A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  Aside from the desert-parched mouth, I was completely okay. ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘Do you remember our wedding night?’ he whispered by my ear.

  ‘Trying very hard not to right now,’ I joked.

  I felt his lips drag against my forehead, where he left them. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we have company.’

  ‘I remember waking up next to you, and you had this smear of lipstick running from your bottom lip onto your chin. It wasn’t dark, more a dusty pink, but it was there, and I thought, “I did that”.’

  ‘Stop it.’ I laughed half-heartedly.

  ‘You were still sleep drunk when I pulled you back on top of me.’

  ‘Shhh.’

  ‘And when we were done, we slept again, only to wake up and start all over again.’ His hand slipped further down my back, resting quite comfortably on my backside.

  ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Hmm?’ His voice was a melodic hum.

  ‘Is that your hand?’

  ‘I guess it is, yes.’ He squeezed, a laugh bubbling to the surface. ‘Feels good, for the record.’

  When I stopped laughing, I asked, ‘How’s your mum?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ he said, mouth still pressed against me. ‘Currently living it up in France. How are your parents?’

  ‘Mum’s nuts; Dad’s Dad.’

  ‘Your brother?’ he asked.

  ‘He’s going through some stuff with Taylor.’

  ‘Are they okay?’ he asked.

  ‘They’re separating.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly.

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘I always thought I should get him to do the website.’

  ‘I need to work on that this week, too,’ I said, grateful for the change of topic.

  ‘Let’s not talk work.’ He held me a little tighter.

  ‘And what would you like to talk about?’ I looked up at him.

  ‘Have you seen any good movies lately?’

  I tried to recall the last time I went to the cinema, and came up blank. ‘Uh, no, I don’t think I’ve been to the cinema for a while, twelve months at least.’

  ‘We should go, see something.’

  I scrunched my nose up. ‘Ehhhhh.’

  ‘I think the last time I went was with you. It was a complete waste of time because you pulled the armrests up and spread out to sleep on me and the chairs.’

  ‘It was a boring movie.’ Standard up and down action movie with, I think, one female character. ‘Wasn’t a total loss. I didn’t hear you complaining in the back seat.’

  The memory reddened his cheeks.

  ‘Personally, I was excited by cinema popcorn,’ I said.

  ‘That stuff is garbage.’ It was only one of the food-related things we disagreed on. I swore by cinema popcorn; he flatly refused it to the point of disliking the smell.

  ‘It’s one of the finer things in life,’ I argued. ‘Popcorn and choc-tops.’

  ‘Oh please.’ Oliver pulled away just enough to peer down at me, his expression more mocking than scorn. ‘You used to eat that shit like an excavator at a quarry. Then you’d drink three litres of soft drink, and be up out of bed every twenty minutes running to the bathroom. Never mind the fact our bed was as old as the hills and would rock like a boat every time you moved.’

  ‘I have a new bed now.’ I was probably prouder of that fact than I needed to be, but he perked up at the knowledge. ‘Doesn’t move so much.’

  The corner of his mouth tugged into a smirk. ‘Oh, I know. It was one of the myriad of differences I noticed.’

  I laughed loudly. ‘Self-assured shit. Tell me about your life away from here. What have I missed? We haven’t talked much about that. How’s the south of France treating you?’

  ‘I wish you’d come, Lucy, really. You would love it. It’s everything you and I have ever been about. It’s a lovely little town full of rolling hills, tiny flowers, local dairies.’

  I took a deep breath and drew my lip through my teeth. ‘Can I confess something?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘I considered getting on a plane about six months after you’d left. I didn’t know how I was going to find you, but I would have.’

  He took pause for a moment, his eyes fixed on some point over my shoulder. ‘You would have.’

  ‘I just couldn’t leave this, not then,’ I said.

  ‘And now?’ he asked.

  We stopped on the spot, suspended animation. The two-hundred-thousand-dollar question, one that had crossed my mind countless times since I first caught sight of him at Edith’s wedding. I wouldn’t openly admit to sitting around one night drinking so much four-dollar Aldi wine that I considered throwing myself on his doorstep with nothing but carry-on luggage and some sticky tape for my heart.

