A Recipe for Disaster

I smiled. ‘I just really enjoyed it. I loved the process, the result, and the reactions. I haven’t felt like that for a long time.’

‘Wait, is this something to do with Oliver being back? We haven’t talked about that yet.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. Oliver will be what he will be. We’ll sort that out, hopefully with minimal tears and angst. But I need to look after me, now. I need to do what I’m good at.’

‘I’m so happy.’ She shook my hand around like she was a granny at a family reunion. ‘For you, I mean. Not that I’d knock back some free cake, you know.’

‘It’s completely different to cooking at that bloody school, you know. Packet mix this and deep fried that.’

‘We all know your talents are wasted there,’ Zoe said, straightening in her seat. ‘Are you going to stay there? Please don’t, some of those mums are awful, awful women.’

I shrugged, setting the mixing bowl into the Kitchen Aid and pulling frozen cakes from the freezer. ‘Who knows? I’m hoping to score the promotion, but we’ll see.’

‘Why the freezer?’ Zoe asked. ‘Is it fresh?’

‘Yes, it’s fresh,’ I said. ‘Keeps the cake moist.’

‘Oh, nice. It’s no secret Richard thinks you are the sunrise, so I would say you’ve got it in the bag.’

‘Richard?’ I asked. ‘The principal?’

‘Adores you.’ Zoe over-exaggerated, eyes wide and head thrown back for good measure. ‘I’m talking, take you behind the bike sheds for a spiritual rendezvous type of adore.’

‘He does not.’

‘I have it on good authority he does.’ Zoe yanked the door of the pantry open. ‘Also, I’ve seen him perving. Have you got any biscuits?’

‘Eye level, back left.’ I waved a hand. ‘He hasn’t been perving on me.’

‘Crumbling, crumbling gold,’ she mumbled, pulling the plastic container down. She’d shoved two in her mouth before she made it back to her chair. ‘Did you make these? They’re incredible.’

‘And how are you?’ I asked, acutely aware we’d been aboard the SS Lucy for far too long. That, and I wanted to get well away from the subject of school principals and bike sheds. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Peter is a dickbag, and I have four kids and a mortgage bigger than post-birth haemorrhoids.’

‘That doesn’t exactly sound like fun.’

She shook her head, another biscuit in her mouth. ‘Can’t say it is.’

‘Anything you, you know, want to talk about?’

Zoe scrunched her face up. ‘Nah, not really. It’ll work out in the wash, right? We had words this morning, hence my elongated trip out to check on the progress of the cake. I’m also apparently going into town to confirm the jumping castle, but I just called and did that, so it’s all good.’

I looked at the varying colours of fondant spread along the bench, all wrapped in cling film to prevent drying. Outside, the sun was dipping below the skyline. ‘Well, the cake is going wonderfully.’

‘Will it be ready for tomorrow? It looks a little naked.’

‘If I have to stay up all night to get it done, so be it.’

Zoe slid from the stool. ‘I should probably go feed the family. Plus, I’ve got my own stuff to cook.’

‘Do you want me to make anything else for tomorrow?’

‘Gosh, no, the cake is more than enough.’ She grabbed another handful of biscuits and made for the front door. ‘See you in the morning.’

With not much more than a palette knife and a sprinkling of patience, Thomas was soon covered in smooth, sharp-edged buttercream. Divots were filled and scratches buffed out before I started on the fondant. There were coloured pieces cut and scattered across the bench and ready to be worked onto the cake. A knock at the front door and a familiar silhouette had other ideas.

Coffee cup in hand, I shuffled to the front door, pushing the screen door open to reveal a sheepish-looking Oliver. My good mood vanished like a cheap candle at the sight of him in jeans, sneakers, and a paint-smattered T-shirt.

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

I leant forward, clapping my hand to his forehead. ‘You do feel warm.’

The beginnings of a smile. ‘I owe you an apology.’

‘Correct.’ I shuffled my feet. ‘What for?’

‘For being a self-centred jerk, for leaving. In hindsight, that was very wrong.’

‘Very?’ I took another sip of coffee. ‘Surely there’s a word stronger than “very”.’

‘If there is, you’d know it, not me.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘I know all of this is an awfully long time coming, but I have a lot of regret over the way I handled things with us. Seeing you last night just drove that home like a freight train.’

