A Recipe for Disaster

When they offered Oliver the role of head chef, he knocked them back. Even though he’d worked hard, he had always wanted his own restaurant. It was the next item on his bucket list. Windsor’s came back with another offer, one he couldn’t refuse. They gave him enough funding to put his name in lights with his own eatery. The catch? They wanted a European expansion, and he was their excuse. Oliver had to open in or near Paris. No choice.

At first, we talked about our options, looked at the costs involved in moving our life across the world. Asking turned to reasoning, travel brochures, and language guides scattered around the house. When none of that worked, frustrated arguments popped up to scratch away at us. I argued that Windsor’s should test a Melbourne-based business first. Why jump headfirst into the French countryside where we knew no one? But, no, the investors were adamant on France, and sold on Oliver.

That left me two options: stay, and continue to build on a promising career, or pack up and follow him across the world with no guarantee of anything.

I stayed behind.

Six years of dating and nine years of marriage disappeared down the street in the back of a yellow cab, three weeks after Oliver’s thirtieth birthday party. I had no option but to start again.

‘Are you okay, Pet?’ Seamus leant in.

I was so lost in thought that I’d missed most of the ceremony. I’d sat down, said hello to my parents and, after that, my brain raced down memory lane like a Le Mans driver headed for the finish line. Left turn here, right turn there, careful of the hairpin, give way to the oncoming freight train going through Emotion City, and I pulled up in time to see Barry kiss his bride.

Seamus gently nudged my side. ‘What’s wrong?’

‘Hey?’ I asked.

‘You look distracted.’

‘Just worried about the cake,’ I said. It might not have been entirely true, but it was the first thing that came to mind.

‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. You did a good job. I don’t know why you spend all day in a school canteen.’ He lifted my hand to his mouth and offered a damp kiss. The hair on my arms bristled.

‘Because I have bills to pay,’ I whispered. Seamus let go of my hand.

Edith and Barry took their first jaunt down the aisle, emerging into the sunshine of the garden to be showered with rice, confetti, and all manner of environmentally unfriendly wedding treats. Like a leaky tap, everyone followed, and stood around looking busy while the bridal party posed for photos around the property. Was it polite to look for the bar so soon?

Then again, being near the bar meant wandering inside and involved dealing with Oliver who, watching from the back of the pack, was already inching his way inside. When the door clapped shut behind him, I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he would disappear into the confines of the kitchen, and stay there for the evening.

Canapés and drinks around the marquee morphed into the splashy beginnings of a reception. Bodies crowded around the small frame in the foyer to find table numbers and, before we could lift our glasses in celebration, we’d witnessed a grand entrance, heard the MC’s introduction, and had moved directly into the first speech of the night. Each table was adorned with the shiniest cutlery, sparkling glasses, name cards, and a selection of red and white wine. I reached across the table for a red and knocked over my name card in the process.

Scribbled in its apex, in bold black lettering, a phone number. I snatched the card up quickly and tucked it into my breast pocket. My heart leapt into my throat as I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully, Seamus was busy chatting up the girl to his right. To my left, Mum was busy trying to tell Dad he was using the wrong glass. I could hear blood rushing through my ears and the bass drum of my heart picking up speed.

If I’d hoped Oliver would stick to the kitchen, I was sorely mistaken. It seemed he enjoyed leading by example, being a hands-on boss. He visited tables, helped serve meals, and stepped in to clarify allergy information. There was a collective gasp of recognition that rose around the room when he first emerged with plates balanced on forearms. A celebrity was about to serve dinner. Beside me, I thought my mother was about to collapse from excitement.

‘Lucy.’ Her fingers gripped my arm like a hawk with a salmon.

I braced. ‘Yes?’

‘Is that … no … Oliver?’ If she made her pointing more obvious, I was going to have to buy her a spotlight. Oliver zipped past the table again, leaving the kitchen door swinging, and Mum’s mouth slack with shock. I felt Seamus wriggle about uncomfortably next to me.

‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat. ‘That’s him.’

Again, she gasped. It was scandal, delight, pure bliss. If she were a computer game, her lives would have been at full strength, victory music tinkling as she prepared to take on the world.

‘Hang on, wait.’ Seamus looked at me. ‘You mean to tell me that’s the guy who left you?’

I nodded.

‘The one you were married to?’ He stopped himself with a pointed finger. ‘Sorry, are married to.’

