A Recipe for Disaster Page 12

  Mum was unenthusiastic. She had it in her head that I needed a ‘full and rounded’ education which, by her standards, meant I went all the way through high school, only to be flung out the other side of university as a doctor or lawyer. Neither of these options suited me. Blood was gross, and couldn’t people just obey the law without me telling them about it in court? Wishful thinking, I know.

  Dad, on the other hand, grabbed paper, a pencil, and a cold beer. We sat at the kitchen table, and he asked me more questions than I knew how to answer. We talked about what I wanted to achieve, where I saw myself in ten years’ time and, more importantly, what was I going to do to achieve it all? When I screwed up my face and muttered something about just going out and getting an apprenticeship, he wasn’t impressed.

  ‘Loo, you fail to plan, you plan to fail. If you’re going to succeed at this, let’s plan out your steps.’

  I found that piece of paper stuffed in the same shoebox I’d kept a small gathering of newspaper and magazine clippings about Oliver. It was meant to be our box, where we stashed our triumphs. So far, it was all about his global domination. Standing on a chair in my bedroom, trying not to hit my head on the ceiling fan, I wondered how I’d strayed so far from that advice.

  Buried underneath everything was a sketchpad, full of ornate, ridiculously stupid childhood drawings of cakes that would never be functional, let alone beautiful. There was the princess in the castle with a cake higher than the tallest spire, drawn by eight-year-old me. Thirteen-year-old me had drawn a five-tiered monstrosity as part of a home economics class, complete with fireworks, lace, and a glass slipper. That wasn’t the point, though. Oliver had said unique. Maybe I needed to get back to drawing out my thoughts.

  I figured the beach would be a great spot for inspiration, all that natural, fresh coastline, so I packed my sketchpad and pencils, and drove to Apollo Bay.

  Sandy toes and wet ankles proved to be productive. The occasional seagull made it known they were unhappy about my lack of food offering, and wayward dogs came sniffing at toes that wiggled in the sand. I tapped away at my phone, when I held it right and got reception, and looked for local suppliers of fruits, flours, and ingredients unique to Australia.

  I looked at my original ideas as a contrast. What ingredients could I swap? What would that look like if I constructed it from wattleseed, Davidson’s plum, native lime? And shouldn’t we have a small range of cakes ready to go? After all, we were attaching a cake decorator to the business, so it made sense, didn’t it? Customers could rush in on a Saturday afternoon, breathlessly in need of something for a party, and leave with their problem solved.

  Before I’d realised I hadn’t stopped for lunch, I had a small series of illustrations, tasting notes scribbled in margins, and arrows pointing to each component. Soft pastel colours, pencils, and watercolours made images pop to life as they bled around pen lines.

  Nature finally bested me. I needed a drink, a bathroom, and something in my belly, which was growling a tune I’m sure was first composed by Beethoven. My phone rang as I locked myself in a stall of the public toilets.

  ‘Hey,’ I answered.

  ‘Hey, you.’ Oliver’s voice had that light, airy sound to it. He was pleased about something.

  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

  ‘Good. I’m good. I just realised we haven’t caught up in a few days.’

  ‘I wonder why that might be.’ I sat carefully on the closed lid.

  ‘I owe you a bit of an apology,’ he said. ‘I could have handled the situation differently. I didn’t intend at all to insult your work.’

  ‘Okay.’ I listened as a young child screamed by on a scooter. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘How are you otherwise?’

  This was Oliver’s go-to when he didn’t want to end the call, when everything else had been said.

  ‘I’m good. I’m just in Apollo Bay, sketching some ideas, clearing out the brain.’

  ‘Sounds relaxing?’

  ‘It’s been nice, actually. I feel good.’

  ‘Okay, well, that’s nice.’

  ‘Oliver, are you okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Uh, yeah, I am.’ It sounded like he was dithering about in the background. ‘I was just wondering if you’d had a chance to look at the calendar today?’

