A droplet of sweat tickled its way down my back. Not that it was hot; it was just my nervous system officially going into meltdown.
‘Do you remember the first time you saw me?’ Oliver put gloves on, then turned his attention to the bench before him.
What was I supposed to say to that? It was one of those things seared into my consciousness, a branding, like the first line of a favourite song, a favourite scene from a movie, or that scar that throbs just a little bit each time you touch it.
‘Because I remember when I first saw you,’ he offered. ‘It was the first day of our apprenticeship. That baker is closing in about six months, by the way. We should take over.’
There was that “we” word again. Over the last few weeks, conversations had begun to veer more towards the “we” and “our”, and away from the “my” and “I”.
‘That first day, fourteen-year-old me fell stupidly in love with the girl who walked in the door before me.’
This was not something he’d ever told me. Why was I only hearing this now?
‘Do you remember? We were unloading flour bags from the truck,’ he said. ‘I tried to help you, and you said, “Fuck off, Oliver”. It was the first full sentence you ever spoke to me.’
A snort became a full-blown belly laugh. ‘I did not.’
‘I promise you, you did. I went home and was just … blown away in that special way teenage boys are blown away. I tried three more times that week to help you, and you kept knocking me back. I mean, come on, Loo, I was fourteen, give a kid a break.’
‘I’ll have you know, Lothario, I was under strict instruction from my dad. If I wanted to leave school for an apprenticeship, there was no way, no how that I was to get involved with boys.’
Oliver jiggled the knife. ‘I think he mentioned that to me once, after we got engaged. “I knew you were trouble”, he said.’
‘He wasn’t wrong.’
Oliver sighed. ‘Yeah, well.’
With a toss of a dish cloth, and a platter shoved in the fridge, Oliver disappeared for the afternoon. He flitted in and out, nattered to himself about last-minute staff preparations, double-checked allergens, special requests, and please, please could I make sure we had enough coffee and milk on site. I don’t recall seeing him cook for the rest of the afternoon. I was left to finish his work, and my cake.
* * *
There was no doubt this morning tea was a huge event. Held by the Regional Tourism Board, it had been advertised in every single form of local media known to man, woman, and spambot, both print and digital, and had ensured Murray’s was booked solid as a venue for the first three months of opening. On one hand, it was an overwhelmingly positive response and we couldn’t have asked for more. On the other hand: pressure. We had to sing with the accuracy of the Vienna Boys’ Choir.
Our venue was an oversized marquee inside the Botanic Gardens, full of greenery, flowers, and hay fever. We’d both been too excited to sleep, talking in the dark until the early hours. Desserts were finished early enough, but the buzz of nerves meant we were in the bathtub with a deck of waterproof cards at two o’clock in the morning, praying away the day. It was a move we’d come to regret when the alarm clock eventually sounded.
First order of the day: an absent staff member. It was perhaps not the best move when trying to impress your new boss and you were on your first shift ever.
‘That’s just great.’ Oliver paced the room, rubbing the back of his neck. ‘Fucksake.’
While he had a minor meltdown, I went through our checklist. We would be perfectly fine, I assured him. Perhaps we’d even been a bit top heavy with the staff to begin with. Whatever happened, we’d make it work. All we could do was pack the vans and hope everyone else showed up.
At the gardens, blooming with late spring colour, we got to work setting two lengthy tables, fifty people each, on either side of the room – plenty of space to socialise. A lectern at the end for speeches, and my cake – a near disaster that culminated in me catching Oliver trying to ‘fix’ a spot in the early hours of the morning. Shaped and painted to resemble a wine bottle and grapes, it sat on a small table next to it.
It was a relief to see everyone else arrive, uniforms pressed, hair preened, and with all the blissful enthusiasm of those who’d never done this job before. By lunchtime they’d be hiding in the freezer room crying.
As juniors, we’d done similar events, but I’d never been in a position of control like this. My stomach always loathed the ten minutes before service. It was worse today with my head on the chopping block. If Mother Luck was on our side, everything would go well. If she wasn’t, and was instead out back smoking joints and throwing darts, well, it was anyone’s guess.