My marriage was something we hadn’t spoken about in depth. I’d tried, but conversation was shut down, or the topic changed. Oliver had been mentioned as the husband who’d left, gone on to other things. What I hadn’t stated was that he’d gone on to conquer restaurants, magazines, Michelin stars, and was more than a little bit famous – as witnessed by all the mobile phones pointed in his direction as he moved around the room with plates and, at one point, stopped to pose for a selfie.

‘Are you kidding me right now?’ Seamus glared across the room. If he were a meme, he’d be screaming, ‘Fight me.’

‘Seamus, leave it alone,’ I grumbled, embarrassed.

‘Leave it alone?’ He turned his anger to me. ‘Firstly, this was something important you hadn’t told me.’

I hadn’t told him because he’d always shut me down and, well, even my mum thought it impolite to talk about Oliver in front of him. God knows why.

‘It’s really not.’ I watched as Oliver disappeared into the kitchen, laughing with a waitress. ‘It’s not detrimental to us.’

‘Detrimental? This guy … you’ve made me watch him on telly. You’re unbelievable.’ He scoffed. ‘Did you know he was going to be here?’

‘No.’ Not technically a lie, not entirely the truth. I had, after all, only seen him moments before the ceremony.

‘Honestly, Lucy, I don’t know why you’re not still with him.’

‘Oh, Mum! That is so rude!’ My face seared with embarrassment. Dad reached across the table, plucked a bread roll from the basket, and shoved the end in his mouth.

‘Thank you for that.’ Seamus scowled at her. ‘Really.’

She reached around and grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Now, don’t be like that, Shame-us,’ she said, over-pronouncing his name as usual. ‘You’re lovely enough, but I was so hoping Lucy could make her marriage work.’

I pressed fingers to my temples. ‘Kill me now.’

Entrées were an alternate drop of sticky maple ham with fig jus, and lemon-marinated prawns. They both looked delicious resting atop green leaves, and I was hungry enough to want either, despite my usual hatred of seafood. Today I wasn’t fussy. Seamus refused his plate of prawns.

‘Send it back. It looks like shite.’ He held a hand up before the plate could so much as dint the tablecloth.

I braced, waiting for the fallout. Looks were exchanged around the table, which was full of strangers, thrown together like some late-night speed-dating exercise. Normally, at a wedding, that’s a perfectly wonderful opportunity to meet, network, and exchange ideas. Only, tonight those ideas felt more like dirty laundry. Our waiter, a perturbed-looking teenager, disappeared back to the kitchen without another word.

Tables around us clattered and chattered, the noise rising to a crescendo of excitement as entrées became mains. It was under this umbrella of noise that Oliver made his way across to our table.

‘Problem with the entrée?’ he asked, a solid hand placed on the back of my chair.

‘Fuck off,’ Seamus grumbled.

‘Good to see you, Lucy. You’re looking well.’ Oliver offered up a plate. ‘Are you still allergic to seafood?’

‘What?’ Seamus stood, sizing him up. ‘She’s not allergic.’

‘No, you’re right, but she doesn’t like it, does she?’ Oliver placed the beef in front of me, seafood in front of Seamus. ‘If you tell the kitchen you’re allergic, you’re not going to be served it, are you?’

Seamus, a permanent frown now set on his face, glanced at me, at Oliver, and back again.

Oliver extended his hand. ‘Oliver – it’s good to meet you.’

‘Shame I can’t say the same.’ Seamus refused to shake hands.

‘I’m just here for the food.’ Oliver patted him on the shoulder. Seamus flinched. ‘No need to get antsy.’

Mum watched on gleefully, hoping Oliver would somehow white-knight me, perhaps sweep me away in a flurry of mashed potato and daydreams. All I wanted was to get through the night without it devolving into a fiery pit of who was right, who was wrong, or who was the better cook. As Oliver walked away, Seamus leaned in for an over-the-top, attention-grabbing, beer-infused kiss. As if I wasn’t already feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable.

‘Who picks fish for a wedding anyway?’ Seamus pulled his seat in. ‘What a joke.’

‘Seamus, please.’ I looked at him.

‘What?’ he asked. ‘It’s true. And I can cook better than this.’

‘Okay,’ I said.

‘Okay?’

I huffed. ‘Yep. I’m agreeing. You can cook better than that.’

