Читать книгу A Recipe for Disaster - Belinda Missen - Страница 10

The next morning brought with it light drizzle and shreds of clarity. The damage from Seamus’s outburst wasn’t nearly as bad as it seemed in the heat of the moment. At least not for me. I’d readied myself for the fallout, perhaps an epic dressing-down, or a mass defriending. But, a nervous call to a hungover Edith, complete with grovelling apology, sanded over the bristly edges. Perhaps it was the offer of a free christening cake that sealed the deal and had her laughing by the time we hung up.

I peered at my phone through barely parted fingers, but I needn’t have worried. Social media confirmed more of the same: I would be remembered more for my cake than Tropical Cyclone Seamus who, by all accounts, was now ex-communicated, Romeo on his way to Verona. By midday, there were even two voicemails on my phone from people wanting their own cakes made. Safe in that knowledge, I scribbled down their details and ploughed headfirst into the new day, which included coffee with an anxious Zoe as afternoon made its way to evening.

We’d met on the first day of high school, both of us standing around nervously. We were pulled together by the sheer horror of having our mothers there to make an embarrassing fuss over us. To make a quick getaway, Zoe had pretended we knew each other from “the streets”, as she termed it. While my mum wasn’t excited by that prospect, Zoe’s had smiled, nodded, and let us go on our way.

We’d been thick as thieves ever since. It had been on Zoe’s suggestion that Oliver and I looked for a property in Inverleigh. She moved here first, and found it a nice thirty-minute drive from her parents. Close enough if she needed help, and far enough for a bit of privacy.

She hoisted herself up onto a rickety cane stool by my bench and switched on the kettle. My kitchen looked like it had seen better days. Cupboards were open where coffee cups and bowls had been reclaimed, a mixing bowl still needed a run through the dishwasher, knives and spatulas were crusted over, and I had another cake to start. Let’s not even talk about the dusty pink tiles and paint job that would have been better placed in the 1970s.

‘So?’ she asked.

I smiled conspiratorially. ‘So?’

‘What happened? Are we wearing radiation suits, or are the hills alive with the sound of changed locks and cleansing ceremonies?’ She picked at a bowl of chocolates I’d been working my way through in post-breakup bliss.

When I arrived home last night, I piled Seamus’s belongings onto the couch for him to collect. Stained coffee cups, over-watched movies, and a decrepit VHS player that had found its way into my already cramped lounge room. I fished dirty underwear from the laundry floor, and wet clothes from where they’d been left in the washing machine yesterday morning. And then I enjoyed a glass of wine in the shower, and didn’t feel an ounce of regret over it.

I bent over into the dishwasher and rearranged the stack. ‘The hills are alive with the sound of singledom. A rather unwell Seamus presented at eight o’clock this morning. He came, he saw, he collected his junk, and left.’

‘Tail between legs?’ Zoe took the two coffee cups offered and started our hackneyed routine.

‘Up between his legs and curled around his middle,’ I said. ‘There’s not a lot to add, really – you’ve seen the photos and heard the stories.’

‘Definitely.’

‘He was sorry, he loves me, he promises he’ll do better, he knows he hasn’t been the best, but I was like … no, bye.’

‘Good.’ She shoved a fun-sized Mars bar in her mouth. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I feel really positive, which might seem silly, I know. I thought I’d be heartbroken, but I’m okay. I mean, when he came over, he wanted to talk and go out for lunch, and he was all: can we please work this out because I really love you.’

Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘I call bullshit.’

‘You know that look he gets, all frown lines? It’s almost like he’s scandalised, and oh so hard done by.’

‘I do,’ Zoe said. ‘It was the same look he gave us when we caught him out at that bar in Geelong.’

After turning me down for a date, citing a long day on the job at the butcher’s, Zoe had instead taken up my offer to head down the highway to Geelong for dinner. We ate, we drank, we laughed and, on our way back to the car, we spotted Seamus through the grubby windows of a pub. A group of friends circled him as they backslapped, laid money on the horses, and sloshed glasses of beer around their heads in celebration.

‘Call his phone,’ Zoe had urged.

It was a politer option than standing by the windows and screaming, so I dialled his number and waited. When he realised it was his phone ringing, he fished it from his pocket, took one look at the screen, and screwed his face up. Said phone was placed back in his pocket in a drop quick enough to suggest it was a hot potato.

