A Recipe for Disaster Read online

  I hadn’t spoken to Oliver, but that didn’t stop him from finding out. People always find out in the magical game of telephone. He strode into the shop one afternoon, his companions waiting outside for him, peering in to see what was happening.

  ‘Lucy.’

  ‘Are you here to gloat?’ I asked.

  ‘I would never do such a thing.’ His gaze lifted to the extensive menu above my head. Six entire flavours to pick from, two of which were already sold out.

  ‘Liar.’ I tucked a cloth into my pocket. ‘What can I get you? Coffee? Doughnut?’

  ‘You could get me a pastry chef.’ There was that cocksure smile I knew so well. ‘Bored yet?’

  I couldn’t help it, I smiled. ‘Perfectly fine.’

  ‘Nope,’ he said. ‘You’re doing that thing with your mouth, the pressy-lips thing.’

  ‘What?’ I asked. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  Another customer walked in behind Oliver, whose companions were still watching eagerly. He did nothing more but smile, thank me for the doughnut, and leave. All afternoon, I stood around like a dummy, thinking about working at Murray’s, and about how Oliver had gone to the trouble of tracking me down to reinforce the offer. With no further cake bookings, a brain shrinking from boredom, and a bank account that was heading straight for famine mode, I needed to do something. I needed a job, a decent job. And as much as I didn’t want to disappear in someone else’s shadow, here I was making anonymous doughnuts. There had to be a solution, somewhere in the middle.

  * * *

  Later that afternoon, when the doughnuts were stale and coffee cold, I found myself standing on the footpath opposite Murray’s. For an hour, I walked up and back past the shopfront, practising lines in my head. Workmen came and went, though Oliver was nowhere to be seen.

  Accepting his job offer gave me access to a kitchen I desperately needed, and the autonomy to be creative, with the added pleasure of being close to home. If I were splitting hairs, a whole block closer than the school. I desperately wanted to get back into some legitimate baking, but I would need him to help with the transition. Or, at least, his kitchen.

  I rang Zoe.

  ‘Is this stupid?’ I asked.

  ‘Is what stupid?’

  ‘The whole working with the ex-husband thing,’ I said.

  ‘Where are you right now?’ she asked. ‘Do you want to catch up and draw a Venn diagram?’

  ‘A Venn diagram?’ I looked at the phone in horror. ‘What? No.’

  ‘Where are you?’ she asked.

  ‘I might be walking past his shop.’ Action in the corner of my eye, a new bench being delivered. ‘I’m going to accept his job offer.’

  ‘You sound like you’re running a marathon … Wait, what?’

  Oliver zipped around behind a truck that now blocked my view. I turned in the opposite direction. If he couldn’t see my face, I wasn’t here. That was proper logic, right? ‘I might have walked past a few times already.’

  ‘Are you stalking him?’ she asked. ‘And what about Miss Independent Baker?’

  I baulked and sputtered, ‘I am not stalking him.’

  ‘But you are.’ She laughed. ‘Stalker.’

  ‘It’s not stalking if he’s my husband.’

  ‘Ex-husband,’ she reminded me.

  ‘Technically not divorced yet. Consider it a welfare check.’

  Zoe howled with laughter. ‘I love you so much right now.’

  I laughed with her. ‘I’m glad someone does.’

  ‘Can you do this without it getting all ugly and emotional?’ she asked. ‘That’s what you really have to consider.’

  ‘I am the poster child for ugly and emotional lately.’

  ‘So, go sleep on it.’

  ‘Hey?’ I asked. ‘I’m not sleeping with him.’

  ‘No, no, no.’ She laughed nervously.

  ‘I have applied for every job I am possibly qualified for in the last few weeks,’ I explained. ‘Hold my beer, I’m going in.’

  ‘Christ on a bike. Don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ her voice called out as I closed the phone and walked across the road.

  A Fiesta beetled past on its way into the service station, a smiling face waving back at me. I had no idea who it was, but waved back anyway. Someone from some other chapter of my life, no doubt. Rounding the back of the truck and stepping up onto the footpath, Oliver greeted me with his finest paint-splattered, bicep-hugging T-shirt, folded arms, and a knowing smile.

