A Recipe for Disaster

‘See, he says that, and he has the little crotch goblins.’ I couldn’t uncork the bottle quickly enough. Every single time there was a family gathering, which happened about as often as politicians tweeting sense, the topic of my lack of childbearing ambition was raised, and ended up with Mum crying about wanting more grandbabies. Oh, and my husband.

‘But with Oliver back,’ she implored.

‘No.’

Iain laughed. ‘I heard that. Talk about an awkward sandwich.’

‘There is no sandwich; no one is eating anyone.’ I waved my hands about. ‘I just need to sort things out and move on.’

‘I think you should ask him for a job.’ Mum nodded.

‘Hey?’ Iain asked, surprised. ‘No. I think she should move on and look after herself first. And the fact he’s been a right chop about it all. I mean, he cannot be serious, just blustering back into town like nothing’s happened and set up shop.’

‘You’re not wrong.’ Dad sat to Iain’s left. He held out a wineglass for someone to fill it for him.

‘Thank you.’ I chinked glasses with them both, grateful for some level-headed advice.

Somewhere in a past life, Mum must have catered for an army. There was enough food cooked to feed at least twenty people, though it might explain my love of food and catering. Spread between the kitchen bench and dining table were two different meats, potatoes, pumpkin, peas, gravy, fresh crusty bread, and sweet potato. That was all before she’d started on the sweets.

‘I thought Taylor would be here.’ Mum pulled her chair in and arranged herself. Napkin first, wine second, followed by a Himalayan salt mountain, and a pinch of pepper.

Iain swallowed an entire glass of wine in what appeared to be a single gulp. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘It seems I have a bit of news on that front.’

Every head at the table spun in his direction, not that the news could ever be good following a statement like that. It was the same gut-sinking feeling I got whenever someone said, ‘We need to talk’. Even the kids were quiet – their little legs ceased kicking at the sideboard long enough for the news to break.

‘Is she at work?’ Mum sliced into her potatoes. ‘She’s been working an awful lot lately.’

‘Taylor’s decided to enrich herself and her spiritual wellbeing with someone she met on a girls’ cruise last year.’

My shoulders sank. ‘Oh, Iain, I’m sorry.’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. It’s perfectly okay.’

‘But it’s not,’ I argued.

‘I promise you, it’s fine.’ His eyes darted nervously towards the boys. ‘It’s all very amicable and … happy.’

For the first time since I’d arrived, Mum was speechless. Iain and Taylor had only been married for what felt a hundred years. With her jet-black hair, Tipp-Ex teeth, and model physique, she’d been the shining beacon of light, bringing grandchildren and elaborate outfits to Christmas dinners since I was fourteen. I was still in my teens when they said their wedding vows on the blustery summer grounds of the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Sam, their oldest child, was almost twelve.

Iain’s marriage became the new topic of conversation, Dad ready to offer advice where he could, and Mum preparing to put an action plan into place. It was now Operation Save Iain and Taylor, instead of Resurrect Lucy and Oliver. The game of compare and contrast started. This wasn’t like Lucy’s situation; that didn’t happen with Oliver; that’s a new one; what are you going to do with the house; surely, she can’t have it? And on Mum went, unchecked and unstopped while Iain offered effusive answers and did his best to remain positive with the kids in earshot.

Selfishly, I was glad it had taken the spotlight off me.

More dessert than we could handle was wheeled out under the pretence of making us feel better. I guess sugar comas have their place: Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and breakups. That was fair. I was more than over it after one of the boys knocked a coffee off the table and onto me. Using my stained clothing as an excuse, I packed up and headed home.

I’d never been so pleased to see the inside of my car. Ever.

Under the dim glow of the interior light, I dabbed at the stain with paper towels, tissues, an old T-shirt, anything unfortunate enough to be in the car and absorbent. Late-night talkback radio had picked up on the vibe, and was busy offering relationship advice. Open yourself up to options, it said. Don’t be bitter and closed off, but embrace change and new love. Ignoring that, I changed the station and drove off into the night, counting streetlights as I went.

My car wasn’t exactly my car. It was Oliver’s. Among the many things he hadn’t considered when he left was that I couldn’t sell a car that wasn’t legally mine. Every twelve months, the registration and insurance papers would appear in the letterbox, just to let me know the universe was still watching me. I’d stump up the money for another year, send it off for a service, and hope it kept running.

