A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  ‘Hold up,’ I said, watching him walk away.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘What are you feeding them?’ I asked.

  ‘Hey?’

  ‘They’re reporters.’ I unzipped my jeans to a concerned-looking Oliver, replacing them with looser kitchen pants. ‘Please, you’ve seen it all before.’ The jacket was a little snug, evidence of years with a head buried in a pantry. ‘Press studs, yes.’

  ‘You always liked my jacket, so …’

  My love of press studs had more to do with the fact they made the jacket easy to tear off him, and nothing to do with aesthetics. It was also not the memory I needed with him standing barely three feet away from me.

  ‘And what are you feeding them?’ Dear image of a naked Oliver, divested of jacket and all other manner of uniform throwing me across the dining table, please leave me alone. ‘You’ve invited them here to look, to talk – are you at least going to tell me you’ve cooked something for them?’

  Surely it wasn’t just me who thought it was a bad idea to have a whole day of interviews lined up for a café and not provide samples. Yes, he could trade on his name alone, but you caught more flies with honey.

  ‘What do you suggest?’ he asked.

  Ideas were like firecrackers: more fizzled than provided anything worthwhile. After our weeks of playing with ideas, I had run of an almost fully stocked pantry. I needed simple, but tasty, a little bit fancy, but quick to put together.

  ‘Éclairs it is, then.’ I tied my hair up. ‘Let me get these on. You go and talk. Leave this with me.’

  ‘Wait, are you sure?’ He looked concerned.

  ‘Oliver, please,’ I chided. ‘This is Lucy Williams you’re talking about.’

  ‘Right you are.’ He grinned, offered a quick nod, and disappeared.

  Where the school canteen failed me, this kitchen gave back to me in spades. If my life was a movie, right now would be time for the Rocky-Balboa-inspired montage, the one where I puff tufts of hair from my face, pull choux pastry from the oven, drop the occasional one, and spin sugar into Rumpelstiltskin gold. Interspersed with this would be me running to the larder at the opposite end of the street in rain-soaked slow motion.

  Lunch dictated something savoury to wash away the diabetes chasing us down the street with scissors, so I conjured up miniature goat’s cheese and beetroot tarts, before presenting miniature berry tarts and a chocolate cake in the late afternoon. When Oliver appeared from his final interview at the end of a double-shift day, I bounced around on the top of the stairs, victorious. Extra points for managing it all while being drawn into the occasional interview.

  ‘Done,’ I announced.

  ‘Lucy, you are amazing.’

  ‘Pfft.’ I peeled my jacket off and tossed it over the back of a chair. ‘It was nothing.’

  At the end of it all, an industrial dishwasher to clear away the day’s crumbs. Oliver stood in the doorway, between the hall and the kitchen, and watched as I scrubbed down benches and tossed the cloth in the bin.

  ‘Wrong. It was everything.’

  ‘That’s what you’re paying me to do.’

  Moving around the room became like trying to talk underwater. There was a lot of beautiful scenery, slow-moving bodies and hand gestures, but words were muted by the presence of water, and air bubbles threatened to kill us if we rose to the surface too quickly. Fluidity was something we’d always shared, but this wasn’t it. It wasn’t a late-night dance after shift. This was moving mouths and wrong words and, when he asked me to stay for dinner, it was all I could do to run away as quickly as I could. I don’t know why, because I wasn’t opposed to the idea.

  ‘Oliver, I’m exhausted. I’ve had a busy few days, and I want to go home.’

  ‘What if I came home with you?’ he asked. ‘Our favourite movie is playing on telly tonight.’

  ‘That might have been your favourite movie,’ I reminded him.

  ‘Either way, let’s get pizza, relax, and just see where the night takes us.’

  An hour later, we were blazing a trail down the Great Ocean Road, a spur-of-the-moment drive, complete with roadside diner and make-out session under the orange lights of the beach car park. This time, there was no one to stop us.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  I gave in to Zoe and her apoplectic messaging. She’d only sent me eleven billion sorry, good luck, and please call texts. I was surprised she hadn’t come knocking on the door screaming about conducting a welfare check. After a few tentative messages, we scheduled a shopping date for the end of the week.

