‘Am I looking at you right now?’ he asked.
‘Too bad for you if you are,’ I grumbled, rubbing my hands over my face and hoping to smear off any residual icing sugar. I probably looked like an addict who’d just had a hit.
‘Where are you?’ he asked.
‘In Geelong. Zoe’s just left me high and dry, so I’m waiting for a taxi.’
‘Cancel the taxi, turn towards the Telstra building.’
Standing on the opposite corner, in front of the beige freestone and brick building, was Oliver, motionless in the tide of people moving around him. Above his head, way up on the third floor of the building, was a bright electronic billboard. As it refreshed its screen, an advertisement for a dating site displayed. I threw a finger up in the air and listened to him laugh on the other end.
He sighed. ‘Yep, that’s Lucy.’
‘What are you doing at Telstra? Asking them for space on their billboard?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘Just upgrading the account.’
‘Super businessman package,’ I teased.
‘Smartarse. Listen, what are you doing right now? Do you want to catch up? I know a great little place around here that does a high tea.’
‘Do you just?’ I laughed as the Lost Dogs’ Home appeared.
‘I do.’ He stopped. ‘Why are you laughing?’
‘There’s an ad for the Lost Dogs’ Home above your head right now.’
He turned and craned his neck. ‘So rude. How about you give this dog a bone? Let’s go find somewhere to chat, clear the air.’
‘Sure, why not?’
‘All right, wait there.’
‘How about we both cross the road?’ I balanced on the kerb. A warm rush of air accompanied a bus that rolled around the corner. ‘That way we can meet in the middle.’
The moment the pedestrian lights turned green, I scuttled across the road, trying not to drop my phone on the ground. All it took was a vice-like hug to thaw out some of the ice that had started to form around our edges. It was wonderful, and just what I needed right then.
* * *
While Oliver poured out two perfectly hot cups of tea, I switched my phone to silent and tucked it away in the depths of my bag. I wanted, needed, to be completely present in whatever this was about to become. He’d driven us to a new restaurant in the converted Woollen Mills site, both of us silent for the trip.
Complete with ground to ceiling windows, the original industrial interior was almost completely untouched – except for the introduction of required fixtures. Brass pipes lined red-brick walls, black steel beams held the roof, and I tried to work out why Oliver hadn’t picked a more high-profile site like this.
‘Are you okay?’ He studied me while he pulled a folder from his messenger bag. It landed on the table with a thud. ‘You look like you’ve got a lot on your mind.’
‘Frustrated and hungry. I left before we ordered lunch.’
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘We never had kids.’ I sat up a bit straighter. ‘Why?’
He raised his brows, and a china cup to his lips. ‘Because we didn’t want them? I seem to recall quite a succinct discussion immediately before and after we got married.’
‘Do you think that makes us lesser people?’
‘Hardly.’ He put his cup down. ‘Does this have something to do with the cocaine nose you’re currently sporting?’
‘What?’ My hand flew to my face, rubbing at the mark while Oliver laughed. I’d obviously looked like that the whole way there. ‘I thought I got it all. Is it gone?’
He leant over and, holding my head still, rubbed a warm thumb across the tip of my nose. I swore I could feel every ridge of his fingerprint.
‘It is now,’ he said.
‘It makes me angry.’
‘Lucy, you were born angry.’ He looked around behind me, before refocusing. He was always watching kitchens, wait staff. The only difference was, now, they were watching him, too. I wasn’t sure that was something I could ever get used to.
‘Okay, so maybe I was. But, today, Zoe asked me if I could make one hundred cupcakes tonight. Because, apparently, I don’t have any plans.’
‘Do you have plans?’
I shrugged. ‘Well I do now, but she assumed I didn’t.’
‘Did she assume that, because you have no kids, you have nothing to do?’
I snapped my fingers. ‘Five points for the man in the navy polo.’ And boy did I hate that he loved his polos, fabric pinching and stretching around his biceps.
He laughed. ‘Do it. I’ll draw up an invoice for her.’