Tonight, my luck ran out. A train line crossed the highway about five kilometres from home. That crossing, at the top of a hill, would prove to be the death of my car. I’d made it over the rumble of the tracks when my headlights dimmed, engine powered down, and I rolled to a stop. No lights, no power, no idea.

I tapped at the fuel gauge. No movement. With a quarter of a tank left, that wasn’t my problem. The torch on my phone illuminated nothing more than the fact all four tyres were still inflated, and nothing in the engine bay looked out of order. There was no steam, no sound, nothing around me, except darkness. The sky was an inkpot, and the moon its silvery screw-top lid. It was so dark that, without streetlights, land blended with the horizon. I had one option: I had to walk.

I gathered my handbag and phone, locked the doors, and started the long walk home. One car zipped past, and then another. Did no one stop to help the lost and deserted any more? What was with that? It was late, almost eleven o’clock, and I was a lone female walking along the highway. I made a mental note that, barring a creepy clown suit or a sign that said ‘Free Sweets’, I would endeavour to help people on the side of the road in the future.

Eventually a car slowed to a crawl beside me. The passenger’s window wound down with an electric hum.

‘Lucy?’

Who else could it possibly be while I was schlepping my way along the highway? Bloody Oliver. I held my head high and kept walking. The car kept rolling alongside me.

‘What’ve you done?’ he asked, laughing.

‘I haven’t done anything. It broke down. Your stupid bloody car died.’

‘Get in – I’ll drive you home.’

I refused to look at him. If I couldn’t see him, he wasn’t there.

‘Lucy, for God’s sake,’ he called. ‘Get in the car. It’s late. I’ll drive you home.’

My heel snapped as I turned to lean in through the open window. Because why would anything go right tonight? Oliver regarded me with smug pleasure, quite like he’d expected his night to end like this.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because it’s late.’ He tugged at his tie and shifted in his seat. ‘I will drop you home and you can pick up your car tomorrow.’

‘It’s your car, if you remember,’ I said. ‘You can fix it.’

‘Whatever, just get in.’

I considered his offer for the briefest moment, and hobbled away. I was still flame-throwingly angry with him. In the back of my mind, I willed my ankle to roll, just to round off a perfect night of entertainment for the masses. The horn sounded as the car pulled up with a click of the handbrake. Oliver climbed out and walked after me.

‘Lucy, I could do this all night,’ he called, arm pointing at his car like he was a game show model.

‘I don’t care!’ I replied over my shoulder, hobbling away at slow speed.

‘What’s so wrong with a lift home?’

I turned to him. ‘Are you kidding me right now?’

A truck blared its horn as it rumbled past, spraying us with pine splinters and burrs that flew from a trailer of fresh-cut logs. I watched its taillights disappear into the night. Yeah, that was a long walk.

‘It’s a genuine offer,’ Oliver continued. ‘You are in trouble; let me help. I want to help.’

‘I want you to leave me alone,’ I returned. ‘Get out of my life and leave me alone.’

‘Is that what this is about?’ he asked. ‘Really? Is that really the problem? Because, as far as I can tell, getting out of your life is what started this, so doing it again will only cause more problems.’

‘Please enlighten me then, Oliver, because I have no idea what else it might be.’ I shoved both my shoes in my handbag and kept walking. ‘Oh, wait, maybe it’s that you’ve been here long enough to organise wedding catering. What’s that? Two? Three weeks?’

‘I’ve been here three weeks. I doubt you would’ve wanted me on your doorstep while you were busy with him.’ He got back in his car, slamming the door. It began rolling again. ‘Are you sure you want to walk the whole way home? We’ve done this once before, remember?’

As if I could forget. We’d had the same car an entire week before it first broke down. It lulled us into a false sense of security, then threw in a faulty fuel gauge for a Stephen King-esque three a.m. breakdown, complete with pouring rain and rogue lightning. The only saviour of the night was a hot shower together when we got home, though I think we broke the shower curtain, so it wasn’t a complete loss.

I’d like to challenge anyone complaining about stepping on Lego to walk one hundred metres down the Hamilton Highway barefoot in the dark. Not only were there rocks, but also twigs, broken bottles, and random litter thrown from cars, because bins are so last century. I stopped on the spot. Oliver yanked on the handbrake again.