  ‘I don’t know. I feel like I screwed so much of everything up that I need to start going against what I think is right.’

  ‘Understandable.’

  ‘What about women? Has there been anyone?’ I searched his eyes, waiting for any hint of an answer. ‘I know, I know I’ve already asked it, but …’

  ‘Only you.’

  I threw my head back. ‘Oliver, please don’t lie. It’s okay if—’

  ‘Only you, I told you that,’ he repeated. ‘I didn’t leave because I didn’t love you, Lucy. Maybe we were just too young, wanted different things, maybe time apart was good.’

  Emotional Cyclone Lucy was currently gusting to ten. My throat, the lump, and my heart threatened to crush me under a tsunami of tears. ‘You’re going to make me cry, you know that.’

  ‘And now for something completely different.’ He rolled his tongue around in his cheek.

  ‘But … Seamus,’ I started. Oliver watched on quietly, his face soft with understanding. ‘He wasn’t my greatest life choice, but, you know. I didn’t know if you … and me … and it happened. Not that I owe you an explanation, but …’

  ‘Lucy.’ We started moving again, a new song, a new direction. ‘None of us are perfect.’

  I might’ve laughed, but that was also definitely a salty tear that caught in the corner of my mouth. I snivelled and rubbed at the stray tears.

  ‘Do you think that maybe we could—’

  The side door opened, interrupting Oliver and his question. Edith stood with a gleaming knife in her hand. She was either channelling Kathy Bates, or we were about to eat cake. Something that resembled a castle, complete with ice-cream cones for turrets, was carried precariously to the centre of the main dining table.

  ‘I’m sorry it’s not one of yours.’ Edith threw me an apologetic look.

  ‘Hey?’ I laughed. ‘That’s completely fine.’

  ‘I just wanted to test the new oven.’

  ‘As would I.’ God the things I could do with 900mm of heat, never mind the racks in that thing. I didn’t blame her.

  Pushing through the huddle, Oliver sidled up beside me. He clutched at my little finger, just enough to let me know he was there. Three half-drunk cheers for the new homeowners, and it was bottoms up with the cake, flat champagne, and offers of coffee all around as the crowd dissipated. A fire in the back corner called my name for the foreseeable future. Oliver followed.

  ‘What did you want to ask me?’ I asked, hands outstretched to the flames.

  ‘It’s okay, it’s fine.’ He shook the idea from his mind.

  ‘You sure?’

  He turned his back to the fire. ‘Yeah, later. We’ll talk later.’

  We never did finish that discussion. Separated again, we were left to steal glances from opposite ends of the party. By the end of it all, we were too tired, too soggy with wine to talk. Oliver made some excuse about forgetting what he wanted to say, and I pretended to believe him. Though we were offered a lift home, we chose to walk. Crossing the suspension bridge again, this time I took the hand offered, and clutched it until I got home like a child with a balloon that threatened to blow away.

  ‘Thank you for walking me
home.’ On my doorstep, I dropped his last finger from my hand.

  ‘Well, safety and all that.’

  ‘You never know, those last few blocks might have killed me.’

  ‘The way you were whingeing about your shoes, probably.’

  I smiled. ‘I enjoyed tonight, Oliver. It was really, really lovely.’

  Fourteen-year-old Lucy would’ve scribbled in her diary about how dreamy his eyes had looked all night, how the dimples made his smile come to life, and how he still smelt of the aftershave I bought him for his thirtieth birthday. She’d remark about his clothes, the tight pants, square-toed shoes and shirt that pinched at the buttonholes. She might’ve also written that she was desperate to ask him inside, but didn’t want to rush into anything again. Not yet.

  ‘Me, too.’ He was so proud of himself.

  ‘I’m not going to invite you in to look at my recipes,’ I teased.

  ‘No?’

  I shook my head. ‘Slowly.’

  ‘I can do slow.’

