A Recipe for Disaster Page 9

  It’s no surprise real estate agents tell you to bake or brew coffee when you have an open house, because there is nothing better than the smell of freshly baked bread. For me, it brought back the most gorgeous memories from my teenage years. An overly helpful teenage boy with bright blue eyes who used any excuse to hover like a fly at a picnic. In the midst of whimsical remembrance, I picked up my phone and shot off a text message.

  Guess what I’m doing?

  At this time? What variety of bread?

  Fruit and nut.

  Baking in the early hours was nothing unusual. From time to time, Oliver would wake on a Sunday and mumble that he was sure he heard me banging around in the kitchen. Most of the time, though, he simply slept through the noise. It was the cheapest therapy money could buy, working out frustrations and worries, pushing and stretching dough from a tacky lump into a smooth round ball. After the first rise, I threw a fist into the dough, listening to it wheeze and watching it puff flour at me before placing it in on a tray in the oven.

  When it was finished, and the bread had a golden crust, I’d tear the end from the still-steaming loaf, smother it in butter, and climb into bed. Often, I’d fall asleep with a small lump of food on the bedside table. I didn’t always get woken by Zoe, though.

  I pulled the front door open to find her with a cup of coffee in hand, and what smelt distinctly like a chaser of rum. Scratch that. It was rum with a side of caffeine. I glanced at the wall clock. Not quite ten o’clock. Judging by the hair at angles and pyjama pants, I guessed she’d slept maybe as little as I had.

  ‘What the hell happened to you?’ I asked. ‘And where are the littlest ones?’

  Zoe’s two youngest were two and four, not yet in school, and generally always stuck to her like grabby koala charms from a tourist shop. I leant out the front door and peered around the veranda. Maybe they were setting fire to something.

  Nope. No kids.

  ‘I told Peter they were his problem today.’ She took another sip. ‘Want some?’

  ‘Oh, right. Come on in.’ I moved aside as she shuffled in past me. ‘And no, I don’t.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

  I gathered up cookbooks I’d spread across the bench. ‘Just coming up with some ideas for work.’

  ‘You’re really doing it?’ She perched up at a stool and peered into a steel bowl that once held bread dough. ‘That shit stinks.’

  I cringed. ‘To be fair, it might be you.’

  She took a not-so-sneaky whiff of her underarms. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Here, I’ll make you a fresh one.’ I wrestled the mug out of her vice-like grip. ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘No.’ She pouted.

  ‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’

  Her bottom lip wobbled. ‘I think Peter’s cheating on me.’

  ‘Oh, Zo, no.’ A fist squeezed my chest. My best friend was hurting, and I couldn’t fix it, even if I wanted to unleash the hell of a thousand fire ants on her husband.

  She nodded, wiped her eyes with the tattered sleeves of her jumper and started crying. ‘I mean, I’m not sure, but my magic eight ball says all signs point to yes.’

  I hoped this was just Zoe being Zoe, and not her legitimately putting her faith into a three-dollar children’s toy. Pulling up a stool at the bench opposite her, I grabbed what was left of a cake from the fridge and found some clean spoons. She took them both – one for each hand.

  ‘God wants me to have a balanced diet,’ she said, her cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s.

  ‘Yes, yes, he does,’ I agreed.

  ‘This is good.’ Bits of cake flew from her mouth.

  ‘Talk to me. What’s going on?’

  ‘Peter’s hiding his phone,’ she said around the cake. ‘Won’t let me see it. He’s put a code on it, locked all the time.’ She pushed some crumbs back into her mouth. ‘Last night, I caught him in the backyard with his phone, giggling at something stupid just after eleven. We haven’t had sex in God knows how long. My vagina is depressed – that is officially something that can happen, mind you – and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Wait, vaginal depression?’ I asked.

  ‘It’s a thing.’ She pointed a spoon at me. ‘They waste away and die. God knows they probably drop off and run away of their own volition.’

  I pushed another cookbook aside. ‘Right. Good to know.’

  ‘What the hell am I supposed to do?’

  I had no idea. I’d never been in this situation before. That Oliver and I had an easy split compared to this was something I considered lucky – even if it felt like the most painful thing at the time. Well, it was “easy” if you considered there was no cheating, and I never suspected anything of the sort. Ever. When he left, it was simply a different life choice.

