A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  Once I’d showered and set myself up with my laptop and a coffee, I dialled his number. It rang, and rang, and then rang some more. At last, an out-of-breath Iain answered.

  ‘Hey.’

  ‘Sorry, bad time?’

  ‘No, just hosing the kids down for the night.’ He puffed. ‘You okay?’

  ‘Me? Yeah, I’m good.’ My jaw dropped at the amount of emails I had to answer. I’d only been out a few hours, and there were thirty enquiries in the inbox. Oh, good, some of them were doubles. ‘You left a note? That was so lovely.’

  ‘I just thought I’d pop out and say hi while I was in the area.’ Iain wasn’t one for deep and meaningful conversation. In fact, he kind of struggled with that part of communication.

  ‘I’m sorry I wasn’t in. It would have been nice to see you.’

  ‘I stopped in to see Oliver on my way through, too.’ One of the kids tried grabbing at the handset. I could imagine him swatting them away like flies. Sometimes it was the only way. ‘Look, I owe you both an apology.’

  ‘No, you don’t.’ I baulked. He kind of did, but I didn’t want him to feel bad. After all, we all have our opinions, and they’re often clouded by circumstance.

  ‘No, I really do,’ he said. ‘I was out of line. I should have been more supportive. The truth is, I’m rapt for you. You’re finally doing what you should have been doing all along, you seem more relaxed, and things are happening for you. I’m really proud.’

  ‘Oh.’ My bottom lip wobbled like jelly. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

  ‘Yeah, well, don’t tell anyone I said that.’ He coughed out a tiny laugh.

  ‘How are you? Are you okay?’

  ‘Let’s not worry about me so much. I want you to tell me about the restaurant, café, second coming of the son-in-law from the seventh layer of heaven.’

  I laughed loudly. ‘God, he’s really not.’

  ‘Someone needs to tell our mother that,’ Iain said. ‘Anyway, talk to me.’

  I filled him in on everything, all the tiny minutiae from tile colours to the thick cloth napkins, the customer toilets and their fancy taps, and all the desserts I had planned. He asked about problems working with Oliver, and I was honest. Iain listened, gave advice, and never once judged. It was a stark contrast to the Iain who would once throw opinions around like shot-puts, because he was oh so mature and married and knew all there was to know about relationships. At the end of it all, he only had one request.

  ‘Come and hang out with me, will you? Just come and sit and watch a movie or something like that. I promise you don’t even have to bring cake.’

  ‘I’ll always bring cake for you, you know that.’

  Then, we flipped through our diaries and made a date. Pizza, cake, and a movie. I closed the house up, set my sketchpad on the bench so I wouldn’t forget it, and any random tools I thought I might need, and got an early night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  I walked into the restaurant full of excitement and hopeful enthusiasm. After delivering Oliver’s cake, checking on the table settings, and going over last-minute food and drink requirements, I’d returned home to find myself dragged into the bedroom. Oliver wanted to check and make sure his key worked, so let himself in with a bunch of flowers and an afternoon in bed. We spent more time laughing at each other than talking as we readied ourselves for a night out.

  The restaurant, aptly named The Pier, was situated at the end of a pier overlooking the bay in Geelong. Lights glinted off water, which lapped noisily against the bollards. Inside, we were faced with a plethora of people whose names I hadn’t recognised on the invite list. Sat at its own tiny table, Oliver’s birthday cake – an upright ‘M’, which had been a nightmare to carve in a jam- and cream-filled sponge. The icing was glistening black ganache with gold piping, and seemed like the ultimate in self-indulgence.

  Oliver introduced to me to those I’d never met, and some I sometimes wish I never had. Andy was an investor, and wore plaid shirts and thick-rimmed glasses. Emmett, his sidekick, was all suit and tie and bald head. For a moment, I wondered what they thought of me being here, until I realised I had every right to be there.

  ‘Lucy. We’ve heard great things about your work.’ Emmett offered me a hand. ‘I’m excited to see what you bring to the table.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Behind his shoulder, Oliver gave me the thumbs-up while he mingled with others. ‘It’s exciting to be involved.’