  When he kissed me, I didn’t object. The way he lingered, his forehead pressed in to mine, my hand pressed against his chest, fiddling with a button, I almost wanted him to change my mind. I wanted to breathe more of him in, just so I wouldn’t have to watch him walk away again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The closer we got to opening, the more Oliver zipped from place to place, meeting to meeting, barely popping his head into the café. Then, I was usually elbows-deep in bread dough or desserts, which were distributed to neighbours and friends for comment. We shared innumerable texts – Oliver would let me know he’d returned home, and was exhausted, but hey, we’d secured our vegetable vendor, or the local sheep farmer was happy to deal directly on contract. I’d tell him Mrs Ferris at number 76 was desperate for more chia loaf, but the kids at 94 loved the fruit loaf.

  Spending my days dancing away to the radio while I experimented with recipes was what I’d always wanted. It was a wonderfully freeing feeling.

  On the cake front, things were gathering speed. I’d gone from a virtual nobody only weeks ago, to a semi-thriving business with a steady income stream. I was just glad that I now had the mixers, trays, and ovens to compete on a professional level. Lucy Williams Designs had become a tiny production line all of its own, with promises of late nights, dozens upon dozens of eggs, and more icing sugar than I thought possible.

  ‘Lucy.’ Oliver seemed surprised to find me in the kitchen just after seven o’clock one Saturday morning.

  I’d been there since six-thirty, having shuffled through the door in my best baking clothes, to add tiny finishing touches to a christening cake. It was the first delivery I’d be making since Edith’s wedding, or Emile’s birthday party. I was a whole lot of Eminem, knees weak and palms sweaty as I checked the yellow fondant cross hadn’t made like Thomas the Tank Engine’s pupil and slipped off overnight.

  ‘Hey. Sorry, I just wanted to check the cake before I left.’

  ‘Is that today’s delivery?’ Oliver slung an arm around my shoulder, pulled me in for a hug, and flipped through my diary on the sideboard. ‘First one? Really?’

  I caught the scent of his cologne and, not for the first time, wanted to disappear into it. ‘First cake not for a friend, yep.’

  ‘Already? Great.’ He shot his cuffs and straightened his collar. ‘Do you want to take one of the vans?’

  There was a certain magic to how Oliver conducted his business, like a sleight of hand that made things just happen. For the life of me, I could never perfect it, but he had. An afternoon trip to the car yard resulted in a Monday morning phone call, and two cars were bought, paid for, and delivered that same Friday. Saturday morning had them signed up with the Murray’s and Lucy Williams logos. My heart still fluttered at the thought of my brand being on the side of a vehicle.

  ‘You mean I can’t take the Merc?’ I peered up at him.

  ‘You’re funny. I’m just off with publicity for a meeting about a few things.’ He popped a kiss atop my head. ‘Plus, if you drop something, and I’m not saying you will, the dry-cleaning’s a bitch.’

  ‘What time do you think you’ll get out of that?’ I asked. ‘I’m not asking because I care so much, but because—’

  ‘It’s okay, I got a message, too.’

  Oliver held up his phone for me to see. My mother was either psychic, or determined to have him back in the familial fold one way or another. Her request that he join family dinner was identical to mine, complete with a misguided eggplant at the end. Maybe she was making moussaka for dinner. One could hope that’s what it meant. I glanced up at him.

  ‘I was thinking maybe we could cook,’ I said.

  ‘You were, were you?’ He leant against the bench. ‘And what exactly are we cooking?’

  ‘I don’t know. I thought I could take the savouries, before my brain crystallises like sugar, and you can take the desserts.’

  ‘I’m going to be lazy. I say we let your mum cook.’ Oliver checked his watch. ‘I’m going to go now. I’ll be back at, say, six?’

  ‘Make it cinq.’ I grinned. ‘At my place.’

  ‘Our place.’ He waggled a finger at the end of my nose. ‘Cinq. I see what you did there.’

  ‘Bye, Ol.’ I balanced on tiptoes to deliver a chaste kiss. ‘Have a good day.’

  ‘You, too.’ He made to step out the door, and ended up swinging there. ‘Don’t forget the business cards. You need to muck in and get them in hands.’

  ‘Oliver, I will take the business cards, calm down.’ I pushed him out. ‘You worry about what you’re cooking for dessert.’