‘Come on, Luce, I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to see you home safely. I do care.’

I threw my head back, dropped my shoulders, and looked at the stars. Of all my friends, I knew how to get myself into stupid situations more than anyone else. Climbing fences when lost on holiday? Check. Falling over and getting disoriented in a forest? Check. Oliver leant over the front seat and pushed the door open. When I hesitated, he pouted.

‘Cock.’ I tossed my bag into the foot well and got in.

A Mercedes Benz was certainly a step up from the busted Volkswagen that now sat impotent on the side of the road. He pulled back onto the road, but the further we travelled, in dead silence, the more I felt like a trapped cat. Struggling for breath, for independence, and needing to get away, far away from what was making my hair stand on end.

‘Lucy, can I ask you something?’

I harrumphed. Arms folded, face scowling. ‘No.’

‘Did you really google me?’

I glanced at him briefly. He was laughing. Lord help me, he was laughing. I could have punched that smirk off his face.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, Oliver. Is that all you’re worried about?’ I shrieked, a little more wild banshee than I expected.

‘What? No! But you said you had, and I was just curious. I mean, you could’ve called.’

‘You could’ve not been a complete jerk.’

Silence.

Farm fences gave way to streetlights, the pub, the general store, and then our street. My street. I was opening the car door before we’d come to a standstill. Stepping up onto the veranda, careful to bypass a broken plank, I’d planned to make a silent getaway until my phone rang. An unknown number. Without a second thought, I answered it.

‘Hello?’ I said.

‘Will you look at me?’ Oliver asked. ‘Please?’

If my head whipped around any quicker, it might have snapped off, leaving me forever looking like a Pez dispenser.

‘Please don’t hang up.’ He held a finger up. ‘Can I have five minutes of your time to have a reasonably adult discussion?’

‘This better not involve phone sex.’

‘I’m game if you are.’ He laughed at his own joke until he realised I wasn’t. ‘No, no phone sex. Just talk.’

‘Okay,’ I answered quietly.

‘My name is Oliver,’ he said, palm pressed into his chest. ‘What’s yours?’

I took a shaky breath in. ‘I’m Lucy.’

For the first time tonight, I looked at him. Not just a passing glance while trying to ignore him, but a proper look. It had been so long since I’d seen him in a suit and tie that I’d forgotten just how good he looked. He wore classic black and white with perfectly styled hair like he was born for it. He was always going to be someone special in this world.

His whole body relaxed. ‘I like that name. You look lovely tonight. Have you been out somewhere?’

‘Family dinner.’

‘Lucky family.’

‘Maybe not so much,’ I joked. ‘Where have you been?’

‘Just catching up with friends I’ve missed. It was nice to see them again.’

‘I’m glad you got to see them.’

‘Me, too.’ He smiled gently. ‘What’s the stain on your dress?’

I looked down at the still-blotchy mark. ‘That’s coffee. My nephew spilt coffee on me.’

‘Sounds interesting.’

‘It was awful,’ I said. ‘So, what brings you to a small town like this?’

‘Well, it’s a long story,’ he started. ‘But, basically, it’s about a girl.’

‘Oh, one of them,’ I played, feeling a lump tickle at my throat. ‘I get it.’

‘I knew her a long time ago, and I think I ruined something precious.’

‘I’m sorry for that.’ And I was.

‘Me, too.’ His voice broke. ‘I met her when I was very young, and I loved her for a long time. Then, one day, I thought I was better than all that, and left without thinking of the consequences.’

‘That would have hurt her. Greatly.’

‘I’m sure it did. When I close my eyes at night, I imagine her face.’

‘What does it look like?’ I asked. ‘Her face?’

‘Beautiful. When she smiles, she lights up a room. Unfortunately, the last time I saw her she was uncontrollably upset, so I often see that, too.’

Wind whipped up and rustled trees. Oliver blurred in my vision.

‘Really?’ I squeaked.

‘Really.’

‘Have you spoken to her since?’ I dabbed at my eyes with a thumb.

‘I tried to, but I understand she’s still hurt.’

‘Maybe she’s been trying to sort herself out. Have you tried since?’

He peered down at the steering wheel, picking at something. ‘Do you suppose she’d want to see me? Maybe catch up for coffee and a chat?’

