A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  It was happening all over again. To the far right of the window, a row of dust-filled venetians was cocked up ever so slightly. I’m not sure who she thought she was fooling. Oliver lifted a hand and waved. While I sank down in the seat of the car and roared with laughter, the blind dropped and swayed under the weight of disturbance.

  ‘She is crackers. You know this, don’t you?’ I looked up at him.

  ‘And your dad has just launched himself out the front door like Thunderbird 2.’

  He wasn’t wrong. Dad barrelled towards the car like he had a life-saving kidney on board. No different to the first time, either.

  ‘Stop it.’ I landed a playful slap on his leg as he joined me, laughing.

  ‘Come on, before Dad bursts an organ waiting for you.’ Oliver reached for the door handle.

  ‘I think he’s waiting for you, son,’ I teased.

  Hands were clapped on shoulders, and hugs were exchanged in overly enthusiastic greeting. Mum launched herself at Oliver like he was a buoy in the ocean and she was moments away from drowning. There were proclamations and assertions, and we were ushered inside with the promise of a celebratory drink. Mum even praised the super basic sponge cake I’d knocked up.

  Iain and his small army of look-alike children arrived moments after us, the four of them walking up the street like some gang shot from a Hollywood film. Arms flailed about, a cricket bat was shoved in the air, and the littlest one rode on his father’s shoulders. We heard them before we saw them, as they made a riotous charge through the backyard, Iain following with a water pistol, straight in through the sliding doors of the lounge.

  ‘Ah.’ Puffed, he threw his hands down on his knees before attempting to shake hands with Oliver. ‘Hello.’

  ‘Iain.’

  It was all very Clint Eastwood, guns drawn at ten paces, as Iain looked him up and down. When they’d first met, Iain wasn’t bothered by Oliver, and became the big brother Oliver never had. This time, there was a hint of wariness and, perhaps, distrust. My nephews looked at him once, gave a quick wave, and disappeared outside again. It was quiet indifference, and I didn’t blame them, especially with everything they had going on in their own lives.

  Despite not wanting to cook tonight, Oliver ended up stationed by the stove. Much like doctors are hounded for advice at dinner parties, Mum seconded Oliver to the role of head chef, asking his advice, whether everything was okay, and did he have any advice for her. All over a roast chook and a few potatoes – something she’d made a thousand times before.

  While Oliver pulled up his sleeves, Dad simply rolled his eyes, broke out the scotch, and found a spot next to my brother on the sofa. That left me like a limp rag, legs dangling off a stool by the kitchen bench. Occasionally, Oliver would mouth something at me that indicated my mother had fallen right off the perch. It felt nice to have that connection with him again.

  Tonight had been earmarked as momentous, complete with the special-occasion, all-matching dinner set. Wineglasses were topped up, seats taken, and grace was most definitely not said.

  ‘So, I delivered my first solo cake,’ I said, unable to bear the uncomfortable silence any more. ‘It was a christening cake to Highton.’

  ‘That’s a lot of driving for today.’ Mum’s brow knitted. ‘Into town already, and back out here for dinner again.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ I shook my head. ‘Oliver’s been to Melbourne and back today.’

  ‘What was on in Melbourne?’ Iain asked.

  ‘Just a few meetings, nothing hugely exciting, to be honest.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, it’s all very exciting,’ Mum said. ‘Even this here is exciting. I’m thrilled for you both.’

  Oliver kicked me under the table.

  ‘And … all’s going well, is it? Business wise?’ Dad asked.

  ‘Very well, thank you. I’m glad Lucy can now experience it.’ He nodded enthusiastically, chewing away at his dinner. ‘I mean, I’m a bit disappointed at some of the produce and wines compared to what I’m used to in France. Some of that stuff is top notch. We were looking at Italy to expand, but I desperately wanted to come back and sort things out with Luce, so here we are. I’ll just have to make do with what we’ve got.’

  Iain glared at him, glass halfway to his mouth. I shook my head at him, urging him to please be nice. Please, for me. Ah, the restrained beauty of family interactions.

  ‘In fact, Lucy has designed some incredible desserts for the menu.’

  ‘Incredible?’ Iain looked at me. ‘Who would’ve thought?’