  My breath hitched. If I’d missed a meeting, I was going to go out of my mind. I couldn’t afford any more stuff-ups, especially after the cupcake-throwing incident, even if I thought I had the answers to all my problems in my backpack. I did the mental calculations, and my internal calendar landed on today’s date. Shit, shit, shit.

  ‘It’s our wedding anniversary,’ I said. Forgetting that was just as bad. I felt a lump rise in my throat as a fist clenched around my heart. ‘I don’t know what to say. Am I meant to say happy anniversary?’ What do you say when it’s your anniversary, but it’s technically not? The ad on the back of the toilet door blurred in my vision.

  ‘I’m sorry it hasn’t worked out better than it has,’ he offered. ‘For what it’s worth.’

  ‘Me, too.’

  ‘And I know this might seem strange, but did you maybe want to have dinner tonight? The kitchen here is ready, but it might be more comfortable at your place. If you’ll have me, that is? I mean, I’ll cook, you don’t have to worry about that, but … yeah. Tell me to stop now, if you want.’

  I wasn’t sure if I should be touched or annoyed that he still wanted to do something. It seemed a little unfair, like the person who insults you, but insists it was just a joke when you call them on it. I’m sorry I left you, but let’s celebrate our anniversary anyway.

  ‘Lucy?’ he asked. ‘I know how it sounds, but I just thought it might be nice to acknowledge it one way or another. Seems a shame to let it slide.’

  ‘We’ve spent the last three letting it slide.’

  ‘I know, and that’s my fault. I want to do something nice for you. Please let me apologise.’

  ‘Okay.’ I waved my hand about, trying to dry tears that dropped down my cheek. ‘I’ll be home between five and six. Do you have keys still?’

  ‘Strangely enough, I do.’

  ‘If I’m not home, you can, you know, let yourself in.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘It’s not like you haven’t seen it all before,’ I joked, listening to Oliver’s breathy laugh on the other end.

  ‘Okay, sure. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Bye, Ol.’

  ‘Bye, Luce.’

  With that, Oliver ended the conversation. I considered hitting Patrick up for some quick advice, but figured he’d be somewhere around Oliver anyway, so gave it a miss. I left the cubicle, washed my hands, splashed water on my face, and hoped for the best.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Memories are a funny thing. They’re tiny spectres of life as it was, which, over time, may be mingled with the fantasy of what we wished had happened. A huge meal you cooked for a dinner party became bigger, the holiday was a lot more fun than first thought, and household scenes were often reflected upon through rose-coloured glasses.

  Walking into my kitchen and finding Oliver at the bench threw me. It had been so long and, yet, it felt so intimately comfortable to see him there. When we were living together, he always insisted on cooking, on showing off a new skill or dish. And he always wore a black apron, with straps wrapped around his waist twice.

  I’d spent the drive home stressed out about whether I should call him and cancel the whole thing. A successful day of scribbling ideas didn’t wipe out the argument a few days prior, and the time spent apart only made that hurt worse. I felt like I’d done something wrong, and had been left to pasture for a few days to understand why my ideas just weren’t cut out for high-end eateries.

  I dropped my bag on the recliner, the sketchpad already forgotten.

  ‘Is “Honey, I’m home”, appropriate right now?’ It was an off-colour joke, but the only thing I could manage without sounding completely naff.

  Ol
iver didn’t speak, but his grin was answer enough. The first thing I noticed about the kitchen, was that it was immaculate. With the amount of cleaning it needed, he must’ve been there the minute he hung up the phone. Benches had been stripped clean, back to their yellowing beige beauty, pots were back in drawers and, if I was looking at the same pantry, it had been sorted as well.

  I had always loved watching him prepare meals, the glide of fingers across the tops of vegetables, a race to beat the knife that chopped deftly, frequently. That, and the paring of meat, showed our differences in the kitchen. I could cook a meal, sure, but I couldn’t match his skill.

  ‘What’s on the menu, chef?’ I rested my elbow on the bench and my chin in the palm of my hand.

  ‘Well, because this is a rather special occasion’ – he slipped a wineglass in front of me – ‘I thought I might just re-create a meal.’

