A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  ‘G-good coffee,’ I stuttered.

  ‘It is.’ Oliver snapped to life, sliding up onto the bench to watch me work. ‘Not quite up to scratch with what we get in Europe, but this is the best of the local bunch. Can’t wait to pay someone to make it for us.’

  Another mention of how London and Paris were better. I think my eye twitched a little. Until that moment, my brain was busy replaying the last sixty seconds in a tug-of-war over whether I wanted him to kiss me or not. Probably a good idea that he didn’t – our only option right now was a dusty old sofa in the staff room. Maybe the caravan. It was a giant reprieve when both our phones vibrated.

  ‘Me first, and now you,’ I teased. ‘Who’s the invite from?’

  ‘So predictable,’ he groaned, checking his phone. ‘Lady Edith and Sir Barry have returned and have moved into their new house. Murray’s in Paris is très chic, they tell me, oui, oui, and would I please like to come to a barbecue at their house on Saturday night.’ He tapped away at his phone. ‘I guess so. I don’t think I have plans.’

  ‘Check mine.’

  ‘Is your password … yes, it’s still the same,’ he said. ‘Still … our wedding anniversary. Luce, really?’

  I grinned.

  Oliver glanced down at my phone again. ‘Hey, honey, it’s me. Baz and I are back and would love for you to come for a BBC … she’s written BBC … I don’t want to know about her internet search history. She says can you please come to her barbecue, sorry about the whole Oliver thing. Have you seen him since the wedding? Hope you and Seamus are well.’ Oliver snorted. ‘Oh, the potatoes.’

  ‘Oliver,’ I scolded.

  ‘Oh, come on, he had it coming.’

  ‘Are you going?’ I asked.

  ‘Why?’ I watched him, swinging his legs like a child on a doctor’s table.

  ‘Because I want to know. Are you going?’ I thumped down on the dough. ‘This is me trying to get information out of you.’

  ‘Maybe. It’ll be nice to have someone cook for me for once.’

  ‘Well, there is that.’ I watched him scroll through my phone. ‘What are you looking for?’

  ‘I’ll know when I find it.’ He zoomed in on a photo, zoomed out, made a face, and kept going. ‘He really was ugly.’

  ‘Jesus, Oliver.’

  ‘You’re still beautiful, if that helps?’ He laughed as if he were surprised by my response. ‘Why him?’

  I looked at him, with no viable answer to offer. Some things in life just didn’t have an explanation. I think sportspeople call them brain snaps.

  ‘Was there anyone else?’ Oliver asked. ‘Besides him?’

  ‘Why?’ I flicked a bit of dough at him. ‘Are you jealous?’

  ‘Yes. Very.’

  ‘At least you’re honest, I guess.’ I shook my head, but his laugh caught up with me. ‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

  Oliver shrugged. ‘I’m not sure, either.’

  ‘And what about you? I feel like a bit of a hypocrite asking it, but I’m going to ask it anyway. In the name of transparency.’

  ‘Hmmm.’

  ‘Was there anyone?’ I avoided eye contact at all costs. That way, I wouldn’t have to look at his face if I didn’t like the answer. ‘For you? Did you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘Lucy, look at me.’

  I looked across at him cautiously. Surely, he was joking.

  ‘There was no one.’

  Completely unfair on my behalf, but I found relief in the idea he hadn’t been with anyone. I went back to mixing my bread without saying a word. The weight of his answer hung in the room.

  ‘Say you’ll come with me.’ He leant forward and snapped a photo from above my mixing bowl.

  I lifted my gaze to him. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’ He stopped. ‘Come with me, to Edith and Barry’s party. I’ll come past your place, pick you up, and we can walk there.’

  ‘Oliver, did you just ask me out on a date?’

  He tapped away at his phone, no doubt another important social media update. ‘Is it dating if she’s already your wife?’

  ‘You should date your wife, yes,’ I said. ‘It doesn’t stop because you put a ring on it.’

  ‘All right, Beyoncé. Yes, I am asking you on a date. In fairness, I would take you somewhere a bit more fancy on a date, though.’

  ‘Define fancy?’ I asked.

  ‘Hang on.’ He waved a hand. ‘I’m just replying to the text.’