  ‘Oh, they’re okay.’ I smeared butter on a dinner roll. ‘Still working out the kinks.’

  ‘Should have brought some tonight.’ Mum clutched at my hand.

  ‘Are you getting paid for this?’ Dad bypassed Oliver completely, his eyes bugging out at me.

  ‘Lucy is being paid in line with our agreement.’

  ‘Oh.’ Iain sat up straight, his classic “fight me” pose. ‘Like the last agreement that saw her huddled in bed for a week?’

  ‘Iain, stop.’ I glared at him.

  The tips of Oliver’s ears went red.

  ‘Why should I?’ he bit. ‘Your agreement worked really well last time, didn’t it? Marriage is convenient until a better option comes along.’

  Dad smacked my brother across the back of the hand with a dirty knife. No matter your age, no one was above a dirty cutlery slap.

  ‘I understand you’re going through some personal things right now,’ Oliver said, shifting uncomfortably. ‘I am sorry for that, but our situation is slightly different.’

  ‘I am telling you, Lucy, you be very careful.’ Iain collected his plate and finished his dinner outside.

  Oliver apologised repeatedly to anyone who would listen, though I wondered if anyone other than my mother absorbed his words. They certainly fell on deaf ears as far as Iain was concerned. Dessert was quiet, marked only by Oliver heaping praise on my work at Murray’s, and his offer to clear the dishes. At least he was trying. The same couldn’t be said of my brother who, for the greater part of the night, proceeded to ignore Oliver.

  I retreated to the upstairs balcony, with its old banana lounges and aged greyish wood. Cars wound their way around the roundabout at the end of the street, taillights zipping off into the distance, and the lights of Kardinia Park lit up half the town. They were a familiar sight in a night that felt so different.

  When Oliver appeared, he came clutching two drinks.

  ‘Your dad and I raided the alcohol cabinet. I thought you might like a martini.’

  I flashed a tired but grateful smile. ‘Impressive, thank you.’

  ‘You okay?’

  I nodded, shook my head, shrugged, and all but swallowed my drink in one grateful mouthful. ‘Just a bit stressed. He’s going through a lot, and this is probably a sore point, so, you know.’

  Oliver leant an elbow on the railing and turned to face me. ‘Your mother called me about ten times today. She wanted to check something, then something else, and then wanted to confirm, and on it went until I told her to calm down, that everything would be okay. Maybe you need to do the same.’

  ‘Maybe.’ I looked at him. ‘Do you think this is going to work?’

  ‘What? This? Us?’

  I held the railing and leant back. ‘Yeah. Is this odd?’

  ‘Who says it’s odd? It’s only odd if we say it’s odd, and I certainly am not saying that.’

  ‘All right.’ I put my empty glass down. ‘How are we going to do this?’

  ‘I’ve put a little thought into this, and I think that I should take you out on another date. Something a bit fancier than Edith’s.’

  ‘I’d like that.’

  ‘Does that mean I should ask you out?’ The bridge of his nose wrinkled as he smiled. ‘It does, doesn’t it?’

  My smile beamed from one side of the city to the other. ‘It really does.’

  ‘Okay.’ Oliver cleared his throat. ‘Lucy, will you go out with me?’


  Giddy with delight, and with a raft of fizzy feelings bubbling up inside of me, I drew my bottom lip through my teeth and laughed a yes. Of course I would. I felt excited, curious, and all over relieved.

  ‘Okay, so after work on Monday, I’m going to get us a spot at the new French restaurant in town. How does that sound?’

  ‘Sounds like I’m looking forward to Monday.’

  ‘Me, too.’ He grinned.

  Following him back into the house, I giggled like a lovesick schoolgirl and, although slightly embarrassing, I didn’t care. Five minutes later, Oliver, Mum, and Iain were snoring lightly on the couch. One of Iain’s kids had shuffled into the room and curled up on his chest. For a goldfish moment, it pinched at something in me, thinking about Oliver like that, with a child of our own. I shook the image from my head in favour of business class airfares, weekend spas, and sleep-ins.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk.’ Dad pushed himself out of his armchair. ‘Come on.’

  This was the adult equivalent of being driven home the long way from a friend’s party after an all-night bender. You knew there were going to be a few home truths distilled in the five minutes’ extra drive time, but you dealt with it because you had no other option until you got your licence. I grabbed two beers from the fridge on the way out.

