’s do a quick catch-up.’

  I looked back at him. ‘It’s in my handbag.’

  ‘Is it okay?’ He reached into my bag.

  ‘You’ve been through it a thousand times before,’ I quipped. As he reached over, his hand feeling about in the bag, a pang of familiarity tore at me. It was disappointing and warming all at once.

  While I made coffee, Oliver basked in multi-tasking glory. He chewed through his breakfast while hunched over his phone, tapping out messages, and flipping through my diary. Eventually, he set his phone to busy, and began rattling off dates.

  ‘We’ve been invited to cater an event.’ He cleaned yolk from his plate with soggy toast. ‘I kind of volunteered us. It’ll be a week before we open. It’s for local tourism, showcasing the wine region. It’s in partnership with French tourism, and is a great opportunity for us to showcase the new venture and staff in front of some important people. I kind of helped make it happen, so it makes sense that we cater it.’

  ‘Sounds exciting.’ And bloody terrifying. ‘Probably an everyday thing for you, though?’

  ‘Sort of. I was thinking a high tea type of thing. We can do warm savouries first, followed by desserts that showcase your designs, petit fours, that type of thing. Doing that, we avoid the disappointment of alternate drop meals because there’s something of everything on the table.’

  ‘Good plan.’ I nodded. ‘I’m currently working on a few dessert ideas, so I’ll keep you updated.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  I scribbled rapidly in my diary while he spat thoughts out, throwing in some ideas of my own when I could keep up with him. This was going to be the biggest thing I’d ever been part of and, if successful, might help cement further trade deals between the two regions. After all, what was better than a successful restaurateur with his feet in each country?

  ‘We need staff,’ I cut Oliver off.

  ‘We do,’ he said. ‘I’ll advertise this week.’ He looked up. ‘Update on where you’re at?’

  ‘Okay. I went to Melbourne yesterday and traipsed through some places. Thanks for inviting me to Mondial with you, too, you arse.’

  He looked perturbed. ‘In fairness to me, you didn’t know I was here.’

  ‘Iain has set up my web presence and cleared out the social media. Apparently it looked garbage.’

  ‘Let me see.’ Oliver snatched his phone from the bench and began loading pages. He hummed his approval as he scrolled.

  ‘Are you ready?’ He looked up as I delivered another coffee to him at his little table.

  ‘For what?’ I asked.

  A new Twitter post had Oliver Murray recommending Lucy Williams as a baker and cake decorator. Facebook and Instagram repeated the same. I flicked back to Twitter, and watched the likes and retweets start rolling around like an airport ticker.

  ‘Already?’ I asked.

  ‘Get ready, Lucy.’ He peered up at me. ‘Life is about to get very busy.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The power of recommendation was a funny thing. Word of mouth might help pick up one or two cakes occasionally. But a recommendation from Oliver Murray, Michelin-starred chef with the world at his feet? In the few days since Oliver’s tweet, I’d had enough enquiries to keep my calendar full for the next year. While most wanted consultations, some people were booking me sight unseen and emailing through brief descriptions of what they wanted. I had my first meetings the following Wednesday.

  My car slowed to a geriatric crawl as I scoured the underground car park of Westfield Geelong. When I found a spare space, I tugged so hard on the handbrake I thought I might tear it clean out of the floor panel. I grappled for my bag and ran. People offered dirty looks and shaking heads as I rushed up escalators and out onto the street, which was lined with red-brick buildings.

  In the days of early settlement, town pioneers sold wool and built cars within their walls but, these days, retail conglomerates had absorbed them. Gleaming glass windows peered over the top of me towards the bay, which bobbed with tiny white boats and bore the shimmer of afternoon sun. In the middle of passing traffic, there I was – the white rabbit, late, late, for a very important date.

  I’d resisted returning to baking for so long but, now, disappearing into my kitchen was providing a quiet solace against the
crazy train my life had become. I’d spent time prepping recipes for Murray’s and, compared to how I’d felt only two weeks earlier, this was a new type of calm that flowed through my life. Except the whole running late, copping a whiff of body odour, and barrelling across the road without thought for traffic thing.