‘That won’t go down well. It’s school fete and please can you do it, and she’s already told Richard I can.’
Oliver rolled his eyes. ‘That muppet.’
‘I don’t have a lot of choice.’ I stretched across the table towards him, feeling energy spring through my limbs. ‘But, what I’m angry about is that people must think I sit around in some sort of child-free reserve. That maybe I thaw myself out and get dressed when everyone else is ready to do something. Or can’t you just do this, or wait until you have kids, or you don’t understand because you don’t have kids.’
‘Lucy, you are one of the angriest, funniest, driest, most emotional people I know. No one can say you don’t feel because you don’t have children. I’ve watched you lose your shit over commercials, for God’s sake.’ He placed a serviette under his cup. Tea bled into an eclipse around the base. ‘Perhaps there are other things in this life you’re destined for. Not everyone must have children, and you don’t have to justify that to anyone.’
‘Honestly, I’m flat out dressing myself. Why do I want to dress someone else?’
‘And herein lies our reasoning for no children.’
‘Plus, I like sleeping in,’ I said.
‘And cake.’ Oliver leant back as three tiers of life’s finest creations were placed in front of us. ‘Looks good.’
I pulled sketchpad and pencils from my bag as our waitress walked away, candy-apple-red lips curling up into a smile reserved only for Oliver.
‘Not that good,’ he whispered, leaning in. ‘Put it away and just enjoy it.’
‘Really?’ I glanced at the service, then him. ‘Looks decent?’
‘No way.’ He picked at the first piece. ‘My birthday cake was much better than this.’
‘Look, can I just say, I am so sorry about that mess. I shouldn’t have been drinking, I know I made a mess, but—’
‘Lucy, stop. We’re never going to move past it if we keep bringing it up. It is what it is, yeah? Let’s just concentrate on the future. I’ve promised you before that I want to do better, and that’s where I want to look.’
‘You wanted to clear the air, though.’
‘I do.’ He picked at a tiny éclair. ‘But not by dredging things up. Let’s call it square and move on.’
‘It is what it is.’ I repeated his words.
‘Correct. What I do want to say is what I’ve said before. I take full responsibility for everything. Starting with the way I treated you, and for everything since. I am still completely dumbfounded that you … you’re talking to me.’
‘Trust me, more than one person has assumed I’ve lost the plot.’
Oliver moved the cake stand to the side, those poor biceps trapped in their sleeves. Now, he was no longer hidden by strawberry shortcake and finger sandwiches.
‘I admire you so much, Lucy.’
I barked out a little laugh. ‘Then why?’
‘Can we just agree that I’m a dickhead?’
Shoving a sandwich in my mouth would stop me saying something stupid, surely.
‘There is something I’ve wanted to say to you for a while,’ he continued.
‘Oh?’
‘It’s not bad, just a bit of context.’
He had my attention, for all the wrong reasons. I braced for impact. His eyes darted around nervously in that way that told me he was still trying t
o find the words he needed.
‘I became a chef because it gave me a chance to finally be good at something. While we were doing our apprenticeships, Dad would check in with me on my marks.’
‘Fairly standard.’ I hated poor manners, but there I was, talking with a mouthful of food and shovelling more in. Maybe if I choked, I’d stop digging.
Oliver grimaced. ‘Sort of. It wasn’t enough that I rattle off my marks; I also had to tell him yours. If I ever fell short of you, which was often, he would absolutely rail me over it.’
‘Oh, Ollie, I didn’t know.’ As natural as a heartbeat, I reached out and took his hand. My fingers brushed over his knuckles, which he normally hated, but he let me continue. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘So, first chance I got, I went and did something that just I could be good at. I was so relieved when you said you were done with school after patisserie – even if it did mean you worked in Melbourne without me for a while.’
‘I’m so sorry. I wish I’d known.’ I wanted to throw myself over the table and hug him. It hurt to think that he’d been carrying this around for years, or that he’d gone through it all without so much as a passing mention at the time.
