A Recipe for Disaster

by Belinda Missen

  ‘How’s the view?’ he asked.

  I tucked my feet under me and sat a little higher in the chair. ‘Stunning.’

  ‘All the best things are worth the hard work.’

  ‘Okay.’ I gasped as I drained the last of my drink. ‘I think I need food or alcohol before this.’

  ‘Before what?’

  ‘My marriage counselling session.’

  Patrick laughed. ‘Not counselling.’

  ‘What do you think?’ I asked.

  ‘About the job, or the marriage?’

  ‘Both. I mean, you’ve been there.’

  ‘The problem is, Luce, when I left home, it was because I was a dick. I was sixteen, knew everything, and was running.’ He swirled the base of his can against the glass table between us. It left wet streaks in its wake.

  ‘What were you running from?’

  ‘Responsibility.’ He shrugged. ‘I thought I didn’t want to fall into the trap of the life my parents had. I saw how much Dad’s job stressed him out, and Mum. It just felt like, if I followed him into his job, I would end up the same, and I didn’t want that. Teenage brain said run, so I did.’

  ‘What do you think of that now?’ I asked. ‘Do you still feel the same?’

  ‘About leaving?’ He glanced around, pulled a face, and looked at me. ‘It certainly helped make me who I am. It gave me a lot of experience. As for my parents, they were way too young when they had me, so that was probably a large portion of their stress. Me.’ A self-deprecating grin wrinkled his eyes and spread his mouth out across his face.

  ‘Do you think that’s why Oliver left? Did I stress him out?’ Right now, I would have given anything for something alcoholic, something to numb the panic.

  ‘I think he left because he got an idea in his head, and he couldn’t live with himself if he didn’t at least try. I admire that,’ Patrick said. ‘To have that level of conviction in yourself and your skill? It’s kind of mind-blowing.’

  ‘That’s true.’ I placed my can on the table. ‘I never wanted anything but success for him, just, I wasn’t ready for that. I had my own career happening.’

  ‘His methodology was a bit off. I mean, if my wife looked like you, I wouldn’t exactly be rushing to leave her behind.’ He shrugged without daring to make eye contact. ‘But, we can’t all be smart. It’s just a curse I’ll have to bear.’

  I laughed loudly. ‘You’re not helping.’

  Around us, the swell of evening life in Apollo Bay grew to a crescendo of slamming car doors, dog walkers, and parties. A Dalmatian sniffed its way around my car and kept walking its owner. In the background, the soft crash of waves fought with music higher on the hills. Add to that the smell of barbecue, and I was ready to kick back with a few drinks before taking a heavy nap. I turned my attention back to Patrick, who was tapping out a frustrated text message.

  ‘Me? Help? Probably not,’ he said, dropping his phone on the table and mumbling about unpaid bills. ‘What do I think you should do?’ he asked. ‘If you divorce, whatever, maybe you’re running away. It’s an easy solution to knuckling down and working shit out. I know you don’t want to hear that. I mean, look, him coming back, the restaurant, it was all very sudden and kind of sprung on everyone. I get that would have been hard, and it’s gonna be a bumpy landing. We clashed quite a bit while I was working on the shop, but calling everything off? It’s a temporary solution to working through what you guys had – which, from my view, was quite cool.’

  I winced a little, because no else but Patrick would be straight down the middle. Zoe would always take my side; my mother would always take Oliver’s, regardless of whether she birthed him or not.

  ‘He’s just so smug now.’

  Patrick stood up. ‘Newsflash: he always has been. You just haven’t had to live with it for a while.’

  ‘Really?’

  He nodded. ‘So, what we’re going to do is go to the pub and get some dinner. I presume you haven’t eaten yet?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Okay, good. So, dinner, then you can chill out here for a few days, get your head straight, and then I’m going to kick you the hell out.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Today’s Friday. You have until Monday to sort your shit. You know, that whole communication thing adults need to do? Do that.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  Patrick stood by the sliding door. ‘And no pity-parties, or I’ll toss you out quicker than an over-full garbage bin.’