  I dodged a Transit van, which blared its horn in an unhappy symphony of lateness and frustration, and slipped between two buildings down an alley, and into a café that bustled with decorative bicycles and blue-collar workers searching for a quick lunch and coffee fix. Feeling slightly underdressed in jeans and a blouse, I slipped through the crowd, grabbed a menu, and ducked a sliding chair. My bride and groom sat in the back corner, checking their watches and sipping from almost empty coffee cups.

  ‘I am so sorry.’ I offered a nervous handshake. ‘I’m Lucy Williams.’

  ‘Lucy, I’m James; this is Katherine.’ James held his tie against him as he sat down again.

  It had been so long since I’d done any of this it felt like I was operating blind and sliding through gravel. Getting dressed this morning, I’d gone over and over what I needed to do. I’d talked myself through lists, and rewrote them to prove I’d remembered how to deal with clients. This was like riding a bike, I told myself, something I’d done before, but needed more practice at. By the time the spotlight was on me, all I felt was tongue-tied.

  Thankfully, James and Katherine knew what they wanted. While I’d dusted off an old folio and printed some recent examples of work, they’d brought their own, very definite, ideas on what they wanted, which made my job a whole lot easier.

  ‘We’re really not flashy.’ Katherine produced a picture of a cake that had more lacework than my Nanna’s doily collection. ‘I … we just want something simple … elegant. It’s really very simple, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s very elegant.’ I tapped away at my iPad. ‘The lace gives it a nice bit of life without being too flashy.’

  ‘Gorgeous.’ Katherine smiled. ‘Where are you located? Do you have your own studio?’

  A studio, now there was a thought!

  ‘I’m based out of Murray’s of Inverleigh.’ I smiled. ‘We have a full commercial kitchen.’

  ‘Murray’s.’ James puffed his cheeks out. ‘We ate there all the time in London, didn’t we?’ He looked at Katherine, who nodded her head excitedly. ‘We saw the recommendation online, but didn’t realise they were opening here?’

  I nodded. ‘They are. He is.’

  In the end, all they needed was the confirmation of association with Oliver, and they booked – even without a quote. Email addresses were swapped, I promised to be in touch later that night, and we parted with handshakes and congratulations in the street outside the café. As I walked away, my legs felt like jelly and my head spun. I found it hard to believe any of this was real. My world had changed so much, so quickly.

  I pinched myself to make sure this was real. Then I slapped myself in the face.

  With my next meeting not scheduled until four o’clock, and at a children’s play centre, I walked a lap of the block to make sure the coast was clear, then went back to the café, where I tucked myself into a corner. Somewhere between a coffee and a sandwich, I rattled out a quote for James and Katherine. It was one less thing to worry about when I got home.

  My phone rang, scaring the life out of me and sending my heart rate through the roof. A waitress laughed as she delivered another coffee, making a generic quip about being lost in thought. She took my old cup away and shuffled back to the kitchen.

  ‘Hello?’ I said.

  ‘It’s Oliver.’

  ‘Hey.’ I looked around the thinning crowd in the café. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

  ‘In Geelong,’ I answered, doodling in my diary. A black ink cake here, a smiley face there, and a love heart that, if I scratched it out any harder, would have tattooed the table. I scratched it all out and began another cake.

  ‘Are you free for a meeting this afternoon?’ he asked.

  ‘Not today, no.’ I checked the clock on the wall. ‘I’ve got another consultation in forty-five minutes, then I need to go home and bake a few cakes. I’m quite busy right now.’

  ‘What kind of consultation?’

  ‘Another quote. That might be an hour, I suppose. I’ll be free after that.’

  ‘Hmmm.’ He stopped long enough to give orders to someone in the background. If he talked any longer, I was going to order a cake from the window in the café. ‘Not really practical.’

  ‘I’m free for the rest of this week, though. I just wanted to get these two out of the way. You did mention I was about to get busy, and that’s exactly what’s happening.’

  ‘No, Luce, no, it’s not … I’m not angry with you at all. I’m just trying to work my week out. I’ll call you back and we’ll coordinate.’ He hung up, leaving me listening to a dial tone before I could so much as draw a breath and say goodbye.