‘Well, then.’ I’d tapped out a succinct and impolite text message, and waited for him to find me standing on the footpath.

That was only eight weeks ago.

Zoe gave me a look of pity.

‘Don’t look at me like that.’ I shook my head. ‘I spoke to Edith this morning. She tells me it’s okay, that it wasn’t my fault, that she should have told me about Oliver.’

‘You do know you slid from the purest man on earth, Oliver, to the biggest piece of shit. Seamus was a clod.’ When I said nothing, she continued, floodgates open, victory flag waving. ‘He used you, spoke to you like you were garbage, and you persisted because for some stupid reason you thought he was beautiful.’

I grimaced. ‘He kind of was.’

‘Yeah, he really wasn’t,’ she insisted. ‘He had tattooed knuckles, Lucy. Yuck. He was a bad boy, and they don’t suit you. At all. Some people, yes, but you’re icing sugar. He’s just … a lemon.’

If I could count on Zoe for anything, at least it was honesty. Worst, or best, of all, she was hardly ever wrong.

She sloshed some milk in each mug. ‘But, hey, the internet loves you. And your cake.’

‘On that point …’

She smiled. ‘Yes …’

‘This whole episode has made me think about things,’ I said. Even though my epiphany was guided by alcohol and an aching sense of nostalgia discovered in the shower, I still felt buoyant, on the right track.

‘This’ll be good.’

‘Okay.’ I took a sip of coffee. ‘Firstly, I think I should get back into baking.’

‘Yes!’ Zoe shouted, fingers reaching to the sky. ‘She’s seen the light.’

I smiled. ‘I just really enjoyed it. I loved the process, the result, and the reactions. I haven’t felt like that for a long time.’

‘Wait, is this something to do with Oliver being back? We haven’t talked about that yet.’

I shook my head. ‘I don’t think so. Oliver will be what he will be. We’ll sort that out, hopefully with minimal tears and angst. But I need to look after me, now. I need to do what I’m good at.’

‘I’m so happy.’ She shook my hand around like she was a granny at a family reunion. ‘For you, I mean. Not that I’d knock back some free cake, you know.’

‘It’s completely different to cooking at that bloody school, you know. Packet mix this and deep fried that.’

‘We all know your talents are wasted there,’ Zoe said, straightening in her seat. ‘Are you going to stay there? Please don’t, some of those mums are awful, awful women.’

I shrugged, setting the mixing bowl into the Kitchen Aid and pulling frozen cakes from the freezer. ‘Who knows? I’m hoping to score the promotion, but we’ll see.’

‘Why the freezer?’ Zoe asked. ‘Is it fresh?’

‘Yes, it’s fresh,’ I said. ‘Keeps the cake moist.’

‘Oh, nice. It’s no secret Richard thinks you are the sunrise, so I would say you’ve got it in the bag.’

‘Richard?’ I asked. ‘The principal?’

‘Adores you.’ Zoe over-exaggerated, eyes wide and head thrown back for good measure. ‘I’m talking, take you behind the bike sheds for a spiritual rendezvous type of adore.’

‘He does not.’

‘I have it on good authority he does.’ Zoe yanked the door of the pantry open. ‘Also, I’ve seen him perving. Have you got any biscuits?’

‘Eye level, back left.’ I waved a hand. ‘He hasn’t been perving on me.’

‘Crumbling, crumbling gold,’ she mumbled, pulling the plastic container down. She’d shoved two in her mouth before she made it back to her chair. ‘Did you make these? They’re incredible.’

‘And how are you?’ I asked, acutely aware we’d been aboard the SS Lucy for far too long. That, and I wanted to get well away from the subject of school principals and bike sheds. ‘What are you up to?’

‘Peter is a dickbag, and I have four kids and a mortgage bigger than post-birth haemorrhoids.’

‘That doesn’t exactly sound like fun.’

She shook her head, another biscuit in her mouth. ‘Can’t say it is.’

‘Anything you, you know, want to talk about?’