  ‘Call me when you’ve delivered – I want to know how it went. Be polite and accommodating, answer whatever questions they have.’ Slinking backwards towards his car, he added, ‘And take photos!’

  Man alive, it was a cake delivery, not a recruitment drive. I was sure I was capable of behaving like an adult. ‘Will do.’

  * * *

  Anyone who’s ever been to a party will tell you that the moment the cake comes out is one of the big highlights. From my own life, flashes of birthday and anniversary parties, the trusty Australian Women’s Weekly cake book had been pulled out, dog-eared, and marked where Iain or I wanted our birthdays remembered in springy sponge form. Castles, caterpillars, or cricket bats – nothing was sacred. If you owned a sharp knife, you could shape a cake into anything.

  I remember watching a cousin’s eyes light up because one of their cakes looked like a swimming pool, complete with a blue jelly top. And the thing is, nothing changes as you get older, especially if you’ve invested some solid money into the moment.

  No one wants their cake smudged, crushed, or flattened like a pancake. It must be perfect, so Little Terry can tell his friends at school that his cake was so much cooler than anyone else’s. Through the wonder of phone cameras, baby Maria would be made aware of the fuss that surrounded her cake.

  I’d driven thirty minutes along the twisting highway, up slow hills behind petrol tankers, and down gullies that threatened to slide the cake into the windscreen, before I wound my way through the equally steep suburb of Highton. Sweat pooled under my arms and near the elastic waist of my underwear. If I was any more nervous, I would have pulled over to vomit. Just like riding a bike, I reminded myself. I’d done this before; I could do it again. It wasn’t a big deal. Then again, I hadn’t ridden a bike in years, either.

  A very large, very expensive house peered at me from the top of a steep driveway that contained a sparkling new Land Rover. Plush green hedges and pin-coded gates were about to challenge my sense of balance. I took a few moments to practise some deep breathing, until my heart rate sounded less like a trance beat and more like a living human being. Lucy Williams was about to go public, at a christening the entire suburb had turned up to. One foot in front of the other, I wove a delicate path to the front door. When the door opened, I was greeted by a small crowd of people.

  ‘Murray’s?’ asked a woman with a pinched
face.

  ‘Lucy Williams,’ I said.

  ‘But you work for Murray’s, don’t you? We ordered a Murray’s cake.’

  ‘You ordered a Lucy Williams for Murray’s cake. I supply to them, yes.’

  She breathed a sigh of relief, as if anything less than Murray’s wouldn’t do, and ushered me towards the kitchen. A roll call of generations crowded around to get a look at the cake. They ooohed and aaahed, camera flashes went off and, before I could get the cake to a table, it was taken from me in a rush of excitement and boasting.

  Feeling my hands empty of the weight was relief not unlike a cold shower on a summer’s day. It was now out of my control. If they dropped it, or it went skidding across the backyard, that was no longer my problem. Money was handed over, a small pile of business cards left on the bench, and I skipped out towards the car.

  My first delivery done. It was smooth sailing from here. Excited, I fired off a text to Zoe.

  I did it – no breaks, no spills, all good. My first cake order done.

  She shot back just as quickly.

  I’m so proud of you! This is a huge step.

  And then.

  Have you told your mum about Oliver yet?

  When I didn’t answer her, my phone rang. It didn’t stop ringing until I hit the Hamilton Highway. Well, it may have stopped, or I may have drowned her out with the music and taken part in a karaoke session on the drive home. I felt like I could finally get properly excited about this.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  First impressions count. I don’t care what anyone says, it’s true. The first time Oliver met my parents, I think I sweated my weight in fluid in the hours before he arrived. Iain wasn’t long married, so wasn’t home for that big brother type of love he was keen on doling out at the time, which normally involved some sort of embarrassing story from my childhood.

  As for my parents, they had been busy taking turns as sentry, watching for any movement down our quiet suburban street. Any hint that Oliver and his parents were on the way had them calling down the hall to me.

  ‘Is that your mum spying on us through the front blinds?’ Oliver screwed his face up.