‘I forgot the business cards. Fuck, shit, arse, fuck.’ Oliver ran his fingers through his hair and paced around like an expectant father. ‘How? Jesus.’
‘Do you want me to duck back and get them?’ I tied my apron, then helped one of the girls retrieve her hair from the knot in hers.
‘No, no, it’s too late.’
‘Your branding is all over the menu, it’s going to be fine.’
Right on cue, the cutting Oliver stare with eyes burning like fire and brow set in stone. It said that life was neither okay, nor was my opinion warranted at this crucial point of his life spinning out of control and burning up into the sun. I backed away, slowly, and got on with my business of transplanting food from the vans to the fridges.
‘So, I found business cards in my bag.’ I held up a small box, maybe fifty cards left in it. ‘Does that help?’
Oliver followed me to the van, face still warped in thought. There was a line there about the wind changing and his face being set in a permanent scowl, but maybe he wouldn’t appreciate it. He took one look at the cards and sighed heavily.
‘They say Lucy Williams.’
‘Well, Oliver Murray is not the only person holding up Murray’s.’
‘Yes, but it’s my brand.’
‘Jesus, Oliver, they’re cards. They’ll get you out of a hole, and I promise if someone calls, then I will forward them on to you. I have no intention of stealing your spotlight or your glory.’ I shoved a tray in his arms. ‘Put this in the fridge.’
His shoulders sagged. ‘Luce, I didn’t mean it like that.’
‘Yes, you did.’ I turned back to the van. ‘Where are the chocolate domes?’
‘The what?’
‘The domes!’ I lifted a piece of cardboard from the floor, like that was going to magically help them appear. ‘We’re missing the domes! They’re not in your van, are they?’
No. Oliver’s van was empty, too. After all the checklists, run-throughs and discussion, we’d managed to bring everything except the fiddly little chocolate domes. I’d worked too hard on those pesky little things to leave them behind. Suddenly, flinging myself into the sun seemed like a viable option.
‘Did you not run through the checklist?’ Oliver glared at me.
‘Don’t look at me like that.’ I baulked. ‘You checked it, too.’
Lucy, please meet Angry Boss Oliver. Pacing the area behind the vans, hands on hips and head bowed, I thought he might combust, or spit bolts of lightning from his eyes. He muttered words I couldn’t hear before looking up at me slowly. ‘Get in the car, go back and get them.’
‘But we’re starting in ten.’
‘I do not care,’ he said slowly, carefully. ‘Go and get them.’
‘It’s an hour round trip,’ I argued. ‘I could just—’
‘Go!’ he shouted. ‘You’re not going to just do anything. You’re going to go back and get them, Lucy. I can’t have this today.’
Today had started as pleasantly as a poke in the eye. Instead of worrying about it – because ain’t nobody got time for that when you’re about to be trampled by a herd of hungry men and women – I got on with it. I had a sixty-minute trip up and back to consider how stupid and unprepared I was. Every red light in town saw me coming and, by the t
ime I hit the open road of the highway, there was a police car behind me, so fat chance of getting back with the missing food any quicker.
I dropped keys, fumbled with door locks and tripped over the doorstep. Apparently, I was headed for the royal flush this morning. As I ducked out the door, finally, I doused myself in deodorant and kept going. It might not have earned me any brownie points, but I also found a stack of business cards.
When I returned, flustered and teetering on the edge of a breakdown, the venue was organised chaos. People floated about tables. Ooohs and aaahs rose above popping wine corks and the chink of wineglasses.
‘I want you to hold off on serving those two.’ Oliver yanked the back of the van open. ‘We can use them as a top-up later.’
‘Sure.’ I began unloading the trays. ‘I got your business cards.’
‘Fine.’ Oliver snatched them and walked away.
Mobile phones were out, filters applied, and social media feeds updated at lightning speed. It was the place to be, #charity #Murrays, #OliverMurray. Even Oliver was in on the deal. The apron was off, and he was out rubbing shoulders with guests, posing for photos, and uploading some himself. As for me, I was still on red alert, walking on eggshells and waiting for the next thing to go wrong. Oh, and I’d been lumped with keeping all the staff organised: a far cry from the pep talk we’d had the night before.