  ‘Will the kids be okay?’ I asked.

  ‘They’ll be fine. If anyone so much as tries to get in the house, your mother will either talk them to death, or they’d give her something just to shut her up. The kids would try and ride them. It’s a win-win.’ Dad issued one last warning to the boys as he pulled the front door shut behind us.

  Walking around in the wind of a spring night that hadn’t quite sprung wasn’t my idea of a great time, but we were warm enough by the time we found the Barrabool Road roundabout. It was the culmination of the Shannon Avenue Shuffle, where every car in Geelong seemed to converge in a live-action game of chicken.

  As a young driver, I’d found myself in a jam sandwich between a four-wheel drive and a small Isuzu truck. It was both terrifying and educational. For what it’s worth, I can now mix a cake dough with one hand. It’s not easy, but I had to learn how to with a broken arm. When I looked away from the road, from the memories playing in my mind, Dad was watching me.

  ‘Do you remember—’

  ‘Yes,’ I sighed.

  It’s not as if car accidents are something you forget in a great hurry. Not without a knock to the head, anyway. I’d finally made it to the front of the queue, looked left, then right, and edged my car forward into the roundabout. From out of nowhere, a truck came hurtling through from my right. In the crush, I snapped my humerus – which wasn’t anywhere near as funny as it sounds – and wrote off my car.

  ‘Aside from your mother being in a mad panic, I had Oliver to deal with. His teenage brain couldn’t understand why Lucy in the sky with morphine wasn’t answering her phone. Then, thank you shitty friends for starting rumours, he came barrelling into the hospital in such a panic they gave him a paper bag to breathe into because he thought you’d died.’

  I grimaced. ‘I remember he chewed his fingernails right down.’ And, when I first woke, he was pacing around like he was trying to set a world record. Nowadays, he rarely paced.

  ‘The doctors asked me if they should give him something to calm him down. I took him to the pub and got him drunk instead.’

  ‘He never told me that.’

  ‘Didn’t he?’ Dad looked surprised. ‘At least he was living with us, that way his parents wouldn’t have seen him in that state.’

  I scoffed. ‘Yeah, that wouldn’t have made you very popular.’

  I’d be lying if I said Oliver’s parents weren’t strict, his father particularly. He expected the world of his son, and God help anyone in his path if he didn’t deliver. Sending him home drunk might have meant some Capulet versus Montague shit going down across Geelong.

  Dad’s eyes lit up. ‘Did he tell you about the time I made him cry?’

  Orange streetlights reflected off damp asphalt, while cars tore past in a mad rush to be where they needed to, each driver thinking they were more important than those ahead of them. As one screeched through the roundabout, a can flew out the window and fizzed in the gutter.

  ‘What do you mean you made him cry?’ At a break in traffic, I darted across the road. Dad shuffled along behind me. We tossed our empty bottles in the bin outside the Shell Service Station and kept walking.

  ‘I made him cry,’ he said. ‘He asked me for permission to marry you.’

  ‘Yeah, he never mentioned the crying bit.’

  ‘See, he rang me up at work one day and asked if I would like to get lunch at the pub. Now, I don’t care. If someone wants to buy me lunch, I’m okay with that.’

  ‘You’re such an arse.’ I peered over the bridge and into the murky Barwon River.

  Dad laughed. ‘And so, I walk in, and he’s all prim and proper and “Hello, sir”.’

  ‘Jesus.’ This story sounded like it was going downhill quicker than a cheese-rolling festival. ‘And?’

  ‘He bought me a beer and lunch. By this stage it was obvious what was going on, so I just looked at him and said “No”.’

  ‘Oh, Dad, don’t, don’t say that – that’s so cruel.’

  ‘I thought he was going to melt into a puddle in front of me. He buried his face in his hands and just howled. He’d worked himself up so much that he just lost it.’

  ‘And I suppose you still ate the lunch he bought you.’

  ‘Calm down.’ He flapped a hand about. ‘When he could finally draw breath, and we had the attention of everyone, because here’s a pimply nineteen-year-old having an emotional breakdown in a pub, he asked me why not.’

  ‘And you said?’