I settled in for the long run, leaning in to the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other. ‘Continue.’

‘Well, I’m sorry.’ His licked his lips. ‘What I did was selfish and, truthfully, had I put a bit more thought into it, we’d likely still be married … together. Whatever.’

‘And?’ I rolled a hand about in front of me. I certainly didn’t want to stop him while he was in the mood to talk.

‘Hey?’

‘You’ve got a lot more grovelling to do yet.’ I drained my cup. ‘Hang on, I need a refill for this.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘No, can’t say you can.’

‘Right.’ Oliver looked around, scratched at his upper lip. ‘Can I interest you in a walk, then? I thought we might at least talk about a few things.’

‘Talk about a few things?’ I grinned, a little lopsided. ‘Now he wants to talk.’

‘Come on, Loo, for old time’s sake?’

Going for a walk had always been code for one of us being frustrated. At this point, I suspected we both were. Whether it was the endorphins created by incidental exercise, or simply the fact we were out in the crisp night air, we would walk, we would talk and, eventually, we’d solve our problem, before moving on to exciting things like world domination.

All the restaurants, cafés, and takeaways we were going to own were conceived and aborted on our late-night jaunts. Yet, given the way our last phone conversation had ended eighteen months ago, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to follow him anywhere, even with his “Please love me” face. But curiosity will kill the cat. I snatched up my house keys, abandoned my coffee cup, and pulled the door shut behind me.

Our first few minutes were spent in silence. Nothing but the crunching of loose bitumen under our feet.

‘It’s good to see you.’ In the warm night air, under the bright fuzz of a streetlight, Oliver did his best to avoid eye contact, at least for now.

We walked side-by-side, his hands still buried in his pockets, me with my arms wrapped around me in some wayward attempt at a security blanket. There was a fire of synapses and past life experiences as I tried to decide whether I felt the same about seeing him. I was too tired for an argument.

‘It is?’ I asked.

‘It is.’ He studied my face for a moment. ‘Look, I don’t want this to be awkward.’

‘It certainly feels incredibly awkward.’ My admission wasn’t as grounding as I hoped it would be, but it gave us a few moments of silent contemplation.

‘Are you well?’ Oliver asked finally. ‘How’s Conor McGregor treating you? Does he like your cake?’

I snorted. ‘We broke up.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not, and let’s not pretend you are, either,’ I said. ‘What about you? Are you seeing anyone?’

Selfishly, I didn’t want to know the answer to that, either, but this was apparently catch-up time, and there was a little bit of me that was curious.

Oliver sighed heavily, rounding the corner into the main street. ‘No, there’s no one.’

‘How’s business?’ I asked.

‘It’s going well.’ He paused. ‘Very well. We’re hitting targets, bookings are through the roof, costs are playing out well, expansion is happening, so everyone’s decently happy with that.’

‘Glad to hear.’ That wasn’t a lie. No matter what, I never wished him ill will or failings. That he was succeeding at least proved one of us right.

The quiet rustle of people at tables, and a pop of laughter told us weren’t alone as we walked by the pub. With each table we passed, I could feel eyes on Oliver. People whispered and questioned, none of them daring to interrupt us, just in case they had assumed wrongly.

I filled him in on my job, what little there was to tell. For reasons unknown to me, I spared him the gory details that go along with a limited income and a mortgage and, somewhere in the middle, we slipped into the comfortable conversation we had always enjoyed. It pinched at my heart and reminded me of a time when things were simpler, happier, more balanced. We came to a stop outside a once-abandoned shop. It sat in the slip lane off the main street, which functioned as a highway. I stood on the footpath, counting the ways the building had changed.

Slick, gloss-white paint had replaced the peeling mint-green exterior. A new pendant light swung gently in the night breeze, and fresh cream awnings covered once yellowing and newspaper-clad windows. The veranda and front steps were amid a rework, but it looked a million dollars compared to what it had previously.

‘Do you remember we used to talk about this place all the time?’ Oliver looked at me.

It was supposed to be our baby. We’d always talked about opening a little café, serving lunches and cakes, coffee and a place to chat, but we never made it that far. I watched as Oliver walked over to the switchboard around the side of the building, opened the cover, and flicked on the interior lights.

From the pub, I could hear a roar of laughter float through the air. A car hummed along the freeway, and a bored dog howled at the moon.