‘It might be too hard for her yet,’ I said. ‘Start small.’

‘Would you let your husband back into your life? I mean, what if I told her I was back for good?’

‘If it were me? I would tell you I never was a fan of Take That.’

Oliver laughed. I’d always loved the sight and sound of his laughter; it was both beautiful and infectious.

‘I imagine he’d be too hard to let go,’ I continued. ‘But too hard to trust.’

He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘How do you tell someone you’re sorry?’

‘Maybe you need to show them you’re sorry. After all, actions speak louder than words.’

‘Good advice.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Thank you, Lucy. I should probably let you go – it must be cold outside.’

‘A bit, yes.’ If cold meant legs turning to icicles then, yes, it was a wee bit chilly.

‘It’s been lovely to talk to you.’

‘Likewise,’ I said.

‘If you ever need me, you have my number.’

‘How do I know you’ll answer?’ I asked.

‘If you call, I will answer,’ he said.

‘Promise?’

‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave when you’re safely inside. Goodnight, Lucy.’

‘Night, Oliver.’ I shoved the key in the lock. ‘Wait, wait, before you go.’

‘Yes?’

‘Thank you for the lift.’

‘You’re welcome.’

I ended the call and put my phone away. He waited. It wasn’t until the front door locked behind me that headlights swung across the front of the house and down the road. The first thing I did was check the back of the cupboard in the bedroom, my hands rustling around like a cat paw under a bathroom door until I found what I was looking for.

Buried deep in the confines was a tattered shoebox. I sat on my bed, on what had been Oliver’s side, and peeled through an archaeological dig of our history. On the very bottom, school reports and aptitude tests, photos of teenage friends and random parties. They gave way to photos of me as a fresh-faced apprentice, stills of moments that held the most wonderful memories.

There were photos and a certificate from that one time I beat Oliver to first prize at some community cooking competition. It felt like an entire shopping centre came to watch us. Goofy, starry-eyed graduation photos were buried by newspaper clippings. ‘Local baker donates to charity’, for me; a cake sent off to auction for a local returned services club. ‘Coastal cook apprentice of the year’ was Oliver’s headline. But, where mine ended, his continued. From the opening of the first Murray’s, to his first Michelin star, the random celebrities, and stratospheric ride, Oliver had gone from strength to strength.

At the very top of the pile were the recent articles. ‘Oliver Murray marriage shock’, followed quickly after there’d been some speculation about a model girlfriend. Photos of me looking not particularly appealing to anyone were printed in Technicolor for the world to see and analyse. And no good scandal would be complete without a copy of the wedding certificate. I’d never quite worked out who’d sold us out, though Oliver’s refusal to confirm and renowned refusal to talk about his private life made me feel like someone’s dirty secret.

So, the question screaming at me from the bleachers of my mind was: why the hell was he back? Why me? And was he really planning on staying?

CHAPTER SIX

When I woke the next morning, the Volkswagen was in the driveway. I sat up in bed and peered out the window. Magic, fairies, or Oliver had returned it with a fresh battery and a full tank of fuel. Rested in the valley between the windscreen and the bonnet of the car, a scrunch of white tissue paper.

Nestled among the tissue paper was a bouquet of pink camellias. A quick internet search will tell you they signify longing. What it won’t tell you is the story of my first flower – a pink camellia presented by a nervously sweating fifteen-year-old Oliver. It was my birthday – a whole six weeks younger than him – and it was the first birthday I’d had since we’d met. Never mind the fact I’d completely ignored his birthday.

It was the early days of brick phones, and he’d sent me a text late at night, asking me to meet him at work five minutes earlier. To this day, it was still one of my favourite memories, his face, the nerves, and the smile that broke out when I told him I loved it.

It soon became our thing, and each year proceeding warranted another flower, along with whatever gift he’d organised. Later, he admitted to stealing the first one from someone’s front yard. By the time we made it to our wedding, my bouquet had one pink camellia for each year we’d been together.

Stuffed between the flowers today, a card that read: ‘I’ve missed you’. I tucked the bouquet inside the front door and left for work, hoping like hell he didn’t swim around in my head all day.

