‘What is happiness?’ he asked.
‘Well.’ I tapped at a finger. ‘Job satisfaction, a warm bed, a full belly, a working brain, and a partner who, I don’t know, supports, encourages, pushes me to grow.’
‘I don’t think I’ve had that since I had you.’
Throw me on the ground like buttered toast, because I was sure my insides just splattered like a paintball. ‘Same.’
Oliver leant down, his lips pressed against my temple. Everything around me disappeared into the void. There were no sounds except my heartbeat, no presence except him, and a touch that was more nervous whisper than rousing scream. I’d felt him so many times before, but this felt like new, uncharted territory.
‘I missed you,’ he said, his lips moving to my cheek.
‘I missed you more.’
I reached up and pulled his mouth to mine, shutting down any further confessions. He kissed me with a softness that told me this was completely precious and might dissolve into the night at any second. While he gathered me in his arms, I clutched at the front of his jacket. If I could just get it open, maybe I could crawl inside completely.
‘Do you know what I want to do?’ I asked, popping the buttons of his jacket with soft, fabric puffs.
‘No.’ Oliver smoothed a hand over my head. ‘What?’
‘Takeaway and wine in bed. Paella to go, drive-thru bottle shop, clean bedsheets.’
‘Are you saying?’
‘I want you to stay tonight.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Birds chirped, owls danced in overcoats, and a flurry of woodland creatures were cleaning my house when I woke the next morning. Actually, I lie. It was more like the magpie outside wouldn’t shut up, the owl was the asthmatic fan belt of a car that wheezed past, and if anyone was cleaning my house, it was likely to be ants feasting on what was left of rice and wine on the bedside table. I lifted my head to check. No wild animal cleaning force this morning.
What I had instead was a peacefully sleeping Oliver, up close and in dawn-tinted Technicolor. I watched him closely, cataloguing tiny changes to his face, the laugh lines that contoured his eyes, the twitch of a dimple while he slept, the lashes that fanned out across his cheeks in the same way a single wayward curl rested on his forehead. Pink pouty lips mashed into the pillow. This feeling right here, this was peace.
Our paella didn’t quite make it home. I fed dangerously tall spoonfuls of it to Oliver as we drove home; all the while he laughed about not dirtying up the hire car. To which I told him the car would stink by the time he handed it back anyway, so good luck to the cleaners with that one.
The champagne cork popped before we stumbled in through the front door, splattering across the front veranda and running down Oliver’s wrist and soaking his overpriced shirt and jacket. I raced to the cupboard, pulled two glasses down and poured, before being dragged into the bedroom for what Oliver deemed more important business.
This time, when we made love, everything was different. Movement was slow, deliberate, a welcome change in pace from the frenetic efforts that preceded it. It didn’t feel like the inevitable, or a sense of duty. We both wanted this, wanted to be there and, as I drifted off to sleep, I felt a wave of smug satisfaction at having that connection with him again.
I reached out and brushed hair from his forehead, eliciting life. He smiled.
‘What?’ I asked.
‘Last night,’ he croaked, peering at me from a barely open eye.
‘Was long overdue.’
He reached up and tracked fingers through my hair, studied my face. ‘That’s one word for it.’
‘Wanna do it again?’
‘And again.’ Oliver pulled me under him, all warm-bodied and limber. ‘Though, if last night was an indication, I might go away for another three years.’
‘Try it.’ I reached up to kiss him.
‘Joking,’ he mumbled. ‘Joking.’
‘We don’t have to work today?’ I asked. ‘Boss?’
‘Yes, we do.’ He pressed his nose into the side of my face. ‘We have a few hours to kill, though.’
‘What are we doing, then?’
‘Let’s roll the dice on last night, shall we? A good match is always in need of a replay, after all.’
The room filled with carefree, raucous laughter, as we sunk further beneath the covers and into each other.
When I woke again, I could smell coffee. Not the cheap grinds I normally buy, but proper, made-in-a-pot coffee. The type that curls your toes and winds your clock for the day. Next to me, the bed was empty, and the radio in the kitchen hissed its displeasure at being forced to entertain.