‘It wouldn’t have changed anything.’ He shook his head. ‘I just wanted you to know that you inspired my move into the chef business.’
‘Thank you for telling me.’
‘I always admired what you could do, I just never understood your reluctance.’ His hand pulled away slowly.
‘I think I was too young. We were too young. Twenty-one is super young for marriage, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, it is.’ Oliver popped the last brownie square in his mouth. ‘Would you have come if I’d waited a year or two?’
I sighed. ‘You can’t ask that.’
‘Why?’
‘Because your success happened when it was supposed to. If I had held you back and you’d failed, well, that wouldn’t be fair. So, while I was angry with you for going, no one can argue you did the wrong thing by you.’
‘Such a juxtaposition.’ He laughed gently.
‘Tell me about it.’
‘I’m glad we could talk today.’
‘Well, I’m glad you called, actually.’ I studied the cakes in front of us.
‘You are?’ he asked.
‘Yeah.’ I bit into a sandwich. ‘I need a lift home.’
Oliver grinned, a face full of dimples and laugh lines. ‘I want this to work. I really do. I want us to enjoy working together.’
‘Me, too.’ I nodded. I meant it, too. I was so tired of the toing and froing.
Pulling a pen from his folio, Oliver clicked it once, then twice, and passed a paper-clipped pile to me. ‘Let’s talk business, then we can go home and make those bloody cupcakes.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
There’s nothing worse than standing on someone’s doorstep, knowing full well they probably don’t want to see you, with an armful of cardboard boxes and cupcakes that needed a home. To add insult to injury, it was raining.
Oliver stayed overnight. Instead of using the ovens at Murray’s, we collected some muffin trays and made them at home. It was early hours before we perfected the two-toned buttercream icing in hideous green and yellow. It was a surprise that we managed the full one hundred cupcakes. Truthfully, it was 102, but we finished the night with a pot of tea and dessert.
We’d also managed something else: a completely civil night that descended into random giggling, filthy jokes, shared memories, and exuberant laughter. “Fixing” us was not as simple as that – I knew it wasn’t – but it had been a genuinely enjoyable night that might have dabbed a little bit of plaster in the cracks.
I knocked again and huddled in the corner like a cat. My car sat in the driveway, wipers stuck at an alarmed angle while rain fell to the earth sideways. The doorbell called out for attention again. I was ready to give up and go home when Peter opened the door wearing nothing more than a towel. Avert eyes, avert eyes. Oh God, look at all that wood in the garden this morning. Roger Moore. Old Roger Moore. Far out. Regrowth protruded from the fluff of the beige towel that was protecting his modesty, and my eyesight. Jesus.
‘Oh, Lucy, Zo is gonna shit. Thank you. Come in.’ He stood aside, and I had never paid more attention to the hallway full of happy family photos in my life. Disneyland, Bali, Bahamas, Route 66 – yes, very interesting. And so glad to see none of them included naked men.
Their lounge resembled a mobile Toys R Us. With four kids between the ages of two and twelve, they had covered just about every aisle and craze in the last decade. I nudged Optimus Prime out of the way and dodged a random Lego landmine to place the boxes on a tiny clearance on the kitchen bench. Peter wobbled around gathering coffee cups and teaspoons while mumbling to himself about getting the kids out of bed.
As a child, I had hearing like a hawk when we had late-night or early morning visitors. Zoe’s kids clearly suffered the same affliction, each of them charging out from their rooms and down the hall. Fingers crawled into a box of cupcakes, eyes wide with wonder, and I didn’t stop them when they each disappeared with one back to their rooms. Where else are you going to hide from a bleary-eyed mother who’s staggering down the hallway, tying her dressing gown in a thousand knots.
‘Lucy, I owe you such an apology.’ She pressed her hands together quickly, yawning. Where Peter had started with the coffee making, she finished.
‘Oliver helped,’ I blurted.
‘What?’ she asked, disbelieving.
‘We met up yesterday, had a bit of a chat.’