  After a late supper at the pub, and a few boozy glasses of red, I slipped into the spare bedroom and sank into a deep sleep on an otherwise uncomfortable bed. Patrick thumped his way up and down the hall before disappearing for work just before sunrise and, with a headache to match my immediate shame at the memory of yesterday, I climbed out of bed and made for the first café I saw.

  I drank coffee, ate warm bread and butter for breakfast, and wandered along the shoreline. I thought about what I wanted, what was an absolute deal breaker and, somewhere in the mix, had a few ideas for recipes that I tapped out madly on my phone, which remained silent despite yesterday’s disasters. When I thought I’d overthought everything, I called in to the supermarket and picked up some dinner supplies.

  Except, my brain didn’t stop. While I cooked dinner, everything festered like the bubbling pot before me. Time alone today had given me nothing but the chance to reflect. I didn’t need to be anywhere, with anyone, or baking. After the mad rush of the weeks before, it suddenly felt hollow, devoid of activity. Surprisingly, I missed it.

  ‘These are great.’

  I hadn’t heard Patrick walk through the front door. He stood by the dining-room table, flipping through a sketchpad I’d brought with me.

  ‘You think so?’ I asked.

  ‘I know so.’ He stopped for a moment. ‘I mean, as a consumer, I’d be eating any of these. I wouldn’t object if you wanted to use this place as a test kitchen. I have book club on Wednesday night.’

  ‘What?’ I shrieked. ‘Book club? Patrick!’

  ‘Don’t ask, because I’m not telling.’ He threw his head back. ‘There’s not enough tea and biscuits in the world to explain how I got roped in.’

  We sat down to dinner: a rustic roasted vegetable tart, complete with goat’s cheese and flaky, buttery pastry. Despite Patrick’s assertions that the food was incredible, and it made him rethink single life, it still wasn’t good enough to get him to divulge how he’d managed to join the local book club. There was a lot of head shaking and pink cheeks, but not another word.

  Throughout all the praise, one thing tickled at the back of my mind. As many times as he told me the food was good, it didn’t make up for Oliver’s enthusiasm. A lot of people are enamoured with flavours, but Oliver saw the art of construction, the technique, the reasoning behind things, and that made his praise all the more worth chasing. Not having that ached.

  I missed the interaction, the feedback loop, and the honesty that only came from him. Those thoughts tripped my brain into a magical mystery tour of all the things we’d done and achieved, cooked, and tossed in the bin before the Great Marriage Collapse of three years earlier. Instead of crying and moping, I found myself scribbling a list of all the good things we’d achieved. The things I wrote down became raw and revealing.

  The word “Murray’s” was big and bold and circled in red pencil. Without looking too closely at Friday, we had achieved a lot. We could work together; we had created a menu from the ground up. It wasn’t without its issues, but it was there, and we’d worked through them. While I was too busy smarting over the lack of support on one entire day of the year, the obvious hit me in the face.

  When had I been supportive of Oliver? I hadn’t. I should have been more supportive of him from the beginning. Right when he was offered his dream job, I was worried about me, when I should have been celebrating his achievements. Hell, I clearly hadn’t set fire to my career goals since he left, and even this job now was because of him. After everything, he still came to me first, w
hen I didn’t deserve it.

  Even with the niggling issues that needed working out, I couldn’t walk away from him again. It was all a bit sudden, sobering, and saddening. Somewhere between the fuzz of tears and shaky fingers, I packed my bag, said a quick goodbye to Patrick, and raced out the front door.

  * * *

  Yellow light shone through open windows. Oliver walked back and forth, mopping the dark hardwood floors of a café on the verge of opening. The drinks cabinet was stocked, and little black place cards sat in the display fridges where my desserts would sit. I parked my car, and walked up the driveway to the side entrance, slipping through the door quietly.

  I watched him work, completely oblivious to the world around him. He hummed along to the radio, his lounge pants rolled up and socks off as he swept the mop back and forth. I knocked on the door once to no avail. A little harder the second time around got his attention.

