A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Sorry, Archie’s fucking obsessed.’ Jeff landed in the backseat with a squeak.

  ‘Could’ve picked Murray Wiggle,’ I teased.

  ‘Let’s be fair, he could’ve picked something easier on the ears than the Wiggles.’ The coffee cups disappeared, and she tugged at her seatbelt, which stuck twice before unravelling. ‘Okay.’ She turned the volume down, saving me from another rendition of ‘Hot Potato’. ‘What do you want from tonight?’

  ‘Hey?’ I slid the mirror on the sun visor shut. I still looked female. ‘Food?’

  ‘Do you have condoms?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t think so.’ I peeled my handbag open. ‘Oliver always took care of them.’

  She reached around in one swift three-sixty-degree motion. I was convinced only mothers were given the gift of the roundhouse swing in the car. If I did it, I’d put my back out. Someone would find me crawling across my front yard like a horror movie villain. While I worried about an oncoming log truck that barrelled down the hill at an unfortunate rate, she was digging condoms out of her handbag.

  ‘What, you just keep them in the Mary Poppins, do you?’ I asked. Zoe’s bag seemed to contain everything from baby wipes to a small dictionary and, probably, an Angolan road map.

  ‘Well, I don’t want any more crotch goblins, so, you know.’ She tossed a glittering foil packet at me. ‘And you never know when the urge might strike.’

  ‘How the hell do you have sex in a car full of child seats and cold McDonald’s chips?’

  ‘Very carefully,’ she admitted. ‘The kids think the stain on the back seat is ice cream.’

  ‘Gross.’ I turned the foil over, hoping that mental image would tumble out of my head with the next sharp turn. ‘Glow in the dark? Honestly? I’m not using glow in the dark condoms.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’ She shrugged. ‘Makes it easier to find.’

  ‘If you of all people can’t find a penis, what hope have the rest of us got?’

  ‘Lucy, you and Oliver were the oldest twenty-one-year-olds I knew. You went to work, you ate dinner, you went to sleep. Did you do crosswords? I feel like you two would have been into crosswords. Sudoku maybe? Paint by numbers? Bob Ross? Train documentaries? When did you ever date or do anything even a little bit out there? Live a little, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked.

  ‘Really what?’

  ‘Is that how people saw us?’

  ‘You should be applying for your pension card by forty, buy a couple of cats and a Zimmer frame.’ She pointed at me. ‘And Viagra.’

  ‘Oliver doesn’t need Viagra,’ I said.

  All of this was news to me. I’d always thought we did exactly what we wanted to do, and that it was neither the right, nor the wrong way. It was what it was. Zoe’s revelation kept me quiet for the remainder of the trip into town, where she pulled up in the gutter with a metallic crunch and drummed her hands against the steering wheel.

  ‘Here we are, m’lady. Now, I expect a text to let me know you’ve got home okay. That is, unless your mouth is full, and you can’t talk.’

  ‘I can still text with a full mouth,’ I teased. ‘Please, multi-tasking.’

  ‘I dare you.’

  We spent an entire Toot Toot, Chugga Chugga, Big Red Car laughing uncontrollably, until the panic set in. There was every chance in the world that my night would end with a mouthful of Oliver. My nerves blew away with the breeze that rattled the trees outside. This was no longer teenagers so hormonal that there was no thought to consequence; this was calculated adult considerations. I wanted to hand back my adult card, because this was no fun at all.

  ‘Am I doing the right thing?’ I looked at her, jittery, the restaurant scene playing out behind her. ‘This is silly, isn’t it? I should just go home.’

  ‘Hey?’ She frowned. ‘And stand him up? No.’

  ‘What if I just take him home now, and stop the peacock dance.’

  ‘You can’t just hand him the keys to the safe. Look, I mean, technically you already have, but let’s not count that. Like the broken biscuits, a one-off doesn’t count. He must work out the combination first. Go and date.’

  I took a steadying breath while something fluttered around in my throat. ‘You’re right. Let’s not be cheap and easy.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ Zoe snorted.

  ‘Okay. Let’s do this.’ I stepped out of the car. ‘See you later.’