  ‘You worn a track in that footpath yet, or what?’ He lifted his chin in the direction I’d come from.

  ‘Hey?’

  He rolled his eyes and checked his watch. ‘You have been walking past the shop every five minutes since … well, for the past hour.’

  ‘I want in,’ I blurted. ‘But I have conditions.’

  ‘Lucy’ – he waved a hand in a flourish, inviting me in – ‘I expected nothing less.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Oliver moved aside as I stepped into the building. There was a swarm of activity happening as painters rushed about. Floorboards had been polished a deep cherry colour, drop cloths hung from everything considered important, and fridges and cold display cabinets were pushed into the centre of the room. Had I known the place was going to be full of tradesmen, I might have dressed myself up a bit.

  ‘How are you?’ Oliver watched me glance around the room.

  I puffed my cheeks out. ‘Good. I think.’

  ‘You like it?’

  I looked at him. ‘Hey?’

  ‘Do you like the look of the room?’

  ‘So far?’ Even with all our previous daydreaming, it was hard to imagine as a fully functioning restaurant, with customers at tables, service staff milling about, and hotplates sizzling away. ‘It’s … yeah.’

  ‘This is going to be the main dining and service area,’ Oliver began. ‘You know, takeaway coffees, sit-down meals.’

  ‘Okay.’ I nodded. ‘Are you running a three-course venture like London? Or single plates?’

  He turned to me and smiled. ‘You have been googling.’

  ‘Oh, blah blah.’ I waved his glee away. ‘You want me to work here, you tell me about it.’

  ‘All right.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘Singular meals, no courses. Obviously, they can stay for a meal and dessert, or just dessert and coffee. You know, standard café type set-up. The idea is the setting is a bit more casual, but quality is still the same.’

  ‘Okay. Seats?’

  ‘I’m thinking we can start with forty or so seats and expand to sixty with outside dining when we’re ready.’

  Mild panic set in. This was beginning to look a lot like leaving my burgeoning love affair with wedding cakes on a sun-drenched back seat again. I followed him further inside, a new hallway constructed along the left side of the building. Around us, cabinets and appliances were being installed. Oliver pulled a drop cloth away from a new doorway.

  ‘The kitchen, decent sized, state of the art. I want something people will travel for, and that staff will be comfortable in.’

  ‘Good plan.’

  In the back corner, a carpenter was bent over a plank, measuring twice, pencil behind his ear and tool belt dangling from his middle. With auburn hair that burnt ginger in the right light, and his trademark five-day growth, Patrick Nicholls had been a childhood friend of Oliver’s. He was also one of the few people who visited after Oliver left. There had been many a wine-soaked, cheese-filled discussion in the months following. It felt like a shame that I hadn’t had the chance to see him in the past year.

  ‘Patrick?’ I asked.

  He stood up. ‘That’s my name.’

  He was also one of the driest people I’d ever met. There was a soft gooey centre I’d been privy to once or twice, normally after too much wine and a wheel of brie, but it was often concealed under a layer of bravado and heavy sarcasm. On an average day, he appeared to have no time for anyone, and h
ad no shame in letting people know.

  I crossed the room, kneeling beside him when he returned to his work. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Fan-bloody-tastic.’ His grin went nowhere near his eyes. ‘You?’

  ‘I’m okay.’

  The drop sheet sank back to the floor as Oliver walked away.

  ‘He called and asked for help. I could fit him in,’ he mumbled. ‘I’m just putting in some basic cabinets.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ I said, and I meant it. It wasn’t my place to stand in the way of someone earning a wage, and it certainly wasn’t my job to tell him what to accept.

  ‘We should catch up, though. Sans husband.’ He glanced about to make sure we were alone.

  ‘Sounds good.’

  ‘You okay?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, I really don’t,’ I said. ‘I’ll see you soon.’ With a pat on my shoulder, he went back to work and I searched for Oliver.