He couldn’t. It was one thing to debone an entire carcass of meat. It was another altogether to be able to cook it, and burnt steaks weren’t my idea of a good time. He reached across and gave my knee a squeeze, satisfied grin pinching at his eyes.

Mum’s plate had barely been cleared off before she barrelled Oliver into a corner. One minute she was eating, the next she was spilling secrets quicker than a Japanese fast train. With frown lines and his teeth dragging at his bottom lip, Oliver fixed her with a gaze that said he was drinking in every single word she had to offer. As for Seamus, he’d disappeared into a cloud of footballers by the bar. They yelled, they cheered, they shattered a beer glass on the floor.

‘You all right, Kiddo?’ Dad looked at me. Despite the glazed look in his eyes – too much beer – I could sense a talk coming on.

‘I am fine.’ I tore my eyes away from Oliver, who was watching me over my mother’s shoulder.

‘You’re a great liar.’ He smiled his way around the room, waving at an old family friend.

Holding my glass steady at my mouth, I almost laughed. ‘I am not.’

‘That’s what I meant.’ He pointed at me with an almost empty bottle. ‘You and your mother get that look about you when you lie. It’s all distant gazes and short sentences. I say it’s great because I can spot it a mile off. Made your teenage years much easier.’

I returned his question. ‘Are you okay?’

He hiccupped. ‘I’m great. You know she’ll be carrying on about His Nibs for months now?’

‘No doubt.’ I dug around in the bottom of my handbag for my phone. Facebook was having a stellar night. Edith had already uploaded a photo of her cake, which was overflowing with likes, comments, and questions about who had baked it. Zoe was freaking out in sync with me, if her messages were anything to go by, and I had a friend request from someone in Nigeria. That was about as legit as my night was fun.

‘Are you really all right?’ Dad leant in to the table like it was the only thing holding him up.

‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ I took a deep breath and waved my phone at him. ‘Just a surprise, that’s all.’

‘Isn’t it just?’ He offered a gurgling laugh, like a bath plug being pulled. ‘What are you going to do about it?’

‘Nothing. It’s completely okay. People can choose whomever they want to cater. We’ll sort out what we need to sort out, and the sun will come up tomorrow.’ I grinned.

‘Buck up, Kiddo.’ He clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’ll work out in the wash.’

Another glass shattered, tinkling across the floor. Victorious, Seamus departed the scrum and made for a microphone sat by the DJ’s station. He picked it up, inspected it, tapped it, and switched it on with a squeal that brought the room to a standstill. And then he climbed up onto the bridal table.

‘Good evening, friends,’ he began.

A slightly enthusiastic cheer rose from a clueless crowd.

‘Jesus,’ I groaned. If I could have slid further under the table, I would have. And where was the DJ? Nowhere. Toilet break, maybe. A DJ was absolutely not going to save my life tonight.

‘Hello, everyone. Would you like to hear a … no, don’t take it from me, I have a story to tell you,’ Seamus started, his voice echoing through the room. ‘Get away. I want to say some words for the bride and groom.’

A chill ran up my spine. On the list of stupid things he could do, this was going to be the one that took the cake – absolutely no pun intended. My heart raced like a hamster on a wheel. This wasn’t going to end well for anyone.

‘Isn’t the bride beautiful today? You look incredible.’ He smiled proudly, chest puffed out as the crowd clapped and cheered. ‘And how about the cake, huh? Beautiful?’

More cheering. Well, that was a plus I was happy to take.

‘… so, Lucy has made this cake, right. It looks great but, I mean, let’s be honest – it wasn’t hard. A bit of flour, eggs, and chocolate, and suddenly, she’s handing out business cards and calling herself a baker.’

Behind me, Oliver mumbled low and slow, ‘Fucking hell.’

‘… it’s hardly a talent.’ Seamus burped. ‘Come on. It’s just a bleeding cake.’

The PA squealed. I grimaced. Confused faces looked around the room, everyone trying to work out just who Seamus was directing his ire at.

‘It gets better, though.’ He laughed. ‘Did any of you know she’s still married? You know who to, right? That caterer who’s been racing around here all night. Beef, chicken, beef, fish. Fuck off.’

He burped. The crowd gasped in horror. Each time someone tried to grab at him, he darted out of the way. The DJ was still nowhere to be seen, having left the room with the quiet warbling of mood music set to Repeat: All. Next up, ‘(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life’ for five hundred points.

