A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Oh, I won’t.’ I held my glass up. ‘Is it wrong to do the whole happy anniversary thing right now?’

  Oliver’s nose wrinkled, a tiny valley forming between his brows. ‘A little, yeah, but fuck it.’ He held up his glass. ‘Happy whatever this is.’

  Carrots glistened, meat melted in my mouth, and the mash was a perfect balance of cream and butter, the way Oliver had always made it. And not a lump in sight. I’m not sure if it tasted like the best meal I’d ever eaten by virtue of the fact I may have been slightly drunk, or because it actually was the most incredible food ever. It was even better than what we’d eaten at our wedding.

  I distinctly remember looking at the room around us, thinking how lucky we were to have such an amazing group of friends and family. I was overwhelmed that the food was of such fine quality, and that we’d survived the day so far without any dramas. Photos had been taken, we’d mingled during canapés, and talked our way around the questions relating to children.

  ‘It was such an incredible day,’ I mumbled.

  ‘Sorry?’ Oliver looked up.

  ‘Our wedding.’

  ‘It was,’ he said. ‘Special.’

  ‘Seems a shame.’

  ‘It is.’ He leant his elbows on the table and clasped his hands. ‘Wait until you see dessert. Shop-bought mango sorbet.’

  I laughed in disbelief. ‘You did not buy sorbet from the shops.’

  ‘Okay, I didn’t. I made it last night. I really felt like some.’

  ‘Oh!’ My brain scrambled around corners as my thoughts, like soldiers, tried to line themselves up in some order. ‘Oh! Oh!’

  ‘Oh? Oh? I haven’t even touched you.’

  ‘Ha, ha.’ I rolled my eyes and walked to the lounge. Or stumbled, maybe. It was hard to tell. ‘I did something today, and I want to show you, even though I’m scared you’ll bite my head off, but too bad for you, because I’ve had too much to drink and, well, there you have it.’

  I whipped the pages of my sketchbook over and presented it to Oliver as I slid into the chair next to him, completely undainty, like a wobbly jelly, and with a little of my dinner still on my plate. I reached across and pulled it over, determined to snaffle the last of the lamb before things fell to shit.

  ‘Please say something nice.’ I licked the last of the sauce and potatoes from my finger.

  Showing someone your work is gut-wrenching, whether you’re sober or drunk. Either way, you’re peeling back a layer of yourself and exposing that soft underbelly. You’re inviting critique. It’s why I could never head up a restaurant of my own, and probably part of the reason I never followed Oliver anyway.

  ‘Lucy, these are …’ He puffed a heavy, wine-warm breath. ‘You’ve blown me away.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes.’ He nodded, overly enthusiastic about what was before him. ‘This is going to just … it’s exactly what I wanted. Distinct, but still able to fit into a café setting. I am just …’

  Now, I don’t know whether it was the wine, or he was overly excited about the food, but he leant in and kissed me. It was over in the blink of an eye but, when he pulled away, I grabbed at his shirt to pull him back in. Everything was a little sloppy, with an alcoholic sheen to it, but that didn’t stop us.

  We stumbled into the bedroom, grabbing at pants, pulling out buttons, and mumbling incoherently at each other. There were apologies and promises, laughter and satisfied sighs. Clothes tossed to the side in an unromantic, hasty effort to get into bed, which felt new and exciting all over again. The back of my knees hit the mattress and we tumbled into each other like a deck of cards. There was urgency mixed with two idiots trying to prove something to themselves, and each other, as I felt myself surrounded by him all over again.

  Later, as I listened to his breathing, my fingers tangled in his hair and the after-effects of wine wearing off, I wondered what the hell I’d just done.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Zoe stood behind her screen door and laughed. ‘That’s some serious bed hair you have. Who?’

  My eyes widened as if to ask, ‘How could you not know?’

  ‘Oh, you did not.’ She grappled with keys in the same way she did the gossip, and in less time than it took a meteorite to flash past, I was bundled inside for the exclusive story. She relished this type of thing, even if she was still in her fluffy slippers and bright orange dressing gown.