‘Good morning.’ I pulled a T-shirt over my head. ‘Where’d you go?’
‘While you were busy sleeping, I snaffled some coffee from the shop, grabbed a few supplies. You know’ – he checked the coffee – ‘the usual.’
‘The usual?’ I pulled a face. ‘How long were you gone for?’
Long enough for a wash, by the looks of things.
‘Not long, maybe an hour.’ With a sweep of his arm, he pulled me into a hug that smelt of soap and memories. ‘I want to talk to you about something.’
‘What’s that?’ I arched back, only to end up peering at his chin. He’d nicked his bottom lip shaving.
‘I grabbed a polishing rag.’
I poked at the razor cut. ‘Hmmm?’
My wedding and engagement rings sat in the palm of his hand. ‘They were a bit dirty. I thought I might clean them for you,’ he said quietly. ‘I cleaned mine, too. I’d like to wear it again.’
‘I’d like that, too.’
Exchanging rings in front of people at a wedding is daunting. There’s a fear of losing them before you reach the altar, or dropping them, of them suddenly not fitting because of an overindulgence in carbs the night before – finger swell is a real thing. Ultimately, it’s a show, and it’s for everyone else’s benefit. It’s you, telling the world how much you love someone else, like you need to somehow prove it to make it real.
But in the here and now, as we exchanged rings in our kitchen, that was something pure, unseen, and for no one else but us. Like all good weddings, we ended with a slow dance right there in the kitchen, to whatever was playing on the radio. It lasted until Oliver’s phone chirped to life.
‘Really?’ he breathed, his lips barely leaving mine. ‘I’m busy.’
‘Might be important.’
‘You’re important.’
‘Work?’
With a pout that would rival any chocolate-seeking toddler, he picked up his phone. ‘It’s Patrick. Wants to know if we need any cookbooks. A local bookshop is, and I quote, going down quicker than a cheerleader on a Saturday night. Can we please stop by and buy some books? If we’re not doing anything, that is. He said lunch is on him.’
‘Maybe on the weekend?’ I closed my eyes, taking in the sensation of his fingers against my cheeks.
‘Yes,’ he said quietly. ‘But, first, breakfast.’
Watching him flit through the kitchen again was nice. Pots here, pans there, a scoop of butter and dollop of cream from the fridge, and he’d plated up scrambled eggs on toast. No matter where I’d eaten, I could never find eggs quite like this. Soft, creamy, and brilliant yellow, they were buttery, tangy, and a little sweet.
‘God, I have missed these so much,’ I groaned, first mouthful still melting in my mouth.
‘It’s really not that hard.’ He leant in to the bench, arms crossed.
‘I don’t want to know how you do it.’ I held a hand up as a stop sign. ‘I’m just going to pretend they’re magic.’
‘Maybe they are.’
‘Are you going to eat?’ I shoved my plate towards him, my eyes questioning.
‘May as well.’ He stood up straight. ‘We’ve got a whole day of interviews ahead of us.’
* * *
Never had I expected I would be in a position to determine whether someone was awarded a job. I’d relegated m
yself to working behind the scenes and, while captaining my own ship, still taking direction from the needs of others. Today, I got to sit in with Oliver while he met candidates face to face.
We walked them through the café, from the front counter, customer bathroom, kitchen, staff room and cool room. I had various stages of cake being mixed. A chocolate orange marble cake swirled about in the tin, a glistening sheen on top as I pushed it into the oven. I ran fresh loaves of crusty bread through a slicer, plating up fresh sandwiches of cucumber, cheese, and assorted deli meats, much to the delight of hungry interviewees. They were simple things, but food always helped create a more relaxed environment.
People hovered around the front door of Murray’s, now looking close enough to finished to imagine it opening in the next few weeks. The air popped and crackled with anticipation, and mothers of young hopefuls waved at Oliver like that was going to get their kid over the line. When he didn’t wave back, they popped their heads in the door and flirted with him only enough to embarrass their child, and not enough to get his attention.