  ‘Lucy?’ He seemed as surprised about me being there as I was by my tears.

  Shoes and socks peeled off, I crossed the floor to wrap him up in a hug, and I squeezed until I couldn’t squeeze any more. Slowly, his arms came to rest around me, his face buried in my neck, and the mop was left to flail about on the edge of the bucket.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered.

  ‘Luce, it’s okay.’ His voice was muffled and warm.

  ‘But it’s not, though,’ I said. ‘I should have come with you. I’m sorry. I was selfish. I was so hellbent that I had this amazing job and was going to make a name for myself, but I went into Bob’s café the other week and it made me realise that it was all kind of a sham. I moved on, and no one except Bob knew me. If I was serious about a career, I could have sorted something in France. I could have. I’m sure that, if the shoe were on the other foot, then you would follow me. I owe you more. I want to do better.’

  Oliver rested his hands on my neck. ‘You know I didn’t come back for the café, right?’

  My heart wheezed like a deflated balloon, and my vision blurred. ‘No?’

  ‘I came back for you. I didn’t care about what happened, or didn’t happen, or the years between us. I was just so sick of not having you around, because I still loved you.’

  I leant in and kissed him. My hands held the back of his head, fingers scratching through his hair. His mouth was warm and sweet, like sugared coffee, and tasted like hunger. This wasn’t a nice memory flickering to life before I fell asleep at night, this felt like a fresh start, all the rubbish sloughed away. Oliver slipped his hand into my coat and around my waist. Maybe he hoped that holding me made me more real, and not a balloon ready to float away.

  ‘Can we just pretend like the last few months haven’t happened?’ He moved only enough to speak, his bottom lip still precariously close to my teeth.

  I nodded, lips brushing against his. ‘And I love you, too.’

  ‘You know, I have so much to tell you.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Robbie, our coffee guru, belted the portafilter against the bench. It was the clock that chimed out of time and at all hours of the day. When it wasn’t keeping customers awake, it was keeping all of us upright to some extent. In the kitchen, new employees worked on wedding cakes I couldn’t keep up with, and some plated lunches that were selling quicker than a snap of the fingers.

  Oliver and I had spent a week in Sydney before we opened, and we worked hard while we were there. Between meetings, an afternoon of browsing a George Street bookshop produced more self-help books than were necessary. Our favourite rooftop restaurant was still there, and we updated our selfie, even if it was blowy and my hair covered at least half the frame. Who am I kidding? We took half a dozen photos until we got one where we could see Oliver’s face, too.

  From our tourism lunch, we were offered a contract with a large hotel chain, and we stormed into a meeting ready to take on the world. We bounced off each other perfectly. Where they had a question, we had an answer. In the end, it was agreed I would consult for them, and their in-house team would bake. It made no sense to ship food between states when it would be freshest, and tastiest, made on-site. Murray’s had barely been open a month, so we considered that a massive success.

  On advice from Oliver, I’d decided to consult with only one hotel per city, and even that would prove too busy if too many people jumped on board. It kept the brand exclusive, and helped me maintain some semblance of order in my head.

  The same publisher who had worked with Oliver in the past had also approached us about a book featuring desserts, which made my toes curl beyond my wildest dreams. Nights were spent with coloured pencils and a sketchbook, creating weird and wild cakes, tarts, biscuits, and confectioneries that everyday cooks could come up with in their own kitchens.

  With the help of Patrick, our house was in the early stages of renovation. So early, in fact, that we were still spending nights sorting and tossing old junk that had got in the way and clogged the house up. While in Sydney, we’d discussed a new kitchen. That soon became a new home, if only we could decide where to buy.

  Our current home was small enough that it would make a neat bed and breakfast, and that’s exactly what we’d decided to do with it. We’d heard enough comments from customers that they would love some place to stay the night, so they could have a few drinks and not drive home to Melbourne. To Oliver, it was his chance to expand his business even further.