  ‘Your homemade pasta is my favourite,’ I said. To be precise, it was shredded beef ragu with handmade fettuccini, topped with fresh parmesan and flat-leaf parsley, and it was saved for special occasions. But I wasn’t sure this qualified as one of them.

  ‘Alas, it is not that.’ Wine glugged into the two glasses. ‘It’s not as nice as a French red, but it’ll do.’

  ‘Are you too good for local wine now?’ I watched him, glass to my lips.

  ‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Don’t start with this “France is better than here” garbage, because that automatically includes me.’

  Oliver’s shoulder’s slumped. ‘That’s not what I was saying.’

  ‘Really? Because I’ve heard a lot of it lately.’

  ‘Lucy, please. Can we just have a nice meal together? All I wanted was to acknowledge this day, which sounds silly in hindsight, but here we are.’

  Like a sullen teenager, but minus the slamming doors, I left for the lounge room. It wasn’t effective in getting away from a fight – it never had been. But, like the proverbial children screaming, “stop looking out my window”, it gave us the briefest of separations to calm down and regroup. While I was in there, I flipped a record onto the turntable, and let music fill the space words had created.

  ‘Have you been cooking much the past few days?’ Oliver looked up as I leant into the doorway. ‘There were a lot of bowls and pans about when I got here.’

  I took a sip of wine. ‘I was hate baking.’

  ‘Right.’ A small mountain of cubed potatoes slid into a boiling pot, the water popping and spitting as it rolled to a boil. The room was now taking on the warmth that comes only from cooking on a cool night. It’s a fleeting feeling of comfort: the knowledge that something tasty was on its way, and that everything was in order. ‘Anything to do with me?’

  ‘Yep.’

  Oliver shook his head, his back towards me. ‘Well, I washed up, but I’m not sure I put things in the right spots. I don’t know where anything goes any more.’

  ‘Yeah, and whose fault is that?’ I refilled my glass and stepped out on the back veranda, the sliding door jerking along its track like a tired body that didn’t want to wake up.

  Outside the confines of our house, the world was turning as normal, though I felt anything but that. A lawnmower hummed a few blocks down, and tiny smiling faces bounced over the fence right after the creak of trampoline springs could be heard. My life was that a week ago. Now, I was just angry about everything.

  ‘I’m not doing this to upset you, Lucy.’ Oliver appeared at the door. ‘Just so you know.’

  ‘Why are you doing it, then?’ I looked up at him. He looked as bad as I felt.

  ‘I know that most of this was, is, my fault. I know that. But, now that I’m here, I want to try and make the best of what’s happening.’

  ‘Did you come back for me? Or for the restaurant?’ I asked.

  Without a word, perhaps the reaction of the guilty, Oliver disappeared, closing the door quietly behind him. Two yards over, one of the kids on the trampoline began waving at me. They didn’t stop until I waved back.

  Oliver had set the table, two places opposite each other, a far cry from the huddled places next to each other occupied by a newly married couple. That change, and the distance it implied, panged at my heart. Even if I was angry and a light bit fighty, it was still sad. I sat my glass on a coaster and looked to Oliver.

  ‘Goat’s cheese soufflé.’ He placed a small white ramekin in front of me. ‘Be careful, the container is hot.’

  Soft and gold, and towering up out of its confines, this was maybe the last thing I expected to be served. It was the same entrée served at our wedding. Champagne tastes were achieved on a beer budget by having a rabble of friends in hospitality, all looking to impress anyone who might’ve given them a leg up in the industry. I think one or two of them scored jobs afterwards, which was beautiful to hear. Oliver filled my glass again before joining me at the table.

  ‘What do you think?’

  It was everything a soufflé needed to be, soft and airy, not a hint of egg flavour, and with the delightful tang of goat’s cheese.

  ‘Incredible.’ I held a hand over my mouth to disguise the fact I was talking around my food, using the worst possible table manners.

  Oliver gave a small, self-satisfied smile, swilling wine around the bottom of his glass. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘No, really.’ I took another sip, the warm haze of alcohol filling my limbs with a lightness they hadn’t felt in ages. ‘It’s just … wow. You serve this?’