Zoe scrunched her face up. ‘Nah, not really. It’ll work out in the wash, right? We had words this morning, hence my elongated trip out to check on the progress of the cake. I’m also apparently going into town to confirm the jumping castle, but I just called and did that, so it’s all good.’

I looked at the varying colours of fondant spread along the bench, all wrapped in cling film to prevent drying. Outside, the sun was dipping below the skyline. ‘Well, the cake is going wonderfully.’

‘Will it be ready for tomorrow? It looks a little naked.’

‘If I have to stay up all night to get it done, so be it.’

Zoe slid from the stool. ‘I should probably go feed the family. Plus, I’ve got my own stuff to cook.’

‘Do you want me to make anything else for tomorrow?’

‘Gosh, no, the cake is more than enough.’ She grabbed another handful of biscuits and made for the front door. ‘See you in the morning.’

With not much more than a palette knife and a sprinkling of patience, Thomas was soon covered in smooth, sharp-edged buttercream. Divots were filled and scratches buffed out before I started on the fondant. There were coloured pieces cut and scattered across the bench and ready to be worked onto the cake. A knock at the front door and a familiar silhouette had other ideas.

Coffee cup in hand, I shuffled to the front door, pushing the screen door open to reveal a sheepish-looking Oliver. My good mood vanished like a cheap candle at the sight of him in jeans, sneakers, and a paint-smattered T-shirt.

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

I leant forward, clapping my hand to his forehead. ‘You do feel warm.’

The beginnings of a smile. ‘I owe you an apology.’

‘Correct.’ I shuffled my feet. ‘What for?’

‘For being a self-centred jerk, for leaving. In hindsight, that was very wrong.’

‘Very?’ I took another sip of coffee. ‘Surely there’s a word stronger than “very”.’

‘If there is, you’d know it, not me.’ He thrust his hands into his pockets. ‘I know all of this is an awfully long time coming, but I have a lot of regret over the way I handled things with us. Seeing you last night just drove that home like a freight train.’

I settled in for the long run, leaning in to the doorframe, one leg crossed over the other. ‘Continue.’

‘Well, I’m sorry.’ His licked his lips. ‘What I did was selfish and, truthfully, had I put a bit more thought into it, we’d likely still be married … together. Whatever.’

‘And?’ I rolled a hand about in front of me. I certainly didn’t want to stop him while he was in the mood to talk.

‘Hey?’

‘You’ve got a lot more grovelling to do yet.’ I drained my cup. ‘Hang on, I need a refill for this.’

‘Can I come in?’

‘No, can’t say you can.’

‘Right.’ Oliver looked around, scratched at his upper lip. ‘Can I interest you in a walk, then? I thought we might at least talk about a few things.’

‘Talk about a few things?’ I grinned, a little lopsided. ‘Now he wants to talk.’

‘Come on, Loo, for old time’s sake?’

Going for a walk had always been code for one of us being frustrated. At this point, I suspected we both were. Whether it was the endorphins created by incidental exercise, or simply the fact we were out in the crisp night air, we would walk, we would talk and, eventually, we’d solve our problem, before moving on to exciting things like world domination.

All the restaurants, cafés, and takeaways we were going to own were conceived and aborted on our late-night jaunts. Yet, given the way our last phone conversation had ended eighteen months ago, I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to follow him anywhere, even with his “Please love me” face. But curiosity will kill the cat. I snatched up my house keys, abandoned my coffee cup, and pulled the door shut behind me.

Our first few minutes were spent in silence. Nothing but the crunching of loose bitumen under our feet.

‘It’s good to see you.’ In the warm night air, under the bright fuzz of a streetlight, Oliver did his best to avoid eye contact, at least for now.

We walked side-by-side, his hands still buried in his pockets, me with my arms wrapped around me in some wayward attempt at a security blanket. There was a fire of synapses and past life experiences as I tried to decide whether I felt the same about seeing him. I was too tired for an argument.

‘It is?’ I asked.

‘It is.’ He studied my face for a moment. ‘Look, I don’t want this to be awkward.’

‘It certainly feels incredibly awkward.’ My admission wasn’t as grounding as I hoped it would be, but it gave us a few moments of silent contemplation.

‘Are you well?’ Oliver asked finally. ‘How’s Conor McGregor treating you? Does he like your cake?’