  ‘See you soon.’ She blew a kiss. ‘Have a good night.’

  When her car chugged away into the night, rattling exhaust as its breadcrumbs, I could see into the restaurant. Sat at a table by the window, Oliver looked every inch the businessman. In a grey suit and open-collared shirt, he tapped away on his phone, taking photos of the table and room in front of him.

  I realised then how much had changed, how much he had changed. When he’d left, his job pushed him around like a hockey puck. Now, he was the stick in charge of the direction. Not for the first time, I considered whether his leaving wasn’t the worst thing in the world.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Despite being branded the newest and hippest place to go, all I could see in Coeur et me was a potential pornography set. It had opened recently in what was once a two-storey, 1800s mansion. Plush couches were nothing more than worn purple velour, replete with cigarette burns, and chandeliers that speckled the walls with their cubic zirconia refractions. The only things missing were a couple of stag heads on the walls and a Billy Bass singing fish. And maybe a lady in a corset. As for the atmosphere, the place smelt of burnt steak, and I wasn’t sure that was a good thing.

  Oliver spotted me by the door, his face mirroring my slightly horrified thoughts. A waiter pirouetted around the last few tables and approached me with a hip shake.

  ‘What’ll it be?’ He smiled.

  ‘It’s fine – I have a table. Thanks.’ I nodded in the direction of Oliver.

  ‘Wonderful.’ He pinched his lips together. ‘Mr Murray’s table. We’re so excited to have him here tonight. Would you like a drink?’

  ‘Perhaps a Prosecco?’ I asked. ‘Something light.’

  ‘Sure thing.’

  ‘Make it a bottle.’ Anything to quell my nerves was completely acceptable at this point.

  He disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared, leaving me to slip past diners, doing the backside shuffle before coming upon our table. By the time I found myself in front of Oliver, my heart had done a lap of the kitchen, somersaulted down the hall, and sat panting inside my chest. Someone at the next table took a not-so-sneaky photo of him.

  ‘What is this place?’ I whispered, leaning in while I removed my jacket. ‘It’s so gauche.’

  ‘This is a great example of how the write-up doesn’t match the reality.’ Oliver supressed a laugh as he stood to greet me. His hands, warm and heavy, gripped my hips as he kissed me. The feeling of his lips against mine still sent me giddy with excitement. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Hey, yourself.’ I dropped my handbag under the table. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘Likewise.’ His eyes offered a quick assessment of my dress. ‘Far out, Luce.’

  ‘What?’ I panicked. ‘Something wrong?’ Subconsciously, I began pulling at the dress again.

  ‘No, don’t pull – there’s absolutely nothing wrong with it. I could peel you like a banana, though.’

  ‘Stop it,’ I hissed.

  ‘Beautiful, beautiful is the word I need.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  My cheeks burnt as tiny pools of lava took root under my skin, much to the amusement of Oliver, who bit the inside of his cheek. It had never been a thing for either of us to outwardly praise each other’s appearances, which seemed so silly now, given it was so lovely to hear. It was a change I welcomed, and immediately I told him how good he looked, too. When his face lit up in a show of smiles and dimples, I made a mental note to do that more often.

  Around us, cutlery clattered loudly, and conversations we
re punctuated with raucous laughter, scandalised giggles, and popping corks.

  ‘What do you think of this place?’ I asked.

  He leant in. ‘I think we should go somewhere else, but you ordered, didn’t you?’

  ‘A bottle of wine,’ I said. ‘Can we get it to go?’

  ‘Let’s just drink it and get out of here – what do you think?’

  ‘Paella Boat?’ I asked.

  Oliver’s eyes lit up. ‘It feels like forever since we last ate there.’

  ‘Spoiler alert: it has been.’ I laughed.

  Instead of paying inflated prices in restaurants we couldn’t afford, we would often avail ourselves of walking tracks around town, both historical and hysterical depending on the people who frequented dark corners late at night. At some point, we’d find ourselves sharing a plate of ten-dollar paella from a boat that had been at the pier for as long as our childhoods gave us memories. Serving sizes were too big for one person, and not quite enough for two, so we’d wash it down with crepes from the pancake kitchen and be on our way.