  ‘He cooked dinner last night. It was our wedding anniversary,’ I explained, walking through a photo-lined entrance. ‘He called and thought it might be nice to at least acknowledge the day. I didn’t disagree, and we decided to have dinner.’

  ‘Awww, Luce,’ she cooed. ‘That’s gorgeous, a few drinks, some memories. Please tell me you slow danced and fell into bed together.’

  ‘No dancing.’ I shook my head. ‘Just me getting drunk and ending up on my back.’

  Also, my front, and my side at some point during the night. Throughout it all, I was overwhelmed by how different it was. Everything felt new, not the same old, same old routine we’d slipped into. Distance might make the heart grow fonder, but it seemed it also taught Oliver a new skill or two.

  ‘Come now, sweet child, tell Aunty Zoe every minute detail.’

  Large double doors closed the renovated kitchen off from the lounge. Lots of slippery-looking two-pack white doors with yellow accents and appliances. Down the end of the hall, Peter was still snoring. Two of their boys were already awake and struggling over a games console. They gave me an absent-minded wave as they wound their way into the kitchen looking for food.

  One coffee, four hundred slices of toast, and seventy varieties of spread were laid out in front of us, as well as milk, Milo, cereal – a decent family-sized smorgasbord. Bacon and eggs would have been fantastic at this point, but I wasn’t going to argue with anyone.

  ‘So?’ She smiled, stretching down over the benchtop like a lazy cat. ‘Tell me.’

  I shook my head. ‘This is such a mistake.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ she teased. ‘Just the once? Because that’s called just getting the inevitable out of the way.’

  I didn’t stop shaking my head.

  ‘No!’ She pulled herself up and grinned. ‘Let’s play that game where I hold up fingers and you nod, like in the movies.’ She flashed two fingers at me. ‘Twice means I kind of liked that, let’s do it again?’

  Hands covering my face, I peered at her from between fingers and shook my head. Her jaw dropped. She unceremoniously booted the boys out of the room with whatever they wanted, so long as it left her clear to talk for ten minutes.

  When she returned her attention to me, adding a third finger, I nodded. That kind of admission was met with a high-five. ‘That’s the kind of sex that says, “God, I wish I’d never lost you, what the hell have I done? Please don’t ever let me do that again.”’

  ‘It was unbelievably good, too.’ I spread strawberry jam on every corner of my toast. ‘Like, boy’s been reading up, or watching porn, or had a hot French girlfriend who taught him a thing or two, because sweet baby Jesus might have to say a word or two to get me into heaven.’

  The thought of Oliver with someone else made me feel a little sickly, which was completely hypocritical given the whole sad and sorry Seamus episode. I loathed the thought of someone else running their fingers through his hair, or getting to feel the weight of him. He had always felt exclusively mine, more so now that he was hanging around. So why did I run?

  ‘Can you explain to me why you’re here, then?’

  Fear. I was petrified I’d made the wrong decision. He was never going to hang around here. The minute Murray’s was up and running, he’d be gone again. Why bother dredging up the past like silt in a flooded river? That’s all it was, a surge of alcohol-fuelled emotion. Surely, he’d realise this was also the dumbest thing he’d ever done. One big fat mistake, for both of us.

  ‘Wait, you mean it’s a mistake?’

  I rubbed my face. ‘I waited until he got
out of bed, and then told him it was a mistake.’

  ‘Oh, Luce, no.’ Zoe looked at me sympathetically. ‘No, no, go back there and see him.’

  It was too late for that. Like an air raid siren had gone off, I sprang up in bed and looked at the space next to me. Oliver was fast asleep, face smashed into the pillow, lips pushed out of shape, arm underneath his head. He was warm and soft, and he smelt like freshly washed man. Maybe he’d been up earlier. An old grey duvet was wrapped up under an arm. I chanced a look down at my own body. Yep, still naked.

  My head pounded like a drummer had taken up residence in my chest, and I had the dry mouth horrors. I needed something to drink, and not of the alcoholic variety. Another feeling was also brewing, one that embarrassed and confused me. This was a mistake. A very big huge not good mistake.