Excitement over food never lasts too long – good or bad. Wine wore down common sense in the same way waves wore down rocks at a beach, slowly to begin with and then all at once. A finely dressed woman, in red lipstick and with white pearls and big hair, tapped at the microphone. It was time for a well-lubricated speech. This event was wonderful, important for tourism in the area. Oliver was praised for his wonderful cooking job, and his careful organising of staff, some of whom were currently on their way back to refilling emptying cake stands.
When Oliver took to the microphone, he spoke briefly, but passionately about his love of the area and the foods and wines available. He promised to start supplying local wines in his Paris and London venues, and went on about how important it is that businesses like his are given the support to flourish, because tourists brought money to the region, which created jobs, and made everyone happy. It was a far cry from the Oliver who’d spent the last six weeks criticising everything for not tasting “quite like this in France”.
If my blood had been fizzing before, it was starting to simmer now.
I took lunch early, all fifteen minutes of it, during a lull in proceedings. A long speech kept bums on seats and away from the coffee machine, so Oliver pushed me towards the door.
‘Go, sit down somewhere quiet for a few minutes.’ He handed me a prepacked sandwich.
‘What’s this?’ I asked.
‘I made lunch for everyone this morning. Don’t worry, you were snoring away while I did it.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘I don’t snore.’
‘No, you emulate gurgling sounds from a local brook. Now, once you’re done, I’ll send the kids out two at a time, and we’ll all be square.’
‘And you?’
‘Me, too,’ he assured me.
‘All right, I’m going.’
‘Take some cake,’ he whispered. ‘Go. I’m proud of you – you’re doing amazing today.’
‘What?’
‘You heard. Hiccups happen. You’ve had a great comeback.’
‘Are you kidding? It’s been a write-off.’
‘I promise you, it hasn’t.’ In place of a kiss, a platonic shoulder squeeze. ‘You’ve got this.’
‘Thank you,’ I said.
I sat in the first free spot I found outside, on the A-frame of a box trailer. I had no idea what it was hooked up to, but the point was, I didn’t want to sit in the car. The A-frame met my two requirements of fresh air and sunlight, and that was all I needed to know. Plus, it looked out over local gardens, so it had a lovely open-air picnic feel about it. It was just me, a light breeze, the sun, a salad sandwich, a dome cake, and the sound of two people approaching.
They stopped just short of me, at the opposite end of the trailer I was sat on.
‘You don’t suppose we’ll get caught out here?’ asked Unidentified Lady.
I swallowed down my soggy sandwich and listened.
‘What? No,’ scoffed Unidentified Man. ‘They’re too busy jacking off over their own self-importance.’
Okay, five points to Unidentified Man.
‘Have you told your wife yet?’ Unidentified Lady asked between intermittent grunts from Unidentified Man. ‘When are you leaving?’
‘It hasn’t been the right time.’ Buttons popped. A zipper dropped.
I didn’t need to be a genius to figure out that I was listening to some torrid office affair. How very cliché. I thought that, by eating my sandwich, I’d be minding my own business but, with an over-appreciative grunt, the trailer started to rock. Only once at first, but within moments I was googling the best place to buy “If it’s rocking” bumper stickers.
Sitting on the other end of the trailer felt like I was on a faulty Luna Park ride, shoved back and forth between their lustrous groans, grunts, and professions of love, all of which made Camillagate sound like a children’s novel. I didn’t know you could do that much with, well, the human body.
The last thing I wanted to do was disturb them. So, I stood to leave. Without my weight on the other end of the trailer, it shifted. And not by a little bit, by at least a metre. My Unidentified Couple stumbled to the freshly mowed ground, revealing the identity of at least one of them.