  Despite estimates, my next meeting went on for less than thirty minutes. One of Elouise’s close friends, as it turned out, who thought my plans for the canteen were amazing. Her support came as a surprise, and made me wonder why she hadn’t said something sooner. She’d seen photos of Thomas the Tank Engine on Zoe’s Facebook page, and wanted the same for her son. We worked through a few changes, enough to make the design unique, and I was sent on my way with another deposit.

  Spring light made for a vivid pink and orange sky on the drive home, clouds sweeping through the sky like foam on a coffee. I stopped for petrol, did a takeaway dash I couldn’t usually afford through an overpriced Pakington Street restaurant, and hoped it stayed warm enough to stave off salmonella before I got home. When I stopped at the general store to check for mail, my car stank of chicken Pad Thai.

  My post-box contained nothing but bills, because why would anyone send me anything pretty in the mail? No cards, no online shopping, nothing. I locked the post-box, turned to leave, and ran directly into a wall of man.

  ‘Oh, you’re here.’ Richard took a step back and looked at me, wringing his fingers together. He looked like he’d only half-changed after school. The shirt and jacket had been replaced by a plain black T-shirt. He still needed to shave that designer stubble, though.

  I waved the envelopes in my hand. ‘Checking mail, so here I am.’

  ‘What is with that?’ he tried. ‘I would have thought we were big enough for the postman to do home deliveries.’

  ‘Maybe our postie is a size queen.’ I moved to walk around him, but he cut me off. ‘I didn’t realise you live around here?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, up on the hill.’ He rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘Just thought I’d get some exercise in.’

  ‘Right, sure.’ I tore open the first envelope: an electricity bill. I cringed at the amount due, before remembering my bank account currently resembled the solid bloom of the Chelsea Flower Show. Stress averted.

  ‘Lucy, I’m sorry about what happened.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nodded, eyes wide. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘I still think we should catch up and talk about it.’ He stopped. ‘If you’re free, that is. Dinner. Drinks. My shout, of course, I feel I owe it to you.’

  My phone rang again. ‘I’ve just accepted a job at Murray’s, so I might be busy for a while.’

  Richard looked behind him, in the direction I was pointing. ‘Okay, sure. Thanks, Lucy. For what it’s worth, you had my support.’

  I slipped across the road and into my car, all the while reminding myself there were no cakes in prison, nor were there any savoury pinwheels or cheese twists. Otherwise, I might have gone tropical with an extra side of pineapple. If telling me my menu was the best, but not backing me when it counted was his idea of support, I’d hate to see what happened when he didn’t like someone.

  When I finally got home, and it was one of those days where it felt like it was “finally”, I slumped against the back of the door, closed my eyes, and breathed deeply. Then I checked my ph
one. Patrick had sent a text through. He’d remembered my fruit mince pies while talking to Oliver that afternoon. Could he please have twenty dozen to give away to staff and family at Christmas.

  Shit.

  Somewhere between calculating ingredient weights, I began cleaning. For the first time in what felt like months, my kitchen was spotless. Cups and glasses were tucked away, plates were stacked, and my Kitchen Aid glistened her gloss black under the spotlight. I boiled the kettle, poured a coffee and listened to music. The only problem I had was that my kitchen was not big enough to hold the insane quantity of fruit mince mix. I picked up my phone.

  ‘Hello?’ Oliver grumbled down the line.

  ‘Are you awake?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘It’s me.’ I stood silently for a moment. ‘Sorry, did you want me to hang up?’

  ‘’Course not,’ he said. ‘You okay?’

  ‘I am.’ I looked through my cupboards, just to be sure I didn’t have any magical, twenty-five kilo capacity mixing bowls hidden in there. ‘Can you do me a favour? I need a bit of help.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘I need to make two hundred and forty fruit mince pies.’

  ‘Shit, Luce, I hope you’re charging.’

  ‘I am,’ I said. ‘You got those lovely little “Lucy Williams for Murray’s” stickers yet?’ Just the thought of them made me grin from ear to ear.

  ‘Okay. Good.’ He made the tiniest squeak, and I imagined him stretching out in bed, toes poking out the end of the covers, and his hair everywhere. ‘What do you need help with? And no, not yet. I’ll make a note.’

  ‘How quickly can you get ingredients?’

  ‘Tomorrow afternoon if I order in the morning.’

  ‘Good,’ I said. ‘I’m texting you what I need. Can I come and mix some pies?’