  ‘You’ve finally joined us!’ Andy laughed, though I wasn’t sure I found him as funny as he himself did. ‘Oliver has been sending us photos during the build process, so we’re incredibly excited right now.’

  ‘Good.’ I grinned. ‘I’m glad.’

  For a few minutes at least, I was the new plaything. Questions came from all sides and, while I answered them as best I could, I was thrown when a hand around my elbow dragged me away to the bar. Praise the alcoholic lords for Patrick.

  ‘You’re looking very fancy tonight,’ he said, throwing a fifty-dollar note on the bench. ‘Special occasion?’

  ‘Patrick.’ I nudged him with my elbow. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Exhausted, I think is the right word.’

  Patrick had finished his work at the café recently, though I was yet to see him at home for all the work Oliver had promised he’d have done. That didn’t bother me – it was a long drive for him to be back and forth every day. Even his clothes said exhausted: grey trousers, a sage green shirt that screamed bedroom floor collection, and a blue coat.

  ‘What’s her name?’

  He rolled his eyes and shoved a glass of soft drink in my hand. ‘I wish that was why.’

  ‘No one?’

  ‘Nice try. Let’s go grab a seat.’

  Behind us, in the far corner, everyone had taken their places around tables decorated with lightly coloured flowers and candles. I imagined people jostling for the seat next to Oliver, no one thinking to save me a spot. But, to my surprise, they had. Two seats to his left, which I took gratefully.

  Conversation focused on business. Emmett and Andy were keenly interested in what Oliver was planning on doing. While he’d outlined basic plans before coming to Melbourne, they now wanted to delve deeper, work out how this would fit with other expansion plans.

  ‘Hugh sends daily updates from Europe, and calls if anything serious happens. That’s all going to plan. As for everything else, we want to see how we go with this site. If we feel that we need to open another site in Melbourne, then so be it. But, honestly, with Lucy on board I feel like we’re in safe hands.’

  Patrick’s eyes widened, and he concentrated on his plate.

  Oliver’s sales pitch continued. ‘We’ve spent a great deal of time working through a menu. Of course, seasonality will mean a change of menus, as we do in Europe. We’ll begin working on that shortly.’

  The further into the conversation the three of them got, the more it turned into a name-dropping, self-congratulatory wank-fest. I wanted to tip a bottle of wine down my throat and guzzle until I floated away in a tannin bliss. Anything but listen to more of this. Around me, the table lapped it up, swallowed any titbit of information or exclusive that Oliver had to offer. All but excluded from this very masculine Super Businessman discussion, I concentrated on the pork in front of me.

  There is nothing worse than feeling alone in a loud room full of people.

  As soon as plates were cleared, Oliver took me around to tables, introducing me to more people. He explained my role within the company and, when someone questioned how we knew each other, he answered simply that we’d been married for ten years. He smiled nervously, made a comment about how good it’s been, and changed the subject.

  The collective surprise of the table, coupled with my few glasses of wine, left me in an awful headspace by the time we were wading through dessert options. While one end of the table was a groaning chorus of appreciation, the genuine questions came from Patrick, who had nothing more than a passing interest in food, except t
o say he enjoyed it and wanted a recipe for something simple and easy that he could make at home.

  ‘Now, Lucy and I were discussing what we wanted to do with the dessert menu.’ Oliver placed a fresh drink in front of me and took his seat. ‘We’ve decided that we’re going to go for a lot of local flavours, tastes that we can grow at home.’

  We?

  I frowned and looked at Patrick. He offered a silent apology.

  ‘We haven’t decided for sure, but between our yard at home, and the space behind the café, we should be able to grow at least the fruit, maybe some vegetables, but we’ll see.’

  Our?

  ‘Sustainable is the way now, isn’t it?’ Andy, with his thick-rimmed glasses and crooked tie, looked to me for approval, but quickly returned to the star of the circus. ‘The desserts sound amazing, Oliver. Customers will love them.’

  ‘Oui, oui, it’s all French to me,’ Patrick mumbled.

  ‘Sorry?’ Oliver sat back in his chair.

  ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t realise that was said out loud.’ Patrick corked his mouth with a spoon and offered a cheeky wink.

  I got up and walked to the bar, knowing full well I needed nothing more than some fresh air. When I got to the bar, I kept walking, and didn’t stop until I stood on the pier, cool evening wind whipping my hair around my face.

  ‘Lucy.’ Oliver bounced down the stairs, grabbing for my hand but collecting nothing but cold air. ‘Luce.’

  ‘What?’ I turned to face him.

  ‘What is going on tonight?’ He frowned, confused as to what could possibly be wrong.

  ‘Ten wonderful years,’ I mocked. ‘You idiot.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Tell them the truth?’

  ‘It would be a start.’

  ‘All right, okay, come back inside. I’ll tell them that I left because you refused to offer your support.’

  And, wow, did he just wave a red rag in my face. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Go on, let’s go. I’ll tell them you steadfastly refused to budge. Day after day, you wouldn’t support the hopes and dreams of your husband.’

  ‘Well, look at you.’ I crossed my arms. ‘Suddenly the victim.’

  Patrick appeared at the top of the stairs, car keys in one hand, my handbag in the other.

  ‘It’s true, though. I wouldn’t be lying.’

  ‘You can tell people the truth without being a complete dick about it. It’s actually real life, our marriage, this whole thing, Oliver. This is not some publicity machine …’ I stood back, my light-bulb moment. ‘That’s what this is, isn’t it? This is about how good you look to everyone around you. The perfectly successful professional whose wife is just happily there in the background until, suddenly, I’m earmarked as 2IC, second in command, the greatest find in fondant, and we’re setting up a market garden in our backyard.’

  ‘Lucy, I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I’ve said it a thousand times, and I will say it a thousand more if I have to.’

  ‘I am so sick of everyone telling you how amazing you are when they don’t even know you.’ I stood. ‘So sick of it. And now you’re just turning up and leaving little trinkets lying about, as if reminding me of what we had will make it better. I don’t need reminding, because I think of you every day, Oliver. Every single day, and I remember everything.’

  ‘Perhaps now is a good time to end the night,’ Patrick said quietly. He tossed my handbag at me and continued walking along the pier. ‘Come on, I’ll drop you home.’

  ‘Why is this always about how you look, Oliver? Do you know how utterly stupid I look to family and friends?’ I asked, shuffling things about in my bag. ‘Have you even put an ounce of thought into that?’

  His back straightened, face soft. ‘What have they said to you?’

  ‘When you first left, the best one I heard was “Her husband loved food more than her”.’ I swallowed down a lump in my throat. ‘Then it was poor Lucy, poor abandoned Lucy. Let’s follow that up with people telling me how excited they were by your success, because never mind my heart. They would email me articles, or photos, or, bless my mum, would buy magazines featuring you. Now? They look at me with pity, as if how stupid could I possibly be to be entertaining the idea of letting you into my life again.’

  ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Why would you? It wasn’t important to you.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ he said.

  ‘Whatever.’ I looked down the pier to Patrick, who stood under a lamppost, fiddling with his phone. ‘I’m done. Go back to your adoring fans, Oliver.’

  Both of us stood for a moment. Oliver’s eyes shifting between me and Patrick, his chest heaving angry breaths. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, and so many things I didn’t. Opening my mouth would only make things worse, so I turned around and walked away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Oh, Lucy, you goose.’ Zoe laughed so hard I thought she’d kill us as she pulled out of the drive-thru coffee shop, straight into oncoming traffic directly opposite a police station. She laughed all the way down the street, past the public library, and didn’t stop until we’d parked the car, dodged a traffic inspector, and ducked into a Little Malop Street chicken shop for a sneaky lunchtime catch-up.

  ‘I was such a mess.’ I hitched myself up onto a stool. ‘I’m sure I screwed it up completely.’

  In the few days since my restaurant meltdown, Oliver had only got as close as the inside of my email server, which was a great place for him to be. I could shut him down at a moment’s notice, or hit delete if the mood struck. Eventually I’d need to answer him – he was busy organising press coverage and wanted me present for interviews. So far, we’d been polite, cordial, even sharing jokes over the vastness of cyberspace.