  ‘We could slash his tyres?’ I suggested, reaching across and switching the kettle on.

  ‘Shit no, I’d end up having to pay for the replacements.’

  ‘You know Dulcolax is colourless, tasteless, and comes in liquid form. Imagine him in one of his high-powered wanky meetings, top floor of the Sheraton, shit oozing down his legs.’

  ‘Let me just make a note of that in my phone.’ Zoe laughed, wiping a tear away. ‘Shit, Luce, the kids.’

  ‘All you can do is shield them as best you can.’

  Her face crumpled. ‘They might have a stepmother.’

  ‘Hang on.’ The kettle boiled, and I got up to make coffee. ‘You don’t know this is for sure, though, so let’s not roll down worst case scenario hill, it’s right next to depression valley and crazy cat lady land.’

  ‘I can’t just ask him,’ she argued.

  ‘Yes, you can.’ I passed her a fresh coffee. ‘You’re his wife. You’re allowed to ask the tough questions. I mean, you don’t have to go all raging about it, but you can ask subtly, try to open that conversation.’

  She looked up from her phone. ‘Would you ask Oliver?’

  ‘Would you like me to call him now? I’ll ask him.’ In that moment, I was grateful that our relationship, in its prime, had always been stupidly open to any question that popped up.

  Zoe stopped, shoulders sunk. ‘Is that fresh bread?’

  ‘What, this?’ I tossed the loaf at her. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Butter?’

  ‘You’ve got cake.’

  ‘I don’t care,’ she sulked. ‘My heart must be fed.’

  ‘If your heart needs feeding, I was heading to Melbourne today. Get dressed and come with me. We’ll make a day of it. Forget the boys, forget the dramas. Let’s just go.’

  ‘Don’t make me go home and change,’ she sulked. ‘I can’t stand the sight of him.’

  That was a feeling I knew all too well, but getting her out of the house, out of our little town would help both of us.

  ‘Raid my wardrobe.’ I gave her shoulder a push towards my bedroom. ‘Go on. Get dressed. Today we eat chocolate and we will come up with a plan of attack for you.’

  Thirty minutes later, after locking the door on me, and howling her eyes out, Zoe emerged in a pair of tiny jeans I hadn’t seen in years, an old sweater, and floppy hat. Damn her dark skin and eyes, she looked beautiful despite the puffy eyes and nervous smile.

  ‘Do I look okay?’ she asked.

  There had never been a day she hadn’t looking stunning. Her Peruvian heritage gave her skin a healthy glow, and hair that shone in the sunlight. While we were both average height, Zoe was certainly noticeable when she needed to be. Sadly, she couldn’t cook to save herself, but I would love to take a cooking class with either her mother or grandmother.

  I gave her two thumbs up. ‘Beautiful.’

  ‘To Melbourne?’ she asked.

  ‘To chocolate.’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Zoe dropped her head against the window of the tram and complained for the umpteenth time since we’d parked the car at Federation Square, smack bang in the heart of Melbourne. My combination eye-roll laugh didn’t have the comedic impact I w
as hoping for.

  ‘And you and Oliver used to do this every day?’ she asked, sulking that the tram had stopped for yet another red light.

  She hadn’t wanted to talk about Peter after we’d parked the car. It was our day to spend not thinking about annoying men, she’d told me. More people boarded the tram than it had room to carry, so we were chock full of crotches, armpits, and shopping bags. I squeezed up next to her to avoid sniffing someone’s backside.

  ‘I did. Oliver went another half-hour up the tracks.’ I waved a finger in the approximate direction of Windsor’s, the same way a supermarket assistant tells you the coffee is “about halfway down aisle five”.

  ‘Far out.’ She rolled her head about and looked at me.

  ‘You okay?’ I asked.

  ‘Frustrated.’

  ‘That’s understandable. Are you sure you don’t want to talk about it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Not really.’

  To be fair, I’d promised her chocolate, but so far had only delivered traffic, taillights and car park ticketing systems. Melbourne wasn’t exactly close for us. It was more a take a packed lunch kind of adventure that consisted of two hours of freeway karaoke. After Zoe’s tenth rendition of Cry Me A River, bumper-to-bumper traffic shunted us over the Westgate Bridge and into the city. It was only after we walked through the doors of my old café, Mondial, that her shoulders relaxed, and the beginnings of a smile crept onto her face.