  Oliver had sat at the dining table looking forlorn, on the verge of tears, nothing more than a bathrobe wrapped around him. I stuttered and stammered and told him that it was all wrong, we were separated, and that we couldn’t fall back into old habits. We were getting divorced, end of story. He said nothing, got dressed, and left without another word, without even looking at me.

  ‘What if he doesn’t want me?’ Voicing my concern made it even more real, like awaiting confirmation of results from a doctor. It was the airing of the words that made it real. ‘I’m not a beautiful French girl, and I’m not interested in his limelight. I mean, I certainly don’t want to follow him, which is something I’ve made abundantly clear. Why should he want me?’

  Her eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Lucy, how can you say that? My God, you’re an idiot.’

  * * *

  It was a few days before I heard from Oliver again. Too scared to make the first move, I divided my time between testing recipes at home, and taking phone calls from an overexcited mother who wanted to come and be my “test-eater”, as she called it. Through it all, though, my mind raced with what-ifs and why-nots.

  If you shoved my brain under a microscope, it would be a combination of hormones blowing raspberries, and synapses resembling scrambled eggs. When I woke each morning, alone, I rolled into the middle of the bed and looked at the empty space beside me. The pillow, I’m sure, still bore the crease marks of a head not long slept there. The duvet was still crumpled at horrible angles, and not because Oliver had his leg kicked out at an acute angle.

  I could have called, or invited him back, but didn’t. It had been days now. Denying myself contact was only prolonging the torture, or inevitable meltdown. I reached for my phone. The screen was completely black, flat as a pancake. Taking that as a sign I shouldn’t make decisions first thing in the morning, I got up, stripped the bedsheets, ran a load of washing, checked emails and social media like a legitimate businesswoman, and started making a loaf of sourdough. Cold comfort when I considered the alternative.

  I wanted simple food – sweet tea, bread, jam – and more time to think about my next steps. Only, my thoughts were that annoying loop track at the train station, designed to either beat you into submission, or cause you to flee like a loitering teenager. Even too loud music didn’t stop the feelings. Instead, I let out my frustrations on a ball of dough.

  Kneading is to dough what nurturing is to a relationship. Too little, and you can pull a brick from the oven, instead of a nice loaf. Too much, and it’ll be super crusty – which is great – but the inside will be good for nothing but crumbs. Still didn’t explain why I sucked at it so much.

  ‘Fold over, fold over, fold over,’ I repeated, pushing and folding, dusting the bench, preparing a tin. ‘Get out of my brain, you awful, awful man.’ I dumped the dough in a bowl and left it to rise.

  My day didn’t turn out to be the cleaning frenzy I hoped it would. Somewhere between a carbohydrate coma and reruns of 15-Minute Meals, I napped, consumed my weight in chocolate, coffee, and bread, and managed to reply to a small inundation of cake enquiries. Where had they all come from? I had a sudden need for organisation. To do that, I had to see the one person I’d been avoiding all day. I called Oliver.

  ‘Hey.’ He spoke quietly, unsure.

  ‘Hey.’ This was going well.

  ‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Good.’ I shut the email tab and closed the laptop screen. ‘You?’

  ‘Good. Are you okay?’

  Confused, overly horny and denying that I’m pining for you, but don’t mind me, this is totally all about consulting. ‘Yeah, not bad. You?’

  ‘Me? Yeah, fine.’ Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I just wanted to check some dates with you.’

  ‘For what?’ he said. ‘Let me grab my diary. Hang on.’

  He scrabbled around in the background, swore as he knocked into something and, eventually, found somewhere to sit. In his bed, as he made sure to tell me.

  ‘Cakes and dates and things.’

  ‘Of course. I saw them in the inbox this morning.’

  ‘Yeah, I just wanted to see if we had things planned around the café.’

  ‘Good idea,’ he said, jiggling car keys. ‘Actually, are you free?’

  Free, willing, subservient, they all meant the same things, didn’t they? Not that I was sure of anything. ‘Now?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I guess so,’ I squeaked, nerves rising from the ends of my toes to the burning tips of my ears.

  ‘Leaving now.’ The phone went dead.