  ‘I quite like what Patrick has planned by the bay,’ I said. He’d shown us a drawing of a ranch-style home he’d designed, with the perfect kitchen and entertaining area, a butler’s pantry, and extra-wide fridge space. It would be the ideal home to construct if we stayed local. Otherwise, he’d sketched out something similar, but with beach views across multiple storeys, and was already busy negotiating with a landowner about a block of land a few doors from his house.

  ‘How do you feel about a stint in Paris and London?’ Oliver asked. ‘Lucy Williams could go global, you know. It’s time for a menu change at both sites. Introduce you into the market as the dessert consultant, dip the toes in.’

  It wasn’t the first time we’d discussed this. It had come up multiple times in the last month, and I could no longer afford to be stubborn about my place in the world. It had cost me everything once before, and I wasn’t prepared to go through that again. So, I grabbed the opportunity with both hands, excited, but cautious.

  ‘I have one condition.’ I pinned an old photo to the corkboard behind the front counter. It must have been twenty years old: Oliver and I facing off at school with our cake decorating skills. From memory, I scored higher marks than he did on that assessment. His face lit up as he saw the photo.

  ‘Shoot.’

  ‘For our stints back here, I want one of those two places Patrick has designed.’ I was going hard sell for the new home.

  ‘We could do both?’ he said.

  I snorted. ‘Please, that’ll cost a fortune.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘I think I am, yes.’ Oliver handed a coffee over the counter to an eager face, smiles of thanks and words of encouragement as they disappeared out the door like they’d won the takeaway lottery.

  Weeks sped past, and each morning I was thankful that I hadn’t thrown everything away. My mornings began in the kitchen, prepping desserts and making cakes. Oliver would deal with supplier drops, both of us awake and caffeinated before most people heard the first tinkling of their alarm clocks. Linen was set, cutlery and glasses polished, display fridges stocked, and dishes prepped for easy cooking. Our nights ended by about nine o’clock, back in the routine of trying new wines, fresh menu ideas, and restaurants in the region, all topped with copious amounts of sex.

  Tables were booked months in advance, and I was having such a hard time keeping up with cake orders that we’d taken on two apprentices for that alone. While it was disappointing to not be working on all of them, apprentices meant more jobs, and more time together for Oliver and me. Success wasn’t being
constantly busy; it was being comfortably busy. Plus, there was more to life than professional success. I’d count personal fulfilment more important. At least now, anyway.

  Restaurant critics lined up to get on the wait list, which was growing by the day. Phone numbers and business cards were scribbled in a notebook on a first come, first served basis. Cancellations were rare, but it happened, though the list wasn’t getting any smaller.

  Staff zipped about like a well-timed watch, thanks to Oliver and his overly meticulous preparation, rostering, and forecasting. At the end of each week he sat down with sales figures and made predictions about what would be needed for the coming week, tweaking it as needed. They weren’t always accurate – nothing ever was when dealing with humans – but it was working well so far.

  ‘Do you have any more lemon meringue in the fridge?’ Oliver did a quick stocktake of what was left in the display cabinet.

  ‘Another tray.’

  ‘Can you get it out, please? There’s two pieces left here.’

  ‘Sure. Then I have to go do the Jenkins delivery.’

  ‘Wedding cake?’ he asked.

  ‘No, today is a funeral cake.’

  ‘People will order cake for almost anything,’ Oliver mused.

  Working together was a delicate balance. It was knowing when to switch off and go with the flow, realising that it really was just “business” and not personal. Things had to happen, had to move, had to be done and, if they didn’t, that’s when things got tricky. Luckily, we hadn’t had many of those moments yet.

  It was all in the timing. The moment I opened the fridge, the ovens beeped at me. A fresh batch of baguettes was ready and already proving popular with the locals. While the recipe was standard, it was a method Oliver had brought home with him and, I’m not embarrassed to say, one I’d spent nights and weekends trying to perfect. Local papers had already declared it the best bread in the area, and I wasn’t about to disagree.

  Oliver appeared at the kitchen door. ‘Lucy, when you’re ready, there’s someone here to see you.’