The awnings rattled up, still tight in their fittings, to reveal clear glass windows. A glittering gold ‘Murray’s’ logo was painted across them both. Inside, the dining area had furnishings and fittings stacked and leant against walls, a chilled display cabinet was already in place and, despite being empty, it looked ready to take orders.

‘What do you think?’ Oliver was at my side again, looking at me with an anxious need for approval.

I looked back at him, an awful, angry, acidic feeling whirring away in the pit of my stomach. ‘What is this? Is this a joke?’

He shook his head. ‘No joke. Murray’s of Inverleigh is opening in about six weeks, give or take.’

‘This was our dream. Ours.’ I could feel my voice struggling to find air. ‘And now, what, you’ve taken that from me, too? Do you remember what you said to me the last time we spoke?’ I asked. ‘Do you?’

‘I do.’

‘You said you wished you had never met me.’ My eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Now you’re back and you’ve done this? Have you completely lost your mind?’

‘Luce, I didn’t mean that. I was angry. I shouldn’t have said it. I should have stepped back, calmed down, and called back later.’

‘After everything we’d been through, that was what you said to me. On our anniversary. You have no idea of the hurt you’ve caused.’ I wiped at eyes that were filling with tears I didn’t need right now.

‘You’re right. I probably don’t. In my defence, I was angry, but it was completely wrong and inaccurate, and I owe you so much more than an apology.’

‘You’re right. You owe me three years worth of mortgage payments, for a start. It was great fun swimming in debt on a single income, even though Google liked to tell me how much you were raking in the dollars and endorsements. Never mind the fact you’d managed to scrub me from the world’s collective memory. One puff of smoke in the Daily Mail about Oliver’s secret wife and, next minute, there’s retractions and apologies because Oliver Murray doesn’t want the world to know what a colossal moron he is.’

‘I wish you’d mentioned the financial situation earlier.’

‘Actually, I did. Every time you called, I told you I wasn’t doing well. Like all the times I told you I didn’t want to go to France with you because there was nothing there for me. They were adamant we weren’t to work together, so I would have no job, no language skills, and no friends or family. What was I supposed to do, Oliver? Just hang around all day and wait for you? But, too bad, because you didn’t want to listen.’

‘I-I don’t know what you want me to say?’ Oliver stammered. ‘I can say sorry, but I … I don’t know.’

‘Yes, yes you do. You packed up and moved to another bloody country for what? Fame? And now you’re back with all your money and adoration and, what, you’re going to rub it all in my face all over again by opening our dream café?’ I shrieked. ‘Oliver, I don’t want your apology, I want a divorce.’

I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back, and I didn’t stop until I made it home. I locked the door behind me, and worked out my anger on some fondant because, even though I wanted to have a good old-fashioned cry and feel sorry for myself for a moment, I had a five-year-old waiting for a cake.

CHAPTER FOUR

Thomas the Tank Engine peered up at me from the passenger’s seat of my car. One pupil had slipped to the left, and the other had sunk down far enough that it looked like a booger. While I should have been cursing my last-minute rush job, I was too busy laughing to be too upset. I took a photo and sent it to Zoe.

I’m here, but Thomas looks a little absent.

Thomas is me right now.

Hurry up and get inside so we can laugh at it together.

Crouched beside my car, I reattached the eyes as best I could with the shake of a water bottle and a spare paintbrush. As I walked through the side gate and along the path, I was calculating how long it would be before I was able to toss my shoes aside and launch myself into the oversized blue and yellow jumping castle adorning the backyard. Any minute now, if I had my pick.

My theory that cake increased a person’s popularity was proving true as I navigated my way through a small sea of children. They followed me across the yard with their ruddy faces and half-drunk colas like I was the Pied Piper of Small People, yelping about how amazing Thomas looked and, please, when could they eat him? He did look brilliant now that his eyes were fixed. Zoe swatted the kids away like flies as she shepherded me inside.

‘Why didn’t you use the front door?’ she asked. ‘Save battling the kids?’

‘Oh, I heard you preferred the back door.’

Peter, her husband, snorted as he walked over to examine the cake.

‘He looks much less stoned than earlier.’ He clapped me on the shoulder and kissed my cheek before pushing a stiff envelope into my handbag. ‘You’re amazing.’

I shrugged. ‘He looks okay, yeah.’