  ‘What? Not on my phone.’ I tried snatching it back, but he was gone, down to the dining area.

  ‘Thanks for the invite, Edith. Oliver and I will see you there.’ Triumphant, he waved my phone about. ‘That’ll get them talking.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Talking wasn’t the word I’d use. Harassing, yes, but not talking. Until the moment I was ready to leave, Edith was messaging, calling, and pestering me about the “Oliver situation”. As many times as she’d asked what was going on, I deflected or made excuses. So much for wanting to keep things on the quiet until we’d sorted all our knots out.

  Prepping for a night out came with a whole new level of anxiety. For someone who supposedly didn’t care, I spent a lot of time picking clothes, changing my mind a dozen times before I climbed in the shower. I did my hair four different ways, and applied make-up while peering around a crack in my bathroom mirror. The edges around it, a dull brown colour, offered no reflection. I stood back, smoothed my dress down, leant in to check myself again, and traipsed back to my bedroom looking for a coat. Finally, I was ready to go.

  Seeing Oliver on my doorstep brought back memories of waiting for websites to load in the days of early internet. There was so little movement from him I wondered if he’d been replaced with a cardboard cut-out. The cogs were turning, but the front page was blank until, finally, he blinked and took a deep breath.

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Oliver, you look lovely.’ It wasn’t a lie. He’d opted for a navy suit, sans tie, with an open-collared white shirt made of thick, expensive linen. I’d worshipped at the altar of that collarbone so many times and, in that moment, I wouldn’t have been offended if we skipped the party altogether.

  ‘You look like I’m going to have a hard time tonight.’ He held out a hand. ‘Let’s go.’

  I didn’t take his hand. Instead, I locked the door behind me and slipped my hands into my coat pockets. The awkward teenage first date silence skipped along next to us for the first few blocks, winding around us in a figure of eight, before slipping out the back door as we reached a suspension bridge. It was the quickest way up the hill to Edith’s, and my least favourite thing ever. It was the swaying that got me.

  ‘Go on.’ Oliver waved me ahead of him. ‘I’ll follow and make sure the bogeyman doesn’t get you.’

  ‘I hate this bridge – you know I hate this bridge.’ Gripping the railings with white knuckles, I took my first tentative steps.

  ‘It’s perfectly safe, Lucy.’

  ‘Oh, yeah, perfectly,’ I grumbled. ‘It’ll just swing so hard it’ll flip, and I’ll get trapped, and scalped, or killed.’

  ‘Come on, it could be worse. It could be that ledge walk we did in Ireland. Remember that?’

  Oliver’s idea of a fun time on a honeymoon Sunday morning was the Gobbins Cliff Path in Ireland. Bolted to the side of a cliff face, it was only a short drop through cyclone fencing into sharp rocks and freezing water below – nothing at all to be concerned about. Not only was I petrified, I also had to deal with splashback when he threw up his breakfast of scrambled eggs, black pudding and toast, before he followed it up with a chaser of the previous night’s Guinness. Never again.

  ‘That was a great morning.’ His enthusiasm for Ireland clearly hadn’t waned.

  ‘It was awful, Oliver. You got recycled egg on my shoes and they smelt for the rest of the trip.’

  ‘They did not.’

  ‘You weren’t the one to run them through
the wash at every stop.’ I jumped the last step off onto solid ground.

  Thoughts of Ireland soon turned to Wales, England, and even France. Our honeymoon had been an eight-week jaunt across countries we wanted to eat our way through. There were speeding cars and tiny, hedged country roads, cockroaches in hotels, and the most delicious food served in tiny, out-of-the-way restaurants. Not for the first time, I wondered why that alone hadn’t sold me on following Oliver, who was now watching me with growing amusement.

  ‘And you’ve crossed the Bog of Eternal Stench. Let’s go.’ He held his hand out again while I uttered tiny thanks for being on dry land again.

  ‘I’m not holding your hand.’ I slapped it away.

  ‘Has anyone ever told you how aggressive you are?’ he asked. ‘Conor would have loved that.’