Busy inspecting the cupcakes, she looked at me from the corner of her eye. ‘And?’
‘He helped because, even without kids, that volume is a lot of work for a night-before demand.’
Her shoulders fell. ‘I felt so awful yesterday. Your face.’
‘Kids might be your thing, but they’re not mine. They never were. But that doesn’t mean I’m available at a moment’s notice. And I have so much shit going on in my life right now that I’m not sure I can tell which way is north any more.’
‘I am sorry.’
God, I’d heard that word so often lately that I wondered whether it meant anything any more. More and more, I suspected people said it to shut others up. Be a car salesman, tell them what they want, and move on to the next unsuspecting fool. Something about actions and words, and their respective volumes rattled around in my tin can brain.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked.
‘No.’ I picked some dried icing out from under my nail. ‘Not really.’
‘Can I … do you want to talk about it?’
I slid off the barstool, barely missing a toy car underfoot. ‘I’ve gotta get to work.’
‘Lucy, please talk to me.’
In the next room, the television blared early morning cartoons. A fight erupted over the remote control, and Zoe disappeared to calm the farm. Peter reappeared, this time in suit and tie, briefcase propped up next to the bench, but disappeared out the front door with nothing more than a farewell for the boys. Zoe returned with an apologetic smile.
‘Where were we?’ she asked.
‘I’ve gotta get to work. Oliver’s asked me to show up today, so, off I go.’
‘Let’s go and finish that lunch we started soon?’ She followed me to the front door.
‘Sure.’ I waved. ‘I’d like that.’
* * *
Rain erased the outside world in a haze of condensation and blurry windscreen. I ran the wipers once, watching Oliver pace the length of the dining area. He was dressed in a full chef’s uniform, minus the hat. Occasionally, someone would approach and touch at his face with a make-up brush.
The wipers squeezed across the windscreen again. What I was watching was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. Soft boxes, reflectors, cameramen, make-up artists, and a solitary reporter all vied for space in front of Oliver, each ready to show him in a totally different light: celebrity chef. It was a strange world, one that
I wasn’t convinced I fit into. Why on earth had he picked me? Surely this wasn’t born solely out of guilt? Beside me, my phone beeped.
‘You are amazing.’ It was Zoe. ‘Thank you so much for your help. You are incredibly talented.’
I stared at the message until the screen faded to black again. While I suspected her words were driven more by guilt than admiration, it pushed me out of the car and into Oliver’s world.
To the casual observer, Murray’s appeared open for business. Gold lettering across the windows announced its arrival to the world. Unused chairs and tables were stacked by the front door, and warm yellow lights gave the inside an inviting warmth. Walking through the front door felt as natural as coming home.
Curious faces turned to watch as I slipped through the front door, jacket over my head. Oliver continued talking as I bypassed the small crowd and made for the kitchen. Resting on the very end of a bench was a crisply packaged uniform, my name embroidered above a fresh “Lucy Williams for Murray’s” logo. On closer inspection, a toy car was shoved into the top pocket.
It was a model of Oliver’s old car, the car I now drove, a 1960s Volkswagen. As students with school loans, a mortgage, and tiny incomes, a big night out for us involved ten dollars worth of fuel and a cruise along the coastline, where we’d proceed to sit in a car park and talk of all our grand plans. This, now, was our grand plan. I wanted to be back there with a foggy windscreen, a broken headlight, and wandering hands.
‘Like it?’ Oliver appeared in the doorway.
I rattled the car. ‘They were good nights.’
‘We should go again. Take a drive.’
I pulled the jacket from its plastic cocoon. ‘I’d like that.’
‘Why don’t you pop your jacket on and come and talk to these guys about what you’re doing?’
Too dumbfounded to move, I stayed in my spot. This was really happening, puzzle pieces were clipping together, and the picture it presented was incredible. My stomach buzzed like a beehive, anticipation mixed with excitement.
‘Go on,’ he urged. ‘I’ll wait here.’
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