‘Okay? Lucy, it’s wonderful,’ Zoe scolded. ‘Confidence, please.’

A small crowd of adults gathered around the cake, like it was baby Jesus in the manger. Instead of offering me any kind of rare gifts, they offered my cake to the Instagram gods. Photos were taken from enough angles to make a flip cartoon, and hashtags were liberally applied. I disappeared into the yard before anyone had the chance to corner me for conversation. Not that I wanted to avoid people, I liked people, but there was always someone who could make it cheaper, or who wanted to tell me it really wasn’t that difficult. If there wasn’t, we wouldn’t have entire websites dedicated to cake fails.

A trestle table by the back door offered up its finest childhood party treats. Rainbow-coloured fairy bread, unicorn cupcakes, homemade toffees, snack bags of crisps, Tetra Pak juices, and fun-size chocolates sat side-by-side with the obligatory cheese and biscuit plate for the adults. I grabbed a plate, piled it with one of everything and wandered aimlessly towards the grass.

School parents hung about like a live-action Guess Who? Among the crowd, was Carol from canteen. I giggled when I thought about how “Carol from canteen” sounded like a bad stage name. I tore the straw from my tetra pack and parked myself in front of a blow-up television screen at the opposite end of the yard.

My only companion seemed to be Emile, the birthday boy, who wandered over and launched himself onto my lap, threw his arms around my neck and kissed me thank-you for his cake. Instead of running off to play with his friends, like I hoped he would, he made himself comfortable and talked me through the second half of the Smurfs film.

Like all good levees, it took just one person to break the silence. One question about my cakes rolled into a price enquiry and, where one person started the discussion, others continued it in a small circle around me. Names and numbers were swapped, and notes were scribbled in diary pages. To some, it might not have meant much. To me, it meant everything. It was beginning to feel like the start of something fantastic.

‘So.’ Zoe sported an exhausted shuffle as she made her way towards me with a bottle of cola and two plastic cups. Her dark hair flopped out of its ponytail and clung to her forehead. ‘How’s your day been?’

‘Interesting.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Really? How so?’

‘Um, so, Oliver is opening a café in town.’

Zoe gasped. ‘That cheeky bastard. He’s got some form.’ Her head snapped around the yard.

‘What are you looking for?’ I asked, my eyes following the direction of her gaze.

‘I was hoping someone had abandoned their smokes.’ She nodded in the direction of the jumping castle. ‘Let’s go talk.’

‘Oh, I have been eyeing this up since I arrived.’ I kicked off my shoes and raced for the entrance.

‘I’m playing counsellor now. How do you feel about the Oliver situation?’ Zoe climbed in behind me. The cake had been cut, kids had spun out, and almost everyone had gone home. All that remained was the night sky, Zoe, me, and Peter trying to wrangle the kids inside.

We wibbled and wobbled about, teetering on the edge of collapse while yellow, red, and blue plastic warped and moulded to our bodies. Bouncing around distorted my vision like an acid trip in a kaleidoscope. I swayed, feeling somewhat disconnected from everything, while Zoe poured out some shaky plastic cups full of soft drink.

‘I’m angry.’ I sank back against the wall. ‘My thoughts have consumed me these past twenty-four hours. It’s wonderful for him because yay for success, but it just seems like such a … taunt. Like he’s rubbing his success in my face. Look what you could have had, Lucy.’

‘And?’ Her glance snapped up to me, her expression angry. ‘That’s not all.’

‘Well, why here?’ I asked. ‘Of all the sites he could have picked in the world.’

‘It’s almost like dangling the carrot?’

‘Exactly,’ I squeaked. ‘I mean, you’re still my wife, but you’re not because I ran away, but, hey, look, I’m back in town. By the way, I still have a fantastic cock.’

‘Well, he’s not wrong about that.’ Zoe glanced up quickly. ‘Not that I know about his cock, because I don’t.’

Cola fizzed in my nose as I tried to hold back a laugh. ‘I mean, I’m so ragey right now.’

The castle shuddered with her bounce. ‘Me, too.’

I joined her. ‘On the plus side, I had a few queries today.’

‘Good.’

‘I’d love to make more cakes like Thomas,’ I said. ‘But the idea of getting back into the fiddly, fancy patisserie stuff is so tempting, too.’