  I rolled my eyes and peered uphill at the walk before me. Combined with my love of butter and puff pastry, I was sure it would all be over in the pinch of an artery and collapse of a lung. Before I reached the summit, I found swear words I hadn’t used in years, and I may have stopped to catch my breath more than once.

  ‘Well, then.’ I clutched at my side. ‘So glad I didn’t fork out for that gym pass.’

  ‘Lucy, the day I see you in a gym will be the day someone carries you in there and moves your limbs for you.’

  * * *

  Perched on three acres and tucked in the end of a cul-de-sac, Edith’s house was a monstrosity of modern architecture. My cottage would fit into it many times over. In fact, I was sure it would fit into the four-car, single-boat garage and still have room to spare. The house itself bloomed like the perfect catalogue feature, fitted with the newest and fanciest appliances, furniture, and fittings. Everything smelt of Eau de New Carpet.

  ‘This is nice.’ Oliver followed closely, through the large entry and kitchen full of gleaming stone benchtops, grey tiles, and stainless-steel appliances.

  ‘I’m a little bit jealous, Edie,’ I called as she appeared from the backyard.

  ‘Lucy!’ she squeaked. ‘My favourite caker.’ She spotted Oliver and came to a crushing stop. ‘Oliver? You came together?’

  ‘I think we did, yes.’ His face crinkled into the most wonderful, warm smile, a purely happy Oliver – my favourite kind. It made me giddy with anticipation.

  Edith’s eyebrows disappeared up under her fringe. ‘God, I love you two. You’re adorable. Come on outside. It’s all happening out here – until it gets too cold, of course.’

  ‘Can’t I just stay in a regular kitchen for a while?’ I asked. ‘It’s just so … new.’

  I’m not above admitting jealousy when it’s warranted. A 900mm oven, double-width fridge, and lights, so many lights. I ran my fingers over shiny gas hobs as Edith dragged me along and out into the yard, where Oliver was already being enveloped by a small group of men headed by Barry. In the opposite corner, I was surrounded by Edith, her bridesmaids, and a plethora of their new neighbours.

  Polite greetings gave way to the recognition that I’d made Edith’s wedding cake. That led to talk of Murray’s, and landing a job there. Inverleigh was abuzz with news of its newest eatery, or so said the water cooler talk. Conversation began easily, and I settled in for a night of fun, food, and a few drinks.

  People ate, laughed, chatted, and clinked wineglasses. Oliver and I flitted about, enjoying the company of others for a change. An aerial shot would have revealed us as synchronised swimmers, backstroking out of the evening, hands flailing about until we grabbed something steady: each other. The later it got, the more I realised he was exactly what I wanted, and it both scared and comforted me.

  To get five minutes alone with him was precious. When I did, it was because he approached me, wineglasses wedged between lithe fingers, bottle ready in offer. I’d found my solace on the edge of a retaining wall towards the end of the garden.

  ‘Please.’ I peered up at him.

  His gaze drifted between the glass and me. ‘You okay?’ Wine glugged into glasses, and I threw out some line about just leaving me the bottle, and he could have the glass.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ I said quietly, not wanting to draw attention or ire.

  ‘You look ready to draw blood.’

  ‘Eh, I’m ready to go home. I feel like I don’t have a lot in common with these people.’ I waved my hand in a flourish. ‘Children here, schools there, horses, cars. Whatever. I just want someone to talk to.’

  He wriggled in closer and threw an arm around my shoulder, squeezing just enough to crush me in to his side. I desperately wanted him to bury his nose in my hair, tell me it smelt pretty, that I was beautiful. I closed my eyes and waited.

  ‘So, talk to me.’

  I peered up at him. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘I’m here. You can talk to me.’

  ‘Are you enjoying being back?’ I asked.

  He nodded once, his eyes scanning the scene before us. ‘I am.’

  ‘But? I feel like there are tiny terms and conditions connected to it. Something to get stung by only after you fell completely in love with the product.’

  Oliver laughed. ‘No buts. I’ve enjoyed the slower pace. I’ve caught up with friends I haven’t seen in years. When I’m … there, I have a half-dozen sites to worry about. It’s a constant grind of phone calls and emails, and people in my face. Here, it’s easier.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘Also, I’m thinking of having a birthday party soon. Can you make me a cake?’