There was a new layer of comfortable in our interactions. The ice shelf had well and truly broken. Now, we were simply floating downstream and dealing with things as best we could. Hours ticked by, full of smiles and nervous handshakes. Marks were made against applications and notes scrawled in margins. It was good work, nice to meet a raft of different people, but exhausting at the same time.
‘I hate that half these kids are going to be disappointed.’ I stretched out, rolled my shoulders about, and watched Oliver close in on the front door.
Our last candidate had barely left, and we were already rounding up keys, locking the door, and drawing blinds. I escaped to the coffee machine – two short blacks had been on order since a mid-afternoon flub from a fifteen-year-old who declared himself a better cook than Oliver. Hooray for confidence, even if it was misplaced, but it earned him a black cross on his application.
Oliver emerged from the staff room in a casual T-shirt. He lumbered up behind me, arms around my waist and chin buried in my shoulder. It had been his favourite thing to do while I washed dishes at night, and felt more comfortable than I expected it to so soon, but I would take that. Comfort was good. He yawned warmth into my shoulder.
‘What are you doing tonight?’ he asked. ‘I thought I might make use of the new kitchen, maybe make us some dinner?’
I turned around in his arms. ‘As tempting as that is, I have been summoned. Zoe wants me to, and I quote, go on a mission with her.’
Oliver cocked a brow as he took his coffee. ‘Do I want to know?’
‘You know the answer to that.’
‘Okay, all right. I guess I’ll just cook something fancy all by myself.’
‘Toast?’ I kissed him.
‘Probably.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Cars zipped down along Eastern Beach Road, one after the after, a bevy of taillights vying for prime waterfront car parks. I depressed the button at the traffic lights and looked around. Zoe was nowhere to be seen.
A barrage of frantic texts, which were becoming less legible as her ferocity increased, begged for help. She’d managed to offload her kids to her mother for the evening, and all I was told was that she needed help. Don’t question – just be there. I was sure there was a law in the universe somewhere that said all the best friendship stories started like that. For once, I could even say I had enough to cover bail money should we need it.
Pushed along by the sea of people, I walked across the road and up towards Steampacket Gardens. A waterfront café was full of diners, the scene lit up by dozens of little candles scattered across tables. Zoe was nowhere to be seen.
It took me ten minutes to recognise her, sitting on a concrete bench with her legs crossed and bag on her lap. She wore a dark jacket, sunglasses, and a floppy hat. I leant down to peer at her under the brim.
‘You’re late.’ Her lips were pressed into a flat line, and her arms were crossed.
‘Sorry, interviews.’ I took a seat next to her, still none the wiser as to my role in this.
‘Here.’ She handed me sunglasses and a hat that magically appeared from her bag. ‘Put them on.’
‘What on earth are we doing?’ I asked.
‘Peter is up there.’ She flung a languid finger towards an upstairs French restaurant. ‘Business meeting.’
Great, a night spying on her husband. The moment Peter had told her he was held up at work, and would be out for dinner, Zoe had mobilised. She’d called her mother, then used shaky hands to get in touch with me. I could have been tucked up in a warm bed, reacquainting myself with my husband’s body but, no, we were engaging in espionage.
‘All right, Carmen San Diego, what exactly are we looking for?’ I looked at her. ‘You can’t see anything up there, and he can’t see you down here. What are you proving?’
‘I’m proving that he’s going to leave with a woman.’
Moments like this made me thankful for the clarity of my own situation. Surely, the marker of a mature relationship is just to ask the damn question and clear the air.
‘I just want proof first.’ Zoe wouldn’t make eye contact, her voice unsteady.
Despite my misgivings, I sat with her, because there wasn’t a whole lot else I could do. Walking away would only upset her more, even if sitting with her was endorsing her actions. Parts of me, tiny parts, wondered if Zoe took delight in this weird kind of self-torture. The other parts of me wondered how long it would take to get some of the hot chips I could smell.