  * * *

  If the freeway felt like a runway, lights flickering to life as the sun went down, then the exit ramp felt like a pinball machine, shuttling us off in the opposite direction. We hadn’t said a word in the thirty minutes since I’d got into Oliver’s car, though I suspected he was about to invoke the Happy Meal Clause.

  Used as both a cheap dinner and a decompression session, the Happy Meal Clause involved sitting in the car park at McDonald’s, Happy Meal in lap, and talking through whatever was bothering either of us. In marriage, this should be the case in any environment, but it was somewhere we knew there were no other ears. It was our safe space to blurt anything without judgement.

  ‘Pokémon, or Hello Kitty?’ Oliver picked through the paper bag and held up the toys, one easily identifiable, the other not so much. ‘This one looks like an overgrown louse.’

  As I laughed, soft drink fizzed in my nose. ‘I’ll take the cat.’

  ‘Right you are.’ He tossed it over.

  I unclipped my seatbelt and turned to face him. ‘So, are you going to tell me what this is all about?’

  ‘Right, so, this catering event. I have offered our services for free, but that’s neither here nor there, because I’ll cover costs. What it does mean is we need to organise staff.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said slowly. That’s not what any of this was about. I wanted to argue, to force the necessary conversation, but also didn’t want the angst and anger that came with fighting. I’d had enough of that the last few days.

  ‘I’ve got some résumés here.’ Oliver leant across my lap and pulled a small pile of job applications from the glove box.

  ‘All right.’ I felt like I was going round the twist, in that same annoying way television theme songs get stuck in your head.

  Whoever thought going over résumés was simple clearly hadn’t experienced the Murray Method. Everything was pored over, spelling mistakes circled, abnormalities singled out with dots and dashes. If they couldn’t get a résumé or cover letter right, he reasoned, could we really trust them with a meal order? Someone had to give both of us a start somewhere, but I wasn’t going to argue with what worked for him. All of this happened under the dull yellow light of the car interior.

  ‘Why do you want my input on staff?’ I wriggled closer, for a better look at the paperwork, of course.

  ‘Because each time I step out the door, you’re in charge. I want you involved in this. I want you to learn it.’

  I hummed a small agreement, and leant on the centre console, chin in palm, and flipped through the
recently discarded papers.

  ‘I trust you, Lucy.’ Oliver glanced at me quickly, his admission hanging in the air. To break the tension, he read over another paper. ‘This little mate lives in Belmont. Remember that party we went to out there?’

  ‘When we were about nineteen?’ I asked. ‘Yes.’

  A group of teenagers brushed past the car, talking loudly over the top of each other. I switched off the interior light, leaving only the screen of Oliver’s phone to cast any luminosity over his face.

  ‘God, we thought we were so grown-up. Can’t stay at this party, we have to walk along the Barwon River, so we can hold hands, and talk about work and school and food and how amazing we both are.’ Oliver shook his head.

  ‘Do you remember I used to call you Loliver?’ I pinched at his cheek.

  He glanced at the world around him. A car flashed past us, taillights shrinking into the night. My fingers had left pink blotches on his face. ‘God, I haven’t heard that in years.’

  ‘I miss those years,’ I said.

  He turned in to me, his face cast in shadow. ‘That’s what I was hoping to talk to you about.’

  ‘Finally.’ I swallowed down the tennis-ball-sized lump in my throat.

  ‘I want you back, Lucy.’

  After all that build-up, the false starts and random conversations, he’d blurted it like it was a run-of-the-mill statement to make. I withdrew, sat up straight and studied my lap, fingers picking indiscriminately at each other.

  ‘Even after the other morning?’

  Oliver twisted his fingers around an invisible wedding ring. ‘I want us back.’

  He blurred in my vision. ‘I’m so confused.’

  ‘About what?’ he asked. ‘Tell me about what?’

  I took a deep breath, my cheeks puffing out like an over-full squirrel. ‘I never hated you, Ol. I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I didn’t exactly do the most husbandly thing ever.’

  ‘Because I understood the ambition.’ I looked at him. ‘I wanted the same thing for my career, but here, though I won’t pretend I never fantasised about this moment.’