‘I mean, anyone who was halfway serious about her life would have sorted that shit out years ago, but no, not you, Lucy. No. I’m just the doorstop it seems. Just the toy. Well, you know what? Couldn’t care. Not bothered. He can keep you, poncing around all night like he owns the place. Gordon Fucking Ramsay.’

During a brief, pin-dropping silence, a small scuffle broke out, sound-tracked by a collective gasp. Despite efforts, Seamus was still standing on the bridal table, swaying like a flag in a breeze. One foot between a hurricane lamp and a bouquet of flowers, the other pushing a plate out of the way. Barry enlisted a small rabble and, when Seamus wasn’t looking, too busy flipping me the bird, they pulled him to the ground.

‘They’re probably still shagging … arsehole.’ His voice was muffled, but still loud enough for everyone to hear exactly what he’d said. ‘Urgh. Bitch.’

I was numb.

It had taken less than ten minutes for my life to turn on its head. Again. Seamus had always been a bit of a loose cannon. I could forgive the missed calls and unanswered text messages. The family dinners he skipped because he ‘forgot’ could even be overlooked. Life was busy, after all. We weren’t living together, and we all slip up from time to time. Swearing at my friend, her husband, and their kids was the start of the decline. This? This wasn’t just the straw that broke the camel’s back. This was an out of control dumpster fire.

Edith sat by the bridal table, looking mortified. Barry and his group of friends shoved Seamus unceremoniously out the back door with little more than a glass of water and zero sympathy. I couldn’t blame them.

The moment the volume rose again, I stood and slipped through the front door. As I rounded the side of the building and made for the car park, the opening beats of Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ thumped from the speakers at each end of the dance floor. I wasn’t sure if it was clapping I heard as I walked away, or my brain farting in relief at the night being over.

‘Lucy.’ Seamus jumped up from a wooden log by the car.

I scurried past, feet crunching on gravel. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

‘Oh, no, Luce, I’m sorry.’

His words held no weight, likely as empty as every other garbage promise that had come from him in the last six months. Wind blew hair about my face, and I tried desperately to stop it sticking to my lip gloss. Clock that up to another fail.

‘You can collect your things tomorrow.’ I unlocked only the driver’s side while Seamus reefed on the passenger’s door. ‘If you’re not there by midday, whatever is yours is going in the bin.’

‘But I didn’t mean it, Lucy.’ He pouted. The cheek! ‘Come on, Sweetie, open up and let me in.’

The only thing I opened was my handbag, his wallet and phone still placed haphazardly atop of everything else. Aside from being a girlfriend, I’d become part-time carer when he couldn’t be bothered looking after his own belongings. The longer I sat in the car and thought, even as his tapping at the window grew louder, the quicker the cons outweighed the pros. I wound the window down, tossed his phone, keys, and wallet away, and drove off into the night.

CHAPTER THREE

The next morning brought with it light drizzle and shreds of clarity. The damage from Seamus’s outburst wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed in the heat of the moment. At least not for me. I’d readied myself for the fallout, perhaps an epic dressing-down, or a mass defriending. But, a nervous call to a hungover Edith, complete with grovelling apology, sanded over the bristly edges. Perhaps it was the offer of a free christening cake that sealed the deal and had her laughing by the time we hung up.

I peered at my phone through barely parted fingers, but I needn’t have worried. Social media confirmed more of the same: I would be remembered more for my cake than Tropical Cyclone Seamus who, by all accounts, was now ex-communicated, Romeo on his way to Verona. By midday, there were even two voicemails on my phone from people wanting their own cakes made. Safe in that knowledge, I scribbled down their details and ploughed headfirst into the new day, which included coffee with an anxious Zoe as afternoon made its way to evening.

We’d met on the first day of high school, both of us standing around nervously. We were pulled together by the sheer horror of having our mothers there to make an embarrassing fuss over us. To make a quick getaway, Zoe had pretended we knew each other from “the streets”, as she termed it. While my mum wasn’t excited by that prospect, Zoe’s had smiled, nodded, and let us go on our way.

We’d been thick as thieves ever since. It had been on Zoe’s suggestion that Oliver and I looked for a property in Inverleigh. She moved here first, and found it a nice thirty-minute drive from her parents. Close enough if she needed help, and far enough for a bit of privacy.