  With Oliver and I on an even keel, I was more malleable, and, in that soft squishy state, I’d suggested the shopping trip. It would give us both a break from the chaos of life, and help take our minds off other issues. Zoe had other ideas. She came armed with newspapers and made like story time at the local library.

  ‘As he embarks on the Australian leg of his operations, it’s a more relaxed Oliver Murray who presents in the country town of Inverleigh, ninety minutes south-west of Melbourne.’ Zoe scooted around the rack of dresses, her face made up and ready for her date with Peter later tonight. ‘Usually shrouded in secrecy, Murray has made no secret of his forthcoming venture, going so far as to hold a media day for local and international press. Some say this was an unusual choice for someone who could sell their product on name alone.’

  ‘Christ,’ I pulled a red dress from the rack and held it up. It got a thumbs-up. ‘They’re making it sound like a circus.’

  ‘Was it?’ she asked.

  Standing before a mirror, I held the dress in front of me again. My reflection looked like I hadn’t slept in weeks, but I was still buzzing from the last week. ‘Not really. It was busy, but nothing I … we couldn’t handle.’

  ‘Right, so then it says …’ Zoe folded the newspaper as she followed me to the fitting rooms, with their shitty, judgemental mirrors. ‘When we meet with Murray, it’s at the end of a long day. “I’ve already done twenty of these,” he explains with a yawn. The sun is setting, and he’s looking forward to dinner. But he’s alert, courteous, and excited for the forthcoming opening. As with previous venues, he hopes to showcase regional produce and talent, including local patisserie chef, and his notoriously private wife, Lucy Williams. Watching them discuss menu items, there’s a warmth between them that will no doubt benefit staff and customers alike.’

  My cheeks warmed like a tanning bed on a hen’s weekend. I stared at my embarrassed reflection in a fingerprint-smeared mirror. ‘Fucking hell.’

  Outside my cubicle, Zoe gave a self-satisfied clap, before continuing, ‘Williams has recently returned to the food scene after years in the corporate wilderness, and her inclusion at Murray’s marks a change of direction for the brand. While she’ll be creating desserts for the café, she’ll also be attaching her cake design business to the brand.’

  I yanked the door open. ‘It says that?’

  ‘Yep. “We’ve always wanted to work together,” Murray says, explaining his choice. “So, it was a no-brainer that Lucy would work here.” Williams, on the other hand, seems flustered by the sudden attention, preferring to spend her time darting back and forth between the dining area and the kitchen. If the bite-sized éclairs, tarts, and cakes prepared for the press are anything to go by, the menu is in more than capable hands. Murray’s is scheduled to open in late November.’

  ‘Wow, okay.’ I opened the door again, this time to a wolf whistle, and grabbed the paper from her. ‘Look at his smug face. Urgh.’

  ‘Never mind his face, you look amazing.’ She spun me around, tugged out the rear of the blue dress, and pushed me back towards the mirror.

  ‘Do you think?’ I pulled at the fabric on my chest. ‘It’s a bit snug, isn’t it?’

  ‘Please.’ She pushed the door shut. ‘You’re not leaving here without that.’

  When I emerged from the cubicle, dress choices narrowed down from suburban mum to Saturday night booty call, Zoe was holding up another article, larg
e headline, colour photo. The picture in question was typically alpha male, the opposite of everything I knew of Oliver. He wasn’t one to stand with arms crossed or legs spread like he needed more ball room than the Hilton. Also in the picture, me, a plate of desserts held up for the camera. I looked like a complete boob.

  ‘This is a pretty big deal, isn’t it?’ Zoe asked.

  Calling it big was like saying Everest was a lovely hill for a Sunday walk. The more this train rolled along the track, the bigger the firebox was becoming. Oliver had called early this morning, excited about the press coverage, but I hadn’t expected this. Two newspapers, a weekend lift-out, a Gourmet Traveller article – and a handful of blogs had already gone online. ‘Oh, and don’t forget we need to finalise our rosters soon,’ he’d said.

  ‘Look at the comments.’ Zoe passed her phone over the table at lunch. She’d scoured the best and the worst of the articles, and settled on social media for its overly reliable sensibility and level-headedness.

