A Recipe for Disaster

‘Luce.’

‘—and it’s helping to promote the guidelines we teach. I’m really excited about everything it can do for us.’

‘Lucy. It’s been decided already.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘We’ve already given this the go-ahead.’ He opened the document I’d emailed him. ‘Yours was described as … too much of a radical change.’

‘That’s not bad, though, shaking things up.’ I sat a bit taller. ‘It’s good. Change is good. Who Moved My Cheese? and all that.’

‘It’ll involve a lot of training,’ he reasoned.

‘Won’t somebody please think of the children?’ I joked. I was bombing, badly, a deflated balloon washing down a dirty drain somewhere.

‘Lucy, we can’t.’ Richard sat back. ‘As much as I admire your work, I just can’t. We’ve gone with Elouise for head of canteen, and this is her menu.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m sorry, Luce. I know you worked hard on it.’

‘No problem.’ I nodded. ‘That’s understandable.’

‘Are you sure?’

Not really, I was about an inch away from throwing a shoe. ‘It’s fine, really.’

This was a sign.

Things had to change. After Edith’s cake and the breakup with Seamus, this was beginning to look a lot like bad luck arriving in threes. Except, if I chose to look at it differently, it was the universe lining circumstance up and pushing me in a direction that made me little bit tingly, excited, and a whole lot nervous. Making decisions on the spur of the moment was not my thing. In fact, it frightened the life out of me. However, people do like to tell us we should do something that scares us every day.

After sitting quietly for a few moments, Richard looking on as if he wanted me to say something, anything, I stood and handed him back the menu.

‘Richard, thank you for allowing me this job for the past three years,’ I said.

His face fell. ‘No, Lucy, that’s not what this is at all.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘But I think my time here is done.’

‘What?’

‘I’m probably ready to move on to other things, so it’s good timing, really.’

Richard wasn’t convinced. ‘Well, could we maybe catch up and talk about this over a drink? Outside the more rigorous confines of the school? I’m sure we could work something out.’

‘Perhaps not.’ I smoothed my shirt down and clasped at the door handle. ‘Goodbye … and thank you.’

Relief washed over me as I skipped out the front door. I felt like I now had all the time in the world, and a thousand plans to enact. I wasn’t worried, but excited. My brain was awash with possibilities. Recipes I’d once cooked regularly were flipping up on rotation like an old jukebox as I turned left down High Street towards the general store.

A jacaranda tree, which did its best to hide the local church, smelt sweeter and seemed a brighter purple today. Even leaf litter on wet and muddy footpaths couldn’t dampen my mood. Cars pootled past slowly, in and out of the farm supplies shop, and on towards the general store, where I was headed. I threw a few dollars over the counter for coffee and a newspaper, collected my mail, and headed home.

With a diary, pens, pencils, and paper, I spread myself across the lounge-room floor and scribbled out a rough plan. Not that it was hugely elaborate and, really, amounted to writing, “See what happens” on a piece of paper, but there were some things that needed doing.

One of the best things about this house was the kitchen. Small, yes, but it was functional, and we’d been able to secure a commercial permit about eight months before Oliver left. It had since lapsed, but I made a note to get everything operating again. If I was truly going to succeed at this cake business, I was going to need that first and foremost.

I called those who’d made enquiries, chatted about designs and dates and, soon, had a few bookings in the diary. The fact they were all friends, or friends of friends, didn’t bother me. After all, word of mouth was the best form of advertisement, good or bad.

Later that night, I woke to a knock at the front door. I’d fallen asleep on the floor, pencil in hand, pizza and garlic bread stuck to my cheek. A slice fell back into the box unceremoniously, and I scrubbed at my face with a napkin as I opened the front door.

‘Oliver.’ I stepped out onto the veranda, which creaked under foot. ‘Hey.’

‘How are you?’ He fiddled with an orange envelope in his hand. His hands were crusted with paint and stain, fingernails full of dirt.

I nodded. ‘Not bad.’

‘Were you sleeping?’ he asked, the briefest hint of a smile, pleased that he still recognised that look on my face.

I pointed at my face. ‘Pizza stuck to me. It’s great fun.’

‘Well, if you’re going to sleep with something, may as well be pizza.’

‘True enough.’ I smiled. ‘Thanks for the car, by the way, and the flowers – they were lovely.’

‘Ahh, you’re welcome. Have you used the car since?’

‘Yeah, when I grabbed dinner.’

‘Okay. Good. It was just the battery, nothing major.’

We stood about awkwardly for more moments than I wanted to count. I couldn’t think of anything to say, not after the last few days, and Oliver looked like he wanted to spit out everything that came to mind. He looked around nervously, and took a deep breath.

‘Look, I know things haven’t got off to the best start between us. I wanted to, I don’t know, give you a bit of space. I’ve been thinking about what you said to me the other night. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, actually.’

‘Me, too.’

‘You have?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Okay.’ He chewed his bottom lip and silenced the phone that rang in his pocket. ‘You mentioned divorce, so I went to my lawyers and got an agreement drafted up. I’ve also organised a lump-sum payment for you. As you rightfully mentioned, I haven’t done my part in the mortgage business. I want to make that right.’

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly as he passed the envelope over in a moment that was proving more emotional than I wanted it to. Or maybe that was the financial relief. I couldn’t be sure.

‘Don’t thank me – you make it sound like I’m doing the right thing.’ Again, he silenced his phone, this time switching it off completely. ‘How are you? I heard you quit your job today?’

I think I smiled. ‘News travels fast.’

‘I was actually thinking about that, too.’ Oliver reached up with his left hand, scratching behind his right ear, perfecting the look of pure innocence that often got him out of trouble. ‘You got a few minutes? Can I come in? Would that be okay?’

‘Sure.’

We sat across from each other at the dining table, one at which we’d always, always sat next to each other. I placed the orange envelope of destruction on the bench, out of sight, and out of mind, flicked on the kettle, and turned the radio on low.

‘Like I said, I’ve been thinking a lot recently. I know that money will help you, or at least I hope it will.’

‘It will, thank you.’ Elbows on the table, I leant my chin in the palm of my hand. ‘Help get some stuff fixed.’

Oliver nodded. ‘There’s something else.’

‘Oh?’ Right now, as I sat, I was waiting to be told he had a small army of children or some such coming to stay.

‘There’s a job for you at Murray’s. If you’re interested, that is.’

I cringed, and I think I recoiled involuntarily. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

Oliver shrugged. ‘It’s certainly not my worst idea.’

‘I don’t think we should. I think we should just close this chapter off and move on.’

He took a deep breath and dropped his chin onto his chest, almost deflated. ‘I’m happy to hold off on the opening date to accommodate your needs.’

‘No,’ I said. A final push back to what would be the easy option. ‘I’m going to concentrate on my cakes, and see where that takes me.’

‘All right. Okay.’ Oliver wiped his hands on his pants and stood up. ‘You’ll get that paperwork back to me whenever you’re ready?’

‘Will do.’

‘Goodnight, Lucy.’ He stopped by the front door. ‘Good to see you.’

‘You, too.’

I didn’t move from my seat as he closed the door behind him, offered a brief wave, and slipped into the night. I picked up my phone and fired off a lunch request to Zoe. She’d know what to do.

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