  ‘This is better.’ She craned her neck to look at the menu. ‘What are we eating?’

  For the moment, I was too busy peering around the shop, drinking it in all over again. It hadn’t occurred to me that I would have such an overwhelming reaction to being back here, standing in the place where I’d learnt so much in the earlier years of my baking career. The walnut-coloured tables, black stool seats, and light floorboards remained, as did the menu board. Covered in ornate calligraphy, it was touched up once a week by a tall Spanish man with broad shoulders and an addiction to espresso coffee and chocolate croissants.

  I hadn’t been back because I didn’t want to deal with the memories of the routine.

  ‘Lucy!’ Bob Danvers, café owner and the man who let me loose in his kitchen, scurried from behind the kitchen door.

  We had agreed and disagreed, and he’d taught me a huge chunk of what it is I know. His wide smile and bright eyes never betrayed the exhaustion of starting work in what most would consider the middle of the night. He pushed through the crowd, shouldering customers out of the way to get to me.

  ‘It’s so good to see you.’ He wrapped me up in a floury hug. ‘Where you been? Huh?’

  ‘Hey, Bob.’ I gestured to Zoe. ‘Just here with a friend for some morning tea.’

  He glanced at Zoe only briefly, while she waved rapidly and went back to breaking down her food options.

  ‘What’re you doing? Babies? You must have big family now?’ he asked. ‘Oliver, he come last week for lunch with his friend, said you were well.’

  ‘He did, did he?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh yes, said you were working together on something.’ He narrowed his eyes at me. ‘You not here to take customers?’

  ‘No, Bob, I am here to eat your beautiful food.’

  ‘Yeah, well, not as beautiful as you make.’ He rolled his eyes and, with a hand clapped on my shoulder, drew me across to a celebrity-covered wall. ‘Your Oliver.’

  Oliver and his stupid dimples stared back at me from behind a plate of smeared glass, all smiles and over the shoulder hugs for the owners of a place we knew so well. In the bottom corner of the photo, an autograph. Bob looked at me, desperate for approval. The joys of not advertising a separation to all and sundry.

  ‘Cheeky boy. He didn’t tell me he was visiting. I was probably, you know, busy making wedding cakes that day.’

  ‘He’s doing very well for himself.’ Bob beamed. ‘You, too?’

  Zoe’s eyes bugged out, her jaw dropping in surprise. She held a finger out to interrupt, which I grabbed with a smile.

  ‘Big business.’ He smiled. ‘She’s a good cook, no?’ Bob looked to Zoe for affirmation, which she gave with a comical nod and two thumbs up.

  ‘Anything you want, on the house. Please.’

  We ate until our tummies were full and faces hurt from laughing. Afforded the best seats in the house, carefully guarded by Bob until we’d picked our sweets, we sat in the window facing Spring Street and watched the world go by. Suits and ties, politicians and the well-to-do strolled past in the early afternoon sun, with their trolley cases and important phone calls. All the while, we tucked into crunchy chocolate shells full of decadent mousse, dome cakes that glistened with sweet marbled ganache, and fluffy, buttery miniature croissants that Bob swore tasted just as good as anything you’d find in any Parisian bakery. I wondered whether Oliver had corrected him on that.

  There were three more venues on my visit list for the day, which we did while sipping on takeaway coffee, moaning about full bellies, and collecting takeaway boxes of sweets. After traipsing up streets and seeking out overly popular venues in laneways and brightly coloured, graffiti-covered alleys that Melbourne was famed for, we ended our afternoon on a patch of grass by the Yarra River. The shade provided cool respite for tired feet.

  ‘Do you want to head home?’ I asked.

  Zoe shrugged. ‘I guess, if we’re all done.’

  ‘Is there anything you want to talk about?’

  The evening was closing in on us, and Zoe’s phone had rung several times already. She shrugged again. If she couldn’t cover up her hurt with humour, it was a random shrug that did it for her. Stuffing a square of brownie in her mouth, she grinned at me.

  ‘You should return his call,’ I said.

  ‘I don’t really want to.’