  After whizzing through the clothing store with a burning credit card, we’d floated with the tide of people swimming towards the food court. Zoe took one look at her options, and we embarked on a pilgrimage to a standalone restaurant at the opposite end of the shopping centre car park. Her plan worked. The quiet environment meant I could hear her talking, instead of having to compete with screaming families and screeching chairs.

  ‘Can’t wait for this to open, and I’m totally only eating there because he’s hot.’ I scrunched my nose up. ‘He’s completely gorgeous, super excited about this #hot_man, #hot_food.’

  Zoe hid her mouth behind a hand and laughed. ‘He’s a rock star.’

  ‘Long way to go for a feed,’ I looked up from the screen, ‘but totally worth it for this quality. Are there Airbnbs in the area? That’s Terry Knowles, whoever he is.’

  ‘You guys are amazing!’ She clapped excitedly. ‘And look at this headline: Gotcha! Baker and Single Male Caterer.’ Zoe laughed almost hard enough to launch her from her seat into the lap of the man behind her.

  ‘That’s a shit headline – are you kidding me?’ I snatched the newspaper away. Oliver and I had been photographed in a huddle pretending to discuss the menu. That was coupled with a sample menu and shots of the exterior and dining areas. ‘They’re deliberately setting up a romantic narrative.’

  ‘Seamus was a butcher.’

  ‘So?’ I stabbed at the ice cream in the bottom of my thickshake with a broken straw. ‘He was a shit one, too.’

  ‘Butcher, baker, single male caterer.’ Her arms flapped about like an orangutan’s. ‘I love it so much. I should be your PR.’

  I peered up at her, mouth still battling with the straw. ‘That’s so ridiculous.’

  Regardless of what I thought about the articles, I was pleased to see the buzz. Besides the few comments that showed people genuinely shocked to find Oliver married, the feedback showed excitement about Oliver and what he’d bring to the local food market. Pride wrung my heart like a sponge. I was so immensely proud of him. All the tears, struggles, and time apart had proven him right. How could I begrudge him that?

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  When catering, time is of the essence. It often feels as though you have a misshapen Alice in Wonderland clock dangling from your neck. Time leaps in increments of five minutes backward, thirty minutes forward. You have x amount of people and only y amount of time with which to meet their needs, and very little room for movement on the y axis. Everything had to fall into place perfectly and, if a dropped plate, burnt dish, or missing staff member tips the scales against your favour, it could be a nightmare.

  Tiny eclipse-shaped finger limes spilled out across the stainless-steel bench. While I’d prepped ingredients, and some of the easier dishes like ice cream, the night before, I still felt like I was flying by the seat of my pants.

  I sliced and squeezed the limes, their tart juice added to a bowl with butter, sugar, and egg yolks to create a sweet, but biting curd.

  ‘Just be careful; you don’t want to—’

  ‘Oliver.’ I cut him off with a look as he leant over my shoulder. ‘I think I’ve got this. You just worry about your food.’

  Not four feet away, he was scoring a pork belly. He’d bake it, grill it to achieve a salty, crunchy crackling, then add a quandong and chilli jam to it, all served on white porcelain soup spoons. Not going to lie, I was planning on pinching a few for lunch.

  ‘We should have started this sooner,’ he said.

  ‘I know. I’m so annoyed at myself right now.’

  The curd, along with lightly toasted meringue, was dropped in small domes atop a shortbread-style wattleseed and macadamia biscuit, another mercy from the night before. We were so busy racing around the room, you’d be forgiven for thinking you were watching MasterChef. All we needed was a giant red clock on the wall, though the clock on my phone was keeping perfect time as it was.

  Food processors whizzed piles of flour, butter, and wattleseed to make bite-sized tart cases, which I filled with a white chocolate mixture from the local chocolate factory. Balancing the sweetness of the chocolate: crystallised lilly-pillies. When I pushed them into a fridge, I wiped my brow and checked the time again.

  Oliver had moved on to making burgers with meat from a local supplier. There were so many times in this profession that I thanked the power of invention for rubber gloves, because wet burger mix, while it smelt like the perfect mixture of onions, spices, and Sunday afternoon barbecues, was not the easiest thing to get out from under fingernails.