  Our waiter reappeared with two not entirely clean glasses and the bottle of Prosecco. It was one I’d recently seen in shops for not much more than the cost of a few beers. Tonight, it was triple that price.

  ‘Let’s get business out of the way really quickly while we drink this.’ Oliver’s face peeled up in horror at the taste. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Let’s. Once we get out that door, no more work tonight.’

  ‘Agreed. This is meant to be about us.’

  ‘Yes, yes, it is.’ I took a sip of the rancid wine. ‘Wow, let’s not even finish this bottle. Yuck.’

  Baguettes arrived at our table looking more like Coles two-dollar heat and serve dinner rolls, which only compounded how tacky the place appeared. I looked at the bread basket and it’s throw-away gingham paper, then at Oliver, who was biting back laughter.

  ‘Please make our dinner rolls every day.’ He knocked a roll against the table, solid as a rock.

  ‘Promise,’ I laughed. ‘And croutons the next day.’

  ‘French toast specials when there are loaves left over.’ He held his glass of water up. ‘It’s how we do it in France.’

  Bloody France again. It felt like every time I got excited about his being back, France had to roll in with its cheese and baguettes to make me Les Misérables all over again.

  ‘Sure!’ I tore apart a roll, and smeared it with as much butter as necessary to make it palatable. ‘We’ve still got it.’

  Immediately, everything about him relaxed. ‘I really … It’s nice to hear you say that.’

  I held my roll up. After all, it was rude to talk with your mouth full.

  ‘Today.’ Oliver’s eyes widened. ‘The people we interviewed. Who’d you like?’

  I swallowed. Hard. ‘All of them?’

  ‘Can’t catch them all, they’re not Pokémon.’ He smiled.

  Productive chatter made it easier to down the awful wine. Or was it the other way around? Oliver came prepared, a Hi-Liter rainbow of notes on each of the résumés. All achieved within the hour after I’d left him. From the ten we saw today, we reduced the list to five. A young girl who’d been keen on cakes proved impressive to me, but not so much to Oliver. I went in to bat, and won. If she worked well, I’d have an apprentice within six months. Given the recent spate of cake enquiries, I was going to need help sooner rather than later.

  The wine soon went to my head. Somehow, I’d managed to polish off half the bottle, while Oliver insisted tap water was perfectly fine, mentioning more than once that he had to drive. It flushed my cheeks and toppled my guard over like unbalanced dominoes. Even the dodgy bread rolls couldn’t mop up the enthusiasm that spilled over the sides. When we got to discussing the upcoming charity event, I was agreeing to almost anything. Not bad for two idiots who’d promised not to talk shop on their very special, much-romance date.

  ‘Remind me never to order this again.’ I waved the half-empty wine bottle about. ‘Also, what are we doing again?’

  Oliver laughed. ‘It’s a morning tea event, so a lot of small cakes, pastries, tarts. Really easy for us … or you, even.’

  ‘You, too – you know your pastry, mister.’

  ‘Okay, all right,’ he conceded. ‘Do you want me to help? I will help.’

  ‘I should hope so.’ I swallowed down a burp. ‘I might just do a mix of new stuff. We are showcasing, aren’t we?’

  ‘Show-ponying, more like it,’ Oliver conceded.

  ‘And we want to present better than this place.’

  ‘Correct.’ He pointed a Hi-Liter at me. ‘To be fair, though, any corner pizza store presents better.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll work the new stuff. We’ll be fine. Only you and me, or new staff on service?’

  ‘We’ll use the five best of our pick.’ He shuffled cutlery about. ‘Maybe all ten. A couple on coffee and tea, a few to run plates, and you and I out back in control.’

  ‘And you want to set things up like a high tea? That makes it harder to fail. At least, I think it does. I bake, put the cake stands out, and then we stand back while they eat. Take extras that we get to eat if they don’t. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds like we need paella.’

  Oliver settled the bill, despite repeated attempts by our waiter to get us to stay on for at least an entrée. I watched on from outside, wrestling my coat back on. What started as a polite exchange soon looked like it had reduced to begging, our change held ransom until they realised no amount of free chocolate mousse was going to keep us inside. They had to be content with a few autographs and a photo with random staff.