  ‘I serve this.’

  ‘In your restaurants?’

  He nodded, passing his spoon from one hand to the other. ‘Yep.’

  Next up: rack of lamb. I watched on curiously, wine in hand, while the pan popped and spat fat back at Oliver. For the record, it had been a long time since my kitchen had seen cooking of this calibre. Speaking of records, it was time to change the one in the lounge. It had stopped moments ago, though I was too fascinated by the scene before me.

  ‘So, you’re re-creating our wedding reception menu?’

  ‘I’m doing my best.’ With a lovely brown tinge, and the smell of caramelised onions, the pan, and the lamb went into the oven. Oliver turned to me, and immediately began laughing.

  ‘What?’ I asked, touching my face in case I had something stuck on it.

  ‘The face you’re making.’

  ‘I’m not making a face – this is my face.’ My cheeks were also the colour of roasted beetroot. ‘This is how I look.’

  ‘No, no.’ He refilled his glass. ‘It’s the same face you made when your drunk uncle stood up during speeches to tell an off-colour joke.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ I groaned. ‘Do you remember that?’

  ‘I think everyone does. The room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.’

  Everyone has a drunk uncle and, if they don’t, there’s always someone in the family who can assume that role. The unemployed cousin with a new boyfriend every five minutes, a Tinder depressed nymph, the aunty no one questions about never being married or having a relationship because her house smells like cat piss.

  My uncle, who was pickled like an onion, had decided he wanted to make a speech at our wedding, which was fine. We’d been to plenty of weddings where the father of the bride said a few words, but uncles weren’t really the done thing. Still, we watched as the microphone was passed through the small crowd, like a beachball at a rock concert, until it finally reached him.

  ‘This thing on?’ He tapped at the tip. ‘Just the tip,’ he snorted. ‘Ha. So, looks like Oliver has himself a gorgeous wife.’

  Everyone seemingly thought that was okay, and they clapped awkwardly. Of course, Oliver agreed. He had to: husband rules.

  ‘Shame he’ll be the bitch in the marriage, chained to the oven forever.’

  It was around that time Dad snatched the microphone back and instructed the bar to close shop.

  ‘God, what a mess.’ Oliver shook his head with a laugh. ‘It was a good night, though. Remember that dodgy band
?’

  ‘They were your friends.’ I pointed at him with the wine bottle. ‘They were okay, though.’

  ‘Or, your mother’s foot in her mouth when she declared she always thought she had two boys inside her, and now, legally, she did.’

  Half-drunk, and a little not caring, I roared with laughter. I had not heard that one before, but it would not have surprised me coming from my mother. Clutching at the side of the bench, I dithered about to the stool, watching Oliver mash potato.

  ‘She said that to you?’

  His eyes crinkled with his smile. ‘She had no idea what was wrong. And, of course, with Patrick around, he walked past shouting, “Just the tip! Just the tip!”’

  My eyes brimmed with tears of laughter, the kind you couldn’t stop even if you wanted. Maybe it was the alcohol. All right, it probably was, but the night was turning into the kind of warm, soft, huggable comfort I’d been looking for all this time.

  Oliver wiped at his own eyes. ‘And your mum says to him, “What have you done to deserve a tip?” Patrick fell over laughing as he walked in to the toilets. And I mean fell over as in his legs gave way under him. He crawled the rest of the way in. If you’re looking for a titbit, I then had to help him, you know, use the bathroom.’

  The memory of the sometimes highly strung, slightly rude Patrick being paralytic drunk was one to savour for later, though I still laughed loud and free at the story. I couldn’t recall seeing him in the second half of the night.

  ‘Here you go.’ Oliver pushed a plate across the bench. ‘Not quite slow-roasted rack of lamb, my mash, which you used to love, honeyed carrots, and red wine jus.’

  ‘That’ll stop me drinking it for five minutes.’

  ‘Don’t stop on my account.’ Oliver joined me at the table, bottle in one hand, plate in the other.