  He was in the back room. A lounge in a previous life, it was still adorned with floral wallpaper, which was yellowed and torn, and light shades from the early 1900s. A smaller room to the right had become a makeshift storage cupboard. He’d fired up the Gaggia, two mismatched cups under the brew heads, as he scooped freshly ground coffee into the portafilter.

  ‘That’ll be cold storage, this will be the staff room,’ he said. ‘Television, couch, the usual.’

  ‘And you’re in that caravan?’ I pointed to the orange-and-brown striped beige oversized sardine tin in the backyard. The A-frame was balanced on a pile of bricks, and the blinds were drawn. Rust dotted the edges by the door. It didn’t look comfortable at all, nor did it seem like the lodgings of a celebrated millionaire chef. I’d thought maybe a nice spacious house in the new estate near the Common would do the trick, especially if he was planning on sticking around.

  ‘For the moment.’ Oliver slopped milk into the frothing jug. ‘I’ve asked Patrick to swing past tomorrow and give me a quote for what needs doing at our … your place.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I wiggled up onto a barstool by a random bench, grabbing at a branding folder that lay open. ‘You didn’t have to do that, though – I’m quite capable.’

  Across the room, the screen on a laptop changed to a screensaver. Picture after picture rotated around. Landscapes, shopfronts, small Parisian alleys, sprawling English estates, until it landed on a selfie, the two of us at a rooftop restaurant in Sydney. We were all Ray-Bans, sunshine, and oversexed coolness. We were also twelve months from disaster. It was one of the best weekends we’d ever had together, strolling around Sydney Harbour like lovesick tourists. Every single thought, feeling, sensation from that trip tore through me, as if to taunt me about what could have been. My throat tightened, and vision blurred. There was my heart being waved about in front of me. He’d done it.

  I tore my eyes away from the screen long enough to find Oliver watching me. I dropped my head and focused on a folder I’d found on the bench. It was colour schemes, furniture and produce suppliers, utility providers, and codes of conduct.

  ‘You found the folder.’ Oliver placed a coffee on the bench beside me. The lid of a plastic container cracked, and he wafted it under my nose. It was full of sweet, buttery Sorry Biscuits. They were Oliver’s go-to whenever he felt the need to apologise for something. They were soft and crumbly, and a little salty like shortbread, and I loved them. The worst part was I would have to wait for an apology to get any; it had become a running joke that neither of us could make them any other time.

  I couldn’t help it – I smiled, and snivelled, and my eyes sort of leaked at the same time.

  ‘I am sorry, Luce.’

  I forced a smile and snaffled a handful of biscuits, unsure of whether or not I could actually go through with this. Already the sensations were too much. ‘Tell me about this job.’

  ‘This job.’ He clasped his hands together with a small clap. ‘I want small-batch breads in the morning. You know, four or five different varieties, and desserts for the day’s trade.’

  ‘Are you talking your average grainy breads, or am I going fancy?’

  ‘I want them so fancy it makes heads spin.’ He grinned. ‘I want people to drive for that specialty loaf they can’t find anywhere.’

  ‘So, chia seeds, quinoa, fruit and nut, apple sourdough,’ I said. ‘Okay. I can do that.’

  A knock stopped our momentum. It was Patrick, standing all cool and suave as he was wont to do. He leant in to the doorframe with one leg crossed over the other and arms folded for that rippling, muscular look. Seriously, he made being a tradie look easy.

  ‘Luce, I was just thinking, you want to do dinner tonight? There’s a laneway barbecue thing that looks good in Geelong.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Six?’ He looked at his watch. ‘By the time I finish up here, you know?’

  ‘Sounds great.’ I smiled. ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Can I come?’ Oliver asked. ‘Would that be all right?’

  ‘No, it wouldn’t.’ Patrick turned and walked out.

  ‘Sorry.’ I grimaced.

  ‘I’m not!’ Patrick called before being drowned out by a circular saw.