  ‘Maybe not, but you should.’ I picked at clumps of grass by my feet.

  ‘What about you? Are you okay?’ she asked.

  I nodded. ‘I think so. It’s just weird listening to other people talk about Oliver like that. I mean, I messaged him today, because I wanted to run something by him, but when it’s someone else …’

  ‘Who? Old French guy with the dome cakes?’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, Oliver was there last week and didn’t tell anyone we were separated. And I haven’t been back there because—’

  ‘Memories,’ Zoe sang.

  ‘Right.’ I nodded.

  ‘Maybe he wants you back.’

  Whether that was true remained to be seen. Flowers were nice, but they always felt kind of like a Band-Aid fix. They smoothed the surface over and buttered me up to make bargaining easier, as did the biscuits, and the monetary compensation. With that, we headed for the car park. Movement was good to keep the first seeds of doubt at bay.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  I woke the next morning to the sudden realisation that working with Oliver might be the worst idea either of us ever had. We could smile and nod and dance awkwardly around each other in the kitchen, but there were still so many underlying issues. There was hurt, for both of us, and we could only walk around with our heads in the sand for so long before it blew up in one big sugary mess.

  I threw the bedsheets off and swung my legs out, feet landing on cool timber floorboards. The more I thought about my own situation, the more I worried about Zoe. I fired off a quick text, hoping for some good news, and made for the bathroom.

  Under the shower, battling shampoo in the eyes, I tried to rattle off all the ways working with Oliver was good, and to pinpoint what it was that was bothering me. I had no resolution. After all this time, neither of us knew what we wanted. I pulled on some fresh clothes, grabbed my keys from the nightstand and walked around to Murray’s.

  Even at seven o’clock in the morning, it was busy. Tradesmen’s vehicles clogged roadways, and a delivery van was reversed into the driveway, doors flung open to the world. I rounded the side of the building and ran straight into Oliver, fresh out of bed and nowhere near ready for the morning. The door to his car
avan hung open in the wind.

  ‘Oh, Luce.’ He smiled. ‘Good morning.’

  ‘Hey.’ My voice left me. On the walk over, I’d thought of how I’d word things, how to air my concerns without coming across like a completely crazy woman, and then, nothing but vapours.

  ‘You okay?’ He leant into the back of the van and picked up an oversized bag of flour, all twenty-five kilograms of it. ‘Luce?’

  ‘Oliver, is this going to work?’ I blurted.

  ‘What?’ He placed the bag back down. ‘This? Murray’s?’

  ‘Yeah, after everything it feels’ – I looked around as a tradesman ducked past with an apology – ‘like maybe we’re doing the wrong thing. Especially after everything … you know.’

  ‘Lucy, I want this to succeed. And I truly believe that, if we both want it badly enough, it will.’

  ‘Really?’ I asked, shielding my eyes from the morning sun. It was coming in at that pesky angle that was great for Instagram, but bad for retinas.

  He chewed his lip. ‘Will you be honest with me when issues arise?’

  ‘I always have been.’

  ‘And I will give you the same in return.’ Oliver heaved the flour bag again. ‘It’ll be okay. It might be a little wobbly, but we’ll soon be running smoothly.’

  I took a deep breath and decided to trust him. After all, there’s nothing like a lack of trust to kill any kind of relationship. Also, I didn’t have a lot of other options happening for me. I moved aside to let him pass. ‘Do you want a hand?’

  ‘I would love a hand. I put through an order yesterday. It’s just a heap of flour and staples.’ The side door clanged shut behind him.

  It had been years since I’d handled industrial quantities of ingredients, and it showed the second I picked up the first bag. My fitness, and any muscles I might’ve had, had disappeared around the same time my career did. Oliver sidled up next to me and grabbed another bag.

  ‘God, it’s been forever,’ I joked.

  ‘At least we don’t have old Greg Pilkington yelling at us to hurry up.’

  Oliver turned to face me, and it felt like a slap in the face, or a trip in the Tardis. No longer was I standing in front of a thirty-something man. Instead, I had a fifteen-year-old boy blinking back at me, an errant black curl tickling his forehead, and bright blue eyes peering cautiously at me. I know he felt it too, because he stopped on the spot at the same moment I did.