  ‘Well, you can’t say they aren’t persistent.’ Oliver sorted his wallet and straightened his jacket before holding out the crook of his elbow. ‘Shall we?’

  My arm looped with his, we strolled towards the bay under watercolour streetlights in the misty night. The occasional car beetled past, and traffic lights changed for only us. A bright new billboard spewed light onto damp bitumen, and shopfronts that normally teemed with life sat dark, patiently awaiting the next day.

  ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Hmm?’ As he turned his attention to me, his eyes shifted from a soft-focus, faraway look. I’d yanked him out of a daydream.

  ‘Tell me about Europe. How the hell did you pull that off?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know how I managed it. It was dumb luck. When I first arrived, I thought I’d made the biggest mistake of my life.’

  ‘That’s not a lie,’ I teased. ‘You did ditch me.’

  ‘Correct.’ He snapped a finger. ‘I’d found this share house and, along with Google translate and a credit card, snapped up a share room close enough to Paris. It was the 11th arrondissement.’

  ‘I remember having a meltdown seeing that on the bank statement,’ I said. ‘You mean they didn’t set you up in a place?’

  ‘Nah, that was all on me.’ He shook his head. ‘But, I did pay that bill.’

  ‘I know this is going to sound bizarre, but I admire so much that you had the conviction to move to a country where you had no idea of language or custom.’

  None of that was a lie. Strip the situation back to its essentials, and it was someone flipping the bird to everything logic told them, and chasing their dreams regardless of what made sense, or was the “done thing”. Considering he succeeded with the barrier of language and experience, it was an amazing feat. My heart beat a little faster at that realisation. The admiration I once felt for his work ethic was returning, the first trickles of water creeping into the base of a cracked riverbed started running a bit faster.

  ‘Thank you.’ Oliver smiled proudly. ‘I think the extent of my French was cooking terms.’

  ‘Mine still is.’

  ‘Well’ – he leant in, hot breath on my ear – ‘I will teach you.’

  ‘You are so smooth.’ I pulled my arm from his and wrapped it around his middle.

  ‘I made friends with locals, expats, whoever. After s
pending the day busting my arse, we’d meet for coffee, where I’d explain to them what I was doing. Some of them decided to come on board and help and, between the lot of us, there was enough talent to get us to opening day. After that, I was on my own.’

  ‘It was hard work, not luck.’ I bounced forward and pumped the button on the pedestrian crossing. ‘And a huge learning curve.’

  ‘I like to think of it as drifting somewhere between reality and insanity. I was constantly exhausted. I had the smallest shop, in the furthest back street, with the most issues, and it was probably everything I shouldn’t have done, but the croissants were fresh, the baguettes were warm, and the coffee crisp. It was all I needed to get through.’

  ‘If I asked, would you take me to see your first shop?’

  He grinned. ‘You don’t have to ask, I’ve already thought about where I’d take you first.’

  ‘It’s an incredible story,’ I mused, more to myself than the outside world.

  ‘I thought about you every morning, every night, and every second in between.’

  ‘I don’t regret your success. Is that strange?’

  ‘Is it?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m stupidly proud of you, which is such a juxtaposition, but there you have it.’ I pulled Oliver to a stop outside the art gallery. It was one of the first places we went together as teenagers. Firstly, we could get in there as under eighteens. Secondly, it was free. For that simple reason, it had been a regular haunt for a while. Eventually it slipped off the radar, neglected. Much like our marriage. ‘Remember this place?’

  ‘I remember everything, Luce.’

  I looked at him for the longest time. He leant against the window of the giftshop, a flashing neon light in the window behind his shoulder reminding us to “Choose Love”.

  ‘What are your dreams?’ he asked. ‘How have they changed?’

  ‘How do you mean?’ I asked. ‘As in life goals?’

  He nodded once. ‘What do you want from this life? From this tiny flash we have here?’

  I sighed heavily, strands of fringe bouncing around on my forehead. ‘I used to think that I wanted a quiet life at home with a small business. Now, I’m seeing potential elsewhere … happiness.’