Peter. Peter of Zoe’s husband Pete fame. Underneath him, a young brunette who bore a slight resemblance to his wife, except for her horrified face. I’m quite sure I’d not seen that on Zoe yet. Give it a few hours. Peter scrambled to his feet, penis flopping about like a wet pancake, and tried tucking himself in. He left his girlfriend to fend for herself.
‘Hello, Peter.’ I smiled. ‘What do you call this? One-on-one mentoring?’
‘You need to keep out of this.’
‘Yeah.’ I laughed. ‘But nah.’
‘Lucy,’ he said, suddenly aggressive.
One of my favourite things on earth was watching people switch from begging to aggressive when they realised there was no way out. I’d seen it with Seamus only twice, never with Oliver, but it was a regular occurrence at the local pub. When simple requests didn’t work, apparently aggression was the way to get what you wanted.
‘Does Zoe know you have a girlfriend?’ I asked, turning my attention to his conquest. ‘Are you even a girlfriend? I’ve never understood how the extramarital thing works. Not quite like extracurricular activities at school, I imagine. No bonus points for effort.’
The brunette disappeared, pulling her dress down and plucking grass from her backside as she went.
‘Lucy, I am telling you to stay out of it.’
‘Really?’ I cracked the lid on my orange juice and took a swig. ‘I don’t think I can. You see, Zoe is my friend, and this whole thing’ – I waved a finger up and down in the direction of his body – ‘doesn’t look very husbandly to me.’
‘And you know what your husband has been up to, do you?’
‘Now, now, let’s not deflect,’ I said. ‘This isn’t debate club. You want to call her, or should I?’
His face drained of colour. It was the realisation that, no matter what, his game was up. I was beyond furious, teetering towards blind rage, but flying off the handle wasn’t going to get me anywhere. Plus, Peter was still tucking himself in. I doubt he’d ever worried about getting caught in his zip.
‘So, what’ll it be, Peanut? You or me?’
His shoulders dropped. ‘All right, okay. I’ll tell her tonight.’
‘Nope. You tell her now. Pick up your phone and tell her now.’
‘I should at least tell her in person.’
‘Maybe you should go home. Right now. Tell your boss you don’t feel well,’ I said.
When he gave
no indication he was going to move, I leapt at him. It was the dog equivalent of a false throw. He jumped in fright and ran. With a jelly belly and wobbly legs, I returned to the marquee, back into the chaos and relative normality where no one else seemed aware of what was going on.
Oliver looked concerned. ‘You okay?’
‘I just caught Peter burying himself in one of his colleagues.’
‘Not a huge surprise,’ he mumbled.
Oliver looked out across the room, scanning, scanning, until he spotted Peter, who was hurriedly gathering his belongings. He didn’t so much as glance back at the people who had the unfortunate pleasure of sitting with him. In the blink of an eye, he was gone, the waters were still again, and we were left to continue with the afternoon.
As the afternoon became more casual, people played musical chairs. Old connections were renewed, and new ones forged over the Uber versus taxi debate. Phones were pulled out as brag books, and weekend stories were chalked up to networking.
Around the tables, uneaten cakes were getting soft, falling over themselves in exhaustion, and I took that as a sign to start cleaning. No one was going to eat them, unless it was the end of the night and the post-alcohol munchies were kicking in, and I wasn’t keen on being around for that.
It was always a mite disappointing when the cakes hadn’t been eaten. As a baker, I work hard to make beautiful things, so when they went to waste, it was a shame. As I approached a table, a businessman in a three-piece loomed from the other side.
‘I like your cakes.’ He swayed a little, glassy-eyed and ready to go home. ‘They’re very … succulent.’
‘Thank you.’
He glared at my chest. I couldn’t be sure he’d grown out of his teenage predilections. ‘Moist.’
‘Uh-huh.’ I guessed he’d be the type to share a synonym scroll meme with his friends under the pretence of knowledge.
‘Have you got a business card?’ he asked, picking at an almost melted cheesecake.
‘Sure.’ I patted myself down, found a rectangular lump in my back pocket, and handed him a card.
‘I have’ – he pointed the card at me – ‘a prostitution for you.’
A Recipe for Disaster Page 23