  ‘How are you for time?’ Oliver blew strands of loose hair away from his face. I wanted to pin his fringe back with bobby pins.

  ‘Ah, not so bad now. You?’

  ‘Yeah, pretty solid failure right now, and I’ve got the kids coming in for last-minute stuff in about thirty.’

  ‘I mean, I need to make my chocolate domes, a rosella syrup, and finish off the cake, but I feel like I’ve forgotten something.’

  When it was suggested that I make a large, centrepiece-style cake for the event, my mind automatically went to the things this region is known for. Wine, seafood, the Great Ocean Road. I dabbled with the idea of creating the Victorian coastline in mud cake but, in the end, I tried my first geometric cake. Risky, given the work involved, but I wanted something that resembled a wine bottle bursting from a large pillow of glossy wine grapes. Right now, even I wasn’t entirely confident I could pull it off.

  ‘I need the coatings for the lamb racks and to check seafood. It’s two o’clock, right?’

  ‘It’s close to, yeah,’ I said.

  * * *

  I was sick of the sight of melted chocolate before I had enough domes made. Brushing melted chocolate into Easter-egg-size moulds, the process proved a little lengthier than making full-scale domes. With a crisp chocolate shell, they were filled with a decadent mousse that had the slightest hint of spice. A light biscuit base went on last. Only after they were chilled completely could I turn them out onto plates, which made it all the harder to tell if something had worked or not.

  When they were done, I stepped outside with a coffee, sank down onto an upturned milk crate, and checked my phone. Zoe had been calling all morning, messages showing varying degrees of distress.

  ‘He’s shaved his pubes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Jesus, Zoe,’ I groaned. ‘I don’t think that I need to know about that.’ As someone who struggled to separate mental images from discussions, I gave my head a shake and hoped it tossed the image of Peter with a razor around his jangly bits away like discarded rubbish. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse, she launched into the topic of erectile dysfunction.

  ‘What I’m saying is, he doesn’t normally do this.’ A child’s scream hurtled past the receiver. ‘Did Oliver ever do that? Shave? I can’t picture that as something he would do.’

  Again, another image: Oliver waltzing through from our bathroom, clothed as the day he was born, wobbling a disposable razor betw
een his fingers. ‘No, it wasn’t an Oliver thing. He’s more a … natural man.’ I waved at a couple walking their dog past. ‘You didn’t ask him, did you?’

  ‘I don’t suppose Oliver would need to compensate for size,’ she said.

  No, he didn’t. None of this was helping me. ‘Did you ask Peter?’

  ‘I tried, but couldn’t.’

  ‘Would you like me to ask him? I don’t mind asking.’ I leant over and peered in through the glass door to find Oliver working away quietly on his next dish, as relaxed as if he’d never left. I missed the next few garbled words from Zoe while I watched him. My heart was filling like an overstretched water balloon on a summer’s day.

  ‘… anyway, I’m going to go. I’ll let you know what happens.’

  ‘Zoe?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Have you thought about counselling? Just, as something that might help you communicate with him a bit better.’

  ‘You call me when you and Oliver go,’ she bit back.

  ‘Sure,’ I said. ‘Keep me in the loop.’

  The moment she hung up, I switched my phone off. I was either officially the world’s shittiest friend, or didn’t have the brain capacity to deal with both our dramas on the same day. Whatever I was, was open to debate.

  ‘Everything okay?’ Oliver had his back to me, fishing about in the fridge.

  ‘Yeah, just Zoe problems.’

  ‘Right.’ He tossed diced kangaroo into a bowl. ‘Another day, another drama.’

  ‘She thinks Peter’s cheating on her.’

  ‘Is he?’ he asked, cursing a nicked finger. While he rinsed himself under a tap, I took the pleasure of cracking open the first-aid kit for the very first time.

  ‘Who knows? She won’t ask him, but instead is happy to pull her eyelashes out over it.’ I smoothed a Band-Aid around his finger. ‘Oliver?’

  ‘Never.’ He looked at me. ‘Never thought about it, never wanted to, was never interested.’

  Sweet, sweet relief. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I married you, not the whole street,’ he mumbled.