She hoisted herself up onto a rickety cane stool by my bench and switched on the kettle. My kitchen looked like it had seen better days. Cupboards were open where coffee cups and bowls had been reclaimed, a mixing bowl still needed a run through the dishwasher, knives and spatulas were crusted over, and I had another cake to start. Let’s not even talk about the dusty pink tiles and paint job that would have been better placed in the 1970s.

‘So?’ she asked.

I smiled conspiratorially. ‘So?’

‘What happened? Are we wearing radiation suits, or are the hills alive with the sound of changed locks and cleansing ceremonies?’ She picked at a bowl of chocolates I’d been working my way through in post-breakup bliss.

When I arrived home last night, I piled Seamus’s belongings onto the couch for him to collect. Stained coffee cups, over-watched movies, and a decrepit VHS player that had found its way into my already cramped lounge room. I fished dirty underwear from the laundry floor, and wet clothes from where they’d been left in the washing machine yesterday morning. And then I enjoyed a glass of wine in the shower, and didn’t feel an ounce of regret over it.

I bent over into the dishwasher and rearranged the stack. ‘The hills are alive with the sound of singledom. A rather unwell Seamus presented at eight o’clock this morning. He came, he saw, he collected his junk, and left.’

‘Tail between legs?’ Zoe took the two coffee cups offered and started our hackneyed routine.

‘Up between his legs and curled around his middle,’ I said. ‘There’s not a lot to add, really – you’ve seen the photos and heard the stories.’

‘Definitely.’

‘He was sorry, he loves me, he promises he’ll do better, he knows he hasn’t been the best, but I was like … no, bye.’

‘Good.’ She shoved a fun-sized Mars bar in her mouth. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I feel really positive, which might seem silly, I know. I thought I’d be heartbroken, but I’m okay. I mean, when he came over, he wanted to talk and go out for lunch, and he was all: can we please work this out because I really love you.’

Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘I call bullshit.’

‘You know that look he gets, all frown lines? It’s almost like he’s scandalised, and oh so hard done by.’

‘I do,’ Zoe said. ‘It was the same look he gave us when we caught him out at that bar in Geelong.’

After turning me down for a date, citing a long day on the job at the butcher’s, Zoe had instead taken up my offer to head down the highway to Geelong for dinner. We ate, we drank, we laughed and, on our way back to the car, we spotted Seamus through the grubby windows of a pub. A group of friends circled him as they backslapped, laid money on the horses, and sloshed glasses of beer around their heads in celebration.

‘Call his phone,’ Zoe had urged.

It was a politer option than standing by the windows and screaming, so I dialled his number and waited. When he realised it was his phone ringing, he fished it from his pocket, took one look at the screen, and screwed his face up. Said phone was placed back in his pocket in a drop quick enough to suggest it was a hot potato.

‘Well, then.’ I’d tapped out a succinct and impolite text message, and waited for him to find me standing on the footpath.

That was only eight weeks ago.

Zoe gave me a look of pity.

‘Don’t look at me like that.’ I shook my head. ‘I spoke to Edith this morning. She tells me it’s okay, that it wasn’t my fault, that she should have told me about Oliver.’

‘You do know you slid from the purest man on earth, Oliver, to the biggest piece of shit. Seamus was a clod.’ When I said nothing, she continued, floodgates open, victory flag waving. ‘He used you, spoke to you like you were garbage, and you persisted because for some stupid reason you thought he was beautiful.’

I grimaced. ‘He kind of was.’

‘Yeah, he really wasn’t,’ she insisted. ‘He had tattooed knuckles, Lucy. Yuck. He was a bad boy, and they don’t suit you. At all. Some people, yes, but you’re icing sugar. He’s just … a lemon.’

If I could count on Zoe for anything, at least it was honesty. Worst, or best, of all, she was hardly ever wrong.

She sloshed some milk in each mug. ‘But, hey, the internet loves you. And your cake.’

‘On that point …’

She smiled. ‘Yes …’

‘This whole episode has made me think about things,’ I said. Even though my epiphany was guided by alcohol and an aching sense of nostalgia discovered in the shower, I still felt buoyant, on the right track.

‘This’ll be good.’

‘Okay.’ I took a sip of coffee. ‘Firstly, I think I should get back into baking.’

‘Yes!’ Zoe shouted, fingers reaching to the sky. ‘She’s seen the light.’