‘I just want to see you happy.’ Zoe tossed the cola bottle out of the jumping castle. It fizzed so hard the lid spat off and sprayed sugary drink everywhere. ‘If that’s with cakes, it’s with cakes. If it’s you and Oliver all over again, then Godspeed.’

‘What is happy, do you think?’ I asked.

‘Happy is having four crazy kids and a ridiculous husband who still doesn’t understand that cleaning the toilet is more involved than putting a Duck disc in it.’

I laughed. ‘Jesus. Olly wasn’t much better, and I’m sure Seamus didn’t know how to use the washing machine. He forgot clothes need to come out once you’ve hit the go button.’

‘I think you know you’re not fulfilled right now, but I’m worried about the slippery slide that having Oliver back might become, and you know I say that because I love you.’

‘Thank you.’ I tossed my cup aside and waited for her to do the same. ‘But, you’re right. I need to just move on and create my own success.’

‘That’s my girl!’ She threw her arms up in a cheer. ‘You’re opening a cake shop!’

I looked across at her. ‘I don’t know. Right now, I think no.’

‘What do you truly love?’ She pushed me over in a squealing mess. ‘Besides me, of course.’

‘Memes.’ I rolled about the floor laughing.

‘Penis, yes, good answer.’

‘No, I said memes.’ I laughed.

‘Oh.’

‘But, seriously …’ I wriggled about and looked up at the sky. It could have been a shooting star; it could have been a satellite, the International Space Station, or David Bowie floating about in space. Whatever it was, a tiny blip hurtled across my line of sight. ‘I need to get back to me.’

‘I think you know what you need to do, then.’ Zoe slid down the wall, bouncing once, twice, three times into stillness.

CHAPTER FIVE

In complete contrast to my marriage, my parents had been married for forty-five years, even though they were chalk and cheese. Dad was drier than the Simpson Desert. His humour often flew over most people, including Mum, who was fruitier than an apple orchard in spring. The important thing was, it worked for them.

Their home, in an overpriced Geelong suburb, was a forty-minute drive from me. It overlooked a football stadium with lights so bright anyone within a ten-kilometre radius could perform surgery at midnight. Photos of grandchildren in mismatched frames clung to every surface, often competing with random biscuit tins for attention. My high-school photos still graced the desk in their study, as did a pocket-sized photo of Oliver and me at my eighteenth birthday party. Why? It was the awkward braces and ponytail phase. Why did anyone need to be reminded of that?

As much as I didn’t want to keep talking about the mess my life had become, Mum managed to squeeze all the juicy bits out of me before I’d so much as smelt my first whiff of roast dinner. Yes, Seamus was gone. Yes, I had seen Oliver. No, there was nothing happening there.

‘But isn’t it wonderful he’s back? And a new café! I want to be there on opening day.’ She hugged me with way more excitement than was warranted.

Dad and my older brother, Iain, looked at her like it was time to have her committed. For the record, I didn’t disagree. I unpeeled myself from her clutches and dropped my bag behind the couch. Barrel the cat, named so for resembling a keg on legs, lifted a sneering face in my direction before curling back in on himself.

While I had been busy learning to bake, Iain had set himself up with a web design and social media business. When I left the food industry, Mum had tried to get him to give me a job, but it wasn’t something I was interested in, and he was dead against the idea anyway. It was his business, not mine. What was my business was stopping his kids climbing on me like I was a Ferris wheel. I offered the three of them cupcakes I stole from Zoe’s in exchange for being left alone. It worked, and they were soon nattering away in the next room.

‘They love you.’ Iain offered me a stern “please be nice to my children” look.

‘Yeah, well they scare me.’ I grabbed a seat at the dining table. ‘I don’t want my own, let alone anyone else’s.’

‘They’re family.’ Sat next to me, he stretched out like a cat, overly long typist’s fingers scratching at his blond hair.

‘And a very lovely family.’ I smiled. ‘I love them, very much, from a distance.’

‘Wait until you have your own.’ Mum dithered about and slammed the door of the oven.

If I rolled my eyes any harder, they would’ve popped out of my head and made like marbles across the floor. ‘I’m not having any. Quite happy as I am.’

‘Good choice.’ Iain craned his neck towards the wine rack and plucked out a bottle of red, which he offered me with a look that begged for approval. I gave him two very parched thumbs-up signs.