  ‘I wouldn’t exactly call what we’re doing relaxing, but okay.’ I stifled a laugh. ‘And, yes, of course I’ll make you a cake.’

  ‘Also, something about a wife, too. I’m enjoying having her in my life again.’ Oliver doubled over, placing the bottle by his feet. Wind rustled plants behind me, and I pulled my jacket in a little tighter while I moved in to his side. I glanced around, only to catch his eye on the way back.

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘Why have you got that twinkle in your eye?’

  ‘You know, for the record, I loved that cliff walk we did.’

  ‘It was a good holiday,’ I agreed. ‘Even if we were eating two-minute noodles by the end of the trip.’

  ‘Ah, that’s half the fun. If we did it again, though, it would be slightly fancier.’

  ‘Bicycles instead of backpacking? Toasted sandwiches instead of tinned food?’ I asked.

  Oliver nudged me. ‘I might even hire a big fancy car.’

  ‘Good Lord, won’t somebody please think of the environment.’

  He laughed. ‘We could do it, you know.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘That holiday. Have a do-over.’

  I untangled myself from Oliver, removing my hand from his lower back. Until that moment, it hadn’t occurred to me how comfortable I’d been, and how little I’d wanted him to move. It had felt so natural that it didn’t exist. Like breathing. ‘Really?’

  ‘You two!’ Edith appeared with her phone, camera at the ready. Barry appeared over her shoulder, clapping a pair of tongs. ‘Hate to pry you apart, but food’s up.’

  Empty wine bottles began multiplying on tables, music got louder, and people more intoxicated and less inhibited. Conversations that started delicately soon became a raucous mess of innuendo and laughter and, when plates were empty and people had siphoned off, Oliver and I took the opportunity to disappear into our bubble, a decision made easier by our lubricant of choice: a 2012 Penfolds. In the far corner, away from majority conversation, we snaffled the ironically named love seat, full of large cushions and bright colours. I slipped my shoes off and sat on my feet. This time, Oliver pressed himself up against my side.

  ‘I should have brought back some French wine for you.’ He swirled his glass.

  ‘Local wine is fine,’ I said.

  ‘But it’s just so good.’ He hung his head back, looking at the stars.

  I looked at him from the corner of my eye. He was staring.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  What I wanted to say was that I’d dreamt of seeing him a
gain for so long that I needed to be pinched to remember that I was legitimately alive. What I actually said was nothing, and we sat watching each other for the second half of an Elton John number. I simply enjoyed looking at his face again.

  Barry faffed about with the music on an oversized stereo by the back door. In his shuffling and skipping, the roulette wheel landed on a familiar song. Oliver’s face lit up in recognition, I looked away quickly, embarrassed, as he bounced up out of the seat, shaking droplets of spilt wine from his hand. Our wedding dance song was playing.

  ‘Oh, Lucy.’ He held out his hand. ‘Let’s do this.’

  ‘Me?’ I played coy. ‘No.’

  ‘Oui, dansez-vous?’

  ‘No.’ I wrapped my arms around my knees. If I gave him nothing to grab, he couldn’t pull me up.

  ‘Lucy, please. This is our song.’

  I could still smell the reception room – the mixture of beer and warm catered food. In the shadow of cheap lights, inside a small circle of friends, we took our first dance as a married couple. Our attention set solely on each other, to the exclusion of all others, we pressed up against each other, counting down the moments before it was acceptable to leave our own party.

  When Oliver begged me again, I changed my mind and stood and reached for his hand.

  He pulled me flush and slipped an arm around my middle. Now, I’m sure alcohol may have played a role in how I was feeling, but by God I could have done unholy things to him right then. Forget the emotion, just some physical gratification would have been perfect. The light caught his eyes in just the right spot, and he grinned triumphantly. I’d spent so much time trying to deny whatever this was that tonight felt like a victory, for both of us, however minor.

  He swayed his hips against mine, the feeling so dazzlingly electric that it caught my breath and I prayed for combustion to put me out of my misery. The soft fabric of his pants, the warm weight of his hands, one on my back, the other busy slipping its fingers through mine. I closed my eyes and counted down from ten.

  ‘You okay?’ he asked quietly.