  ‘I said it wasn’t my decision, so don’t ask me.’ Dad laughed. ‘He looked at me like he’d malfunctioned, just sat there blinking. You know the face. It’s the same face he makes when he can’t work out if he’s going to respond to something stupid your mother says.’

  ‘I do know that face.’ I checked the time. ‘Are you going to get to your overly emotional point about how you support me but still aren’t sure I’m doing the right thing?’

  ‘No, because you just said it yourself.’ Dad pointed at me with his phone. ‘I don’t doubt that he loves you. He always has. I’m happy if you’re happy; that’s my job as your dad. It’s pro-bono, and I’m down with that. But I am still a bit funny about it, and I don’t mean funny ha-ha, either.’

  Dad was the first person I told, and the first at the front door when Oliver had left. I’d locked the house, shut the curtains, and spent a week in bed before that. My mobile phone went flat, parcels stacked up at the front door, and I forgot to pay the electricity bill. While Mum stood around like a professional widow, Dad got to work helping me up and back out into the world. He might’ve paid a bill or two while he was at it. If he had, it had remained unspoken of.

  ‘Yeah, I know.’ I sighed. ‘Trust me, it’s all a little weird to me, too.’

  ‘I mean, it’s like he’s back from the dead.’

  ‘And how many times have you wished someone you loved came back from the dead?’ I asked. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Depends. Were they coming back as something from a Michael Jackson video, or Weekend at Bernie’s?’

  I threw my head back and groaned.

  ‘Just be careful, okay? That’s all I’m saying.’ He nudged my shoulder. ‘Plus, I handed my gun back during the last amnesty, so …’

  ‘Thanks.’ I pushed him across the road. ‘I trust him, though – this will be good. We’re even going to date properly, or again. Whatever.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Whirlwind Zoe blustered through my front door with an armful of dresses, a cosmetics bag, and a Wiggles backpack full of shoes. I was already half done zipping up a Y-line dress, one of the few things I was sure looked good on me, even if it meant dislocating a shoulder trying to get to the zip.

&nb
sp; It was Monday night and, as promised, Oliver and I were heading out for dinner. We’d spent the day poring over finer details of menu cards, staff requirements, aligning calendars around cake orders, drinking coffee, and grabbing at each other in the staff room when we had a moment spare. Walking out the door, we promised not to talk about work over dinner.

  ‘Wow.’ Zoe whistled.

  ‘What?’ I asked.

  Her nose crumpled, forehead wrinkled.

  Maybe I smelt. I had showered. I sniffed at my armpits. No, definitely fine. I pulled at the fabric that cinched my hips. ‘What? Is it not good? It’s not good, is it? It’s probably awful, wrong colour. Too tight.’

  ‘Are you kidding me?’ Zoe laughed. ‘If he doesn’t take you home, I will.’

  ‘Christ.’ I took a few deep breaths. ‘I don’t even know what the hell I’m doing.’

  ‘Yes, you do.’ She handed me a pair of shoes. ‘Don’t make excuses.’

  I glared at her in the mirror’s reflection. We were a case of opposites today. My fancy dress was matched by her lounge pants and stained T-shirt. My face screwed in false scandal. ‘You’re so rude.’

  ‘How are you getting there? Is he picking you up?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m meeting him there,’ I said, dabbing at my mouth with lipstick. Zoe’s mouth dropped. ‘What?’

  ‘He lives two streets away and he’s meeting you there? I swear, if he didn’t offer—’

  ‘He offered, but I told him I’d meet him there – calm down.’

  She pointed a tube of mascara at me. ‘I’m driving you there.’

  ‘You don’t have to do that.’ I tucked in the last of my chignon, held my breath and reached for the hairspray. So long as no one lit a match in the same room as me tonight, I would be fine.

  ‘But I do have to do that.’ Zoe danced around my hemline, a bridesmaid straightening a gown. ‘What are you going to do?’ She peered up at me. ‘Follow each other home like chastised school children so you can fondle awkwardly on the doorstep? God, you two are idiots. Get in my car.’

  Despite assertions that I was perfectly capable, I ended up battling a café’s worth of empty takeaway cups and a hand-me-down Jeff Wiggle doll for space in the front of Zoe’s car.