  ‘Right, where was I?’ Oliver frowned, thrown by Patrick’s response. His eyes dipped to his lap, and his face changed from wrinkled confusion, back to calm concentration when he’d gathered himself. ‘I want seasonal produce and menus, so you need to be innovative, always looking for the newest trends. I need you in other cafés in Melbourne and Geelong. I want to know what they’re doing, what they’re selling, what’s happening there. I need fingers on pulses and quick reactions. If they’re doing something, we have to do it better.’

  ‘Why this building?’ I asked. Since the moment I found out about this venture, it was the one question I couldn’t shake. ‘Why this town? Of all the places you could have picked. Yes, we’d talked about it, but … this … I don’t know. I’m still not convinced.’

  Oliver took a deep breath and peered up at the ceiling as if the answer would fall from a light fitting. ‘I needed a town that was quiet, where we could make a big impact. We needed somewhere on the cusp of big growth. That’s Inverleigh. I’ve been watching real estate in the area for a while now. I told my partners I wanted back into Australia, that I wanted to go home, and their stipulation was anywhere but Melbourne city for the moment. Competition and all that.’

  I sipped my coffee, which was slightly amazing and possibly had healing qualities, and waited for him to continue. Either that, or he was drugging me for a positive response.

  ‘Coming home made sense. I was ready. I miss my old life,’ he said. ‘What do you think?’

  If this were a game show, the prize money would drop from the sky on a brightly coloured board, thinking music would whisper different answers in each ear, and the male compere would be making some cheesy joke about how great that Hamilton Island getaway was going to be. After a few moments, I thought I had a reasonable response. I glanced up at Oliver, who chewed his bottom lip nervously, eyebrows slightly lifted.

  ‘Here’s what I think.’ I placed my cup on the table between us. ‘I want to continue making wedding cakes. With the volume of food you’ll need, I would work better as a consultant.’

  He bit back a laugh. ‘A consultant?’

  ‘Yes, a consultant. I can create and test the recipes for you. You employ your team to make them. You’re going to need more than one person anyway.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘Absolutely, with what you’re asking.’ I wanted to laugh, but didn’t. These were basics he should have grasped already. ‘It’s important to me that my ambition isn’t drowned by yours again. It happened last time, and I don’t want it happening again.’

  He sighed. ‘It didn’t get—’

  ‘It did, Oliver. In the aftermath, it did.’

  He swallowed down an argument, though he wasn’t happy about it. ‘Right.’

  ‘I’m happy to consult, like I said. I will create these rec
ipes, oversee the first few weeks to make sure everything is okay, and will continue to tweak based on volumes, popularity, et cetera. But I want my cakes back and, when you sell your desserts, you will tell people they’re Lucy Williams Designs. It’s incredibly important to me that I get back into cake design. I need me back, Oliver.’

  ‘But it’s a Murray’s site,’ he snapped. ‘It won’t work.’

  ‘It will work.’

  ‘So, what, I’m just supposed to roll over for you? That’s not how business works.’

  ‘Oliver, I’m not trying to argue with you. Why does everything need to become an argument? I’m telling you what’s important to me, what I need to make this agreement work. Now, you can either ask me to leave, or you can get me a contract that says Murray’s stocks an exclusive range of Lucy Williams cakes and desserts.’ I crossed one knee over the other, leant in with my chin in my palm, and grinned. From all angles I could see, it was a winning plan.

  ‘Come on, Luce.’ Frustration was starting to crack the surface.

  ‘Hey, you want me, this is how you get me now.’ I slid off the stool. ‘I know what I’m good at, and what I’m capable of creating. After everything that’s happened, I’m not resting until I have my own brand, my own identity. It’s time the world gave me a little love, too. You know that and, if that doesn’t align with you, then I’ll go.’

  Oliver’s mouth gaped like a fish’s, but he decided against whatever it was he wanted to say. ‘So, that’s it? Take it or leave it? No room for bargaining?’

  ‘There’s always room, Olly.’ I grinned, pinching his cheek. ‘Always room.’

  ‘Because what you’re asking me to do is give you free rein.’

  ‘On the contrary.’ I picked up my bag. ‘I’m asking you to create a super brand.’

  ‘Jesus, where is Lucy and what have you done with her?’