‘Are you hungry?’ I leant in.
‘I’m sick to my stomach. That man is disgusting.’
‘Do you mind if I get some chips, then?’ I asked.
When she didn’t answer, I walked off anyway. I tore the oversized hat off and tipped the sunglasses into my hair. The chippy was bustling with energy tonight. Orders were shouted over heads, disinterested kids leant back against the wall, and hungry couples made out in the corner while they waited for their number to be called. It was nothing new for the area, especially as the summer months were bearing down on us. Eateries right along the beach road would soon be bustling with locals and tourists alike, and parking would be even harder to come by. I ordered a large bag and took my place among the throng.
When I finally made it back to the seat, Zoe had a set of binoculars out. I stopped and watched her just to make sure I wasn’t seeing things, and looked around to see if she’d attracted any undue attention.
‘Do you want a ticket to the loony farm?’ I dumped the chips between us and snatched the binoculars from her.
‘I was just looking.’
‘No, you’re spying.’ I tore at the paper bag. ‘Just ask him, Zoe. This is unfair. What if he’s doing nothing wrong?’
‘And what if I’m right?’
My eyes widened. ‘Then you will find that out by asking him.’
‘No, I won’t.’ She clasped a handful of greasy chips, munching away as she watched.
I let the silence pass for a few more minutes.
‘Is there anything else that will help you with an answer … aside from this?’
‘No, this is good.’ Her hand snapped out and grabbed a clasp of chips.
‘So, the café is going well,’ I said. ‘Lots of cakes.’
‘Yeah?’ Zoe glanced at me quickly.
‘Yeah, I’ve got a big night tomorrow making a cake for Oliver’s birthday. Then, we’re onto the tourism morning tea.’
‘That’ll be fun.’
I realised I was frustrated. I wasn’t angry with Zoe, because God knows I’d be beside myself in her position, but it was the stagnation. The inability to ask, or confront the issue. It wasn’t that I was out here. I would help her through anything, though sitting here was ridiculous in a bad spy film kind of way. Plus, it was way too dark for sunglasses.
‘You know what? I’m going to march up there right now and ask him.’ I stood and brushed the front of my coat down. ‘Then
this will be sorted.’
‘What? No!’ Zoe leapt to her feet. ‘No!’
‘Why not? You’ll soon know, won’t you? That’s what you want?’
Just as I made to storm over there, heart racing, head held high, and principles somewhere in the right place, a side entrance opened. Peter, two men, and a woman staggered outside in a laughing mess. They lit cigarettes and huddled together under a yellow light.
Zoe yanked on my arm. ‘Sit down.’
Each of them looked dressed for an after-dinner meeting. Not as formal as an early morning meeting that finds everyone running late and grabbing a doughnut on the way to the office, but that nice relaxed type of meeting that says ties are looser, and hair is down.
We watched on in silence, Zoe pushing chips into her mouth like a chain smoker lighting cigarettes, carefully, and one after the other. Nothing happened. Smokes were stubbed out, the door opened, and they filtered back inside, one at a time before the door clapped shut behind the woman.
‘See?’ I asked. ‘Nothing. Let’s go.’
Finally admitting defeat, a rarity for Zoe, I walked back to my car, and she to hers. Drip lights hung from trees, the sound of bands mashed together on my walk up the hill, and excited party-goers clung to each other as they tried muscling their way into a nightclub.
I considered stopping to see Oliver on the way home. Turning up unannounced in the late hours of the night felt a little clandestine, and reminded me of all those times he’d climbed through my window as a teenager. His fringe would flop about in his eyes, burgeoning muscles doing their bit to draw him over the ledge, and lanky legs in jeans that were torn at the knee. With the lights off and no sign of life, I left him to sleep and went home.
Two notes had been slid in the front door. In this time of instant messaging and mobile phones, it felt like a novelty to have someone go to the effort of leaving a note. The first from Oliver:
Looking forward to tomorrow. See you in the morning.
The other, from my brother.
Give me a call when you get this?
A Recipe for Disaster Page 19