  ‘Can I ask you a favour?’ Zoe asked.

  ‘Of course.’

  She looked at me, grimacing in anticipation of a knockback. ‘How hard is it exactly to make one hundred cupcakes?’

  I waggled my hand. ‘Depends on what you want on them.’

  ‘Green and yellow icing. Two-tone?’

  ‘When do you need them?’ I asked.

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow? How long have you known about this?’ I asked. Another couple walked in and seated themselves at the other end of the bar, which looked like it could do with a once-over with Brasso. This ranked right up there with the “can’t you just” crowd.

  ‘I know,’ she giggled. ‘I forgot completely, but I told Richard you’d be helping. You don’t have plans tonight, do you?’

  ‘I don’t know, Zoe. I haven’t spoken to Oliver yet. Maybe he wants help with something.’

  ‘Right.’ Zoe turned her body in to me and gave me that serious talk face when she’s low-key ready to drop some shit. ‘I have to ask this, because I’m your friend and I love you.’

  ‘You’ve mentioned that once or twice,’ I teased.

  ‘Why?’

  I tapped the menu card on the bar. ‘Why what?’

  ‘Why are you persisting with him, with this job, if all it’s doing is causing you heartache?’

  I stared at the neon light above Zoe’s head. It said, “Chicken for The People”. I wasn’t sure how ominous that was meant to be. ‘Because, right now, it’s all I have. He’s paying me a wage. Plus, I signed a contract with him, so I’m obligated.’

  Zoe hadn’t yet asked Peter if he was cheating, and had all but attributed her initial suspicions to hormonal fluctuations and too much Chinese food. She used some random, unsupported website shoved in my face to prove MSG was linked to hallucinations, and that was all she needed to sleep at night. Whatever gets you through the night, right?

  ‘Maybe you should just bite the bullet and ask.’ I thanked our waiter for our drinks and turned my attention back to her. ‘You know, just get it over and done with.’

  ‘That may be the case if I didn’t have kids to worry about. It was all right for you and Oliver – you didn’t have any of that shit to worry about.’
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br />   ‘Isn’t it more about self-respect?’ I asked.

  She rolled her eyes. ‘And a mortgage, and keeping a roof over our heads, and putting my children first. It’s not like I have people giving me jobs because they feel bad for me.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘When you have children, you’ll understand.’

  ‘Sorry?’ Despite the red lights flashing in my head, she’d hit a sore point. The age-old “when you have kids, you’ll understand” got dumped in the same trough as “can’t you just” and “you don’t have plans, do you?” I was still a human being, if not a mother, and I could still empathise with people. ‘I am no less of a human because I didn’t throw out some sprog.’

  ‘Well maybe if you did, you’d understand.’

  ‘Understand what? This has nothing to do with your kids. You want to tell me that I’m getting hand-outs from people who feel sorry for me? You want to imply that I have no inborn talent of my own? Why do you still have a roof over your head, huh?’

  ‘Oh, Luce, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘No?’ I stood up and grabbed my bag. ‘There’s not really many ways you can mean it.’

  ‘Lucy,’ she groaned, clutching at my arm. ‘Don’t go.’

  ‘No, I think I probably should. I’ll see you soon.’

  My drink was barely ten dollars, but I threw down a twenty-dollar bill on the counter and walked out. Down the laneway, past the workmen digging up the road for the umpteenth time, and straight into the doughnut shop. I’d only been bingeing on their yeasty comfort since Oliver left a box behind the previous weekend.

  Getting home was going to be an exercise in self-preservation and maxing out my credit card. There was no bus running to Inverleigh today, and a taxi would cost me a stupid amount of money. I slumped against a set of traffic lights and downloaded a local taxi app. If I was going to get murdered and tossed in a ditch by some random driving an unroadworthy car, today was going to be the day for it. Come at me, destiny. Fight me, you little bitch.

  As I waited for the app to load, my phone rang. It was Oliver. The first call post-argument. I pushed myself off the pole and wondered exactly when George’s Rugs was going to close. When I didn’t answer it on the first try, he called again.