Baking sugar-filled packet-mix muffins in a school canteen had not been what I’d envisaged for my life, but that’s exactly what happened about six months after Oliver left. With the rising cost of fuel, and suddenly looking after a mortgage on one wage, I had little option left but to find work closer to home. My solution popped up in the way of a four-day week at the local primary school.

Above all else, I loved the convenience of it. Gone was the daily three-hour commute. I could walk to work, which was bliss, and was back in my pyjamas by three o’clock each afternoon. As much as I didn’t want my own kids, I laughed at the sight of the lunchtime zombie apocalypse, students climbing over each other to be the first in line for food. But – there was always a “but”.

The menu was atrocious. Jamie Oliver wouldn’t just have a heart attack if he saw the type of food on offer. There was every chance he’d declare the four horsemen of the apocalypse arrived, and start a weird basil-infused cleansing ceremony on the doorstep of the school, all the while screaming at us to repent.

It wasn’t just pink sludge nuggets, but every other red alert food we were advised to avoid. I’d spent so much time reading about food guidelines I’d started ignoring my own pantry for fear a government official might jump from a shelf, wrap my house in an E.T.-style bubble, and declare it a health hazard.

Each night, I stank of deep fryer. The oily scent clung to my hair and clothes, and I was sure there was a small deposit of kitchen muck lodged up my nose. Not since I’d worked at McDonald’s as a teenager – an event that lasted all of four weeks before I got my apprenticeship – had I smelt this bad.

In my spare time, I’d created a healthier menu. It showcased homemade products and fresh produce, cut down on waste, and had the potential to turn the canteen into a profitable business. Currently, it ran at a huge loss. I’d spoken to the school principal, at length, even taking over an interview for the promotion to rail about my plans. What could I say? I was excited by the prospect of a bit of autonomy, a slice of creativity, and enacting change. I’d even wrapped my application with samples and a new, laminated menu I’d created.

When Richard summoned me into his office on the Monday, I bounced in ready for the good news.

‘Hey, Lucy.’ Richard pushed himself off a filing cabinet where he stood, reading, and walked to his whiteboard like a country boy on a catwalk.

Richard was everything you’d see in an R.M. Williams catalogue. He was perfectly styled strawberry-blond hair and designer stubble, overpriced plaid shirts and moleskin pants, topped with pointy-toed boots that had never seen a day’s work on the land. Looking at him, I wondered when moleskins got to be so tight? Jesus. It certainly wasn’t offensive, and he was popular with the school mums, but …

‘Come in.’

‘You rang?’ I asked.

He waved me in. ‘Come, come. Sit down.’

Good thing, too, because I’d been on my feet all day. I flopped into the chair opposite his desk like an inflatable air dancer at a car yard sale and threw my head back. Richard laughed and closed the door with a quiet click. His office was everything I remembered about being in school. Awards covered the wall, along with drawings, notes on the whiteboard, and a roll of scratch and sniff stickers on his desk. Grape was my favourite sticker.

‘How was your day?’ Richard breezed past and sat down. His chair squeaked as he leant back, arms behind his head.

I yawned.

‘I’m hearing you.’ He laughed. ‘It’s been one shit fight after another today. Parents here, broken windows there, throw in a few detentions just to keep me on my toes.’

‘No, it’s good.’ I waved a hand. ‘It’s just been a big weekend.’

‘Mine was a madhouse.’ He shuffled papers, before handing me a menu. ‘So, the school council went through the new menu submissions Friday night last.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ The menu I held wasn’t the one I’d produced, nor was it the one we’d been using this week. A sinking feeling settled in my stomach.

‘You have?’ he asked.

‘Well, not just the menu, really, the whole process.’ Talk, Lucy, talk. Sell it to him like you used to sell cakes.

‘Okay.’ That had caught his attention. Pen clicking, he leant in and opened to a page of his diary. I took a deep breath and jumped.

‘You can’t implement this. You discuss healthy eating in classrooms, and looking after our bodies, but then you pick a menu with doughnuts, cakes, slices, lolly bags, pies and pasties. Even if we’re offering apples, or a single grainy sandwich, I don’t know any kid who would pick the healthy option over a doughnut. Hell, I wouldn’t even pick the brown bread.’

Richard scribbled notes quickly. ‘Right.’

‘My menu is all healthy, low sugar, homemade, and it’s low waste, which helps the budget—’ I pulled out my phone to remind him.