I snorted. ‘We broke up.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I’m not, and let’s not pretend you are, either,’ I said. ‘What about you? Are you seeing anyone?’

Selfishly, I didn’t want to know the answer to that, either, but this was apparently catch-up time, and there was a little bit of me that was curious.

Oliver sighed heavily, rounding the corner into the main street. ‘No, there’s no one.’

‘How’s business?’ I asked.

‘It’s going well.’ He paused. ‘Very well. We’re hitting targets, bookings are through the roof, costs are playing out well, expansion is happening, so everyone’s decently happy with that.’

‘Glad to hear.’ That wasn’t a lie. No matter what, I never wished him ill will or failings. That he was succeeding at least proved one of us right.

The quiet rustle of people at tables, and a pop of laughter told us weren’t alone as we walked by the pub. With each table we passed, I could feel eyes on Oliver. People whispered and questioned, none of them daring to interrupt us, just in case they had assumed wrongly.

I filled him in on my job, what little there was to tell. For reasons unknown to me, I spared him the gory details that go along with a limited income and a mortgage and, somewhere in the middle, we slipped into the comfortable conversation we had always enjoyed. It pinched at my heart and reminded me of a time when things were simpler, happier, more balanced. We came to a stop outside a once-abandoned shop. It sat in the slip lane off the main street, which functioned as a highway. I stood on the footpath, counting the ways the building had changed.

Slick, gloss-white paint had replaced the peeling mint-green exterior. A new pendant light swung gently in the night breeze, and fresh cream awnings covered once yellowing and newspaper-clad windows. The veranda and front steps were amid a rework, but it looked a million dollars compared to what it had previously.

‘Do you remember we used to talk about this place all the time?’ Oliver looked at me.

It was supposed to be our baby. We’d always talked about opening a little café, serving lunches and cakes, coffee and a place to chat, but we never made it that far. I watched as Oliver walked over to the switchboard around the side of the building, opened the cover, and flicked on the interior lights.

From the pub, I could hear a roar of laughter float through the air. A car hummed along the freeway, and a bored dog howled at the moon.

The awnings rattled up, still tight in their fittings, to reveal clear glass windows. A glittering gold ‘Murray’s’ logo was painted across them both. Inside, the dining area had furnishings and fittings stacked and leant against walls, a chilled display cabinet was already in place and, despite being empty, it looked ready to take orders.

‘What do you think?’ Oliver was at my side again, looking at me with an anxious need for approval.

I looked back at him, an awful, angry, acidic feeling whirring away in the pit of my stomach. ‘What is this? Is this a joke?’

He shook his head. ‘No joke. Murray’s of Inverleigh is opening in about six weeks, give or take.’

‘This was our dream. Ours.’ I could feel my voice struggling to find air. ‘And now, what, you’ve taken that from me, too? Do you remember what you said to me the last time we spoke?’ I asked. ‘Do you?’

‘I do.’

‘You said you wished you had never met me.’ My eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Now you’re back and you’ve done this? Have you completely lost your mind?’

‘Luce, I didn’t mean that. I was angry. I shouldn’t have said it. I should have stepped back, calmed down, and called back later.’

‘After everything we’d been through, that was what you said to me. On our anniversary. You have no idea of the hurt you’ve caused.’ I wiped at eyes that were filling with tears I didn’t need right now.

‘You’re right. I probably don’t. In my defence, I was angry, but it was completely wrong and inaccurate, and I owe you so much more than an apology.’

‘You’re right. You owe me three years worth of mortgage payments, for a start. It was great fun swimming in debt on a single income, even though Google liked to tell me how much you were raking in the dollars and endorsements. Never mind the fact you’d managed to scrub me from the world’s collective memory. One puff of smoke in the Daily Mail about Oliver’s secret wife and, next minute, there’s retractions and apologies because Oliver Murray doesn’t want the world to know what a colossal moron he is.’

‘I wish you’d mentioned the financial situation earlier.’

‘Actually, I did. Every time you called, I told you I wasn’t doing well. Like all the times I told you I didn’t want to go to France with you because there was nothing there for me. They were adamant we weren’t to work together, so I would have no job, no language skills, and no friends or family. What was I supposed to do, Oliver? Just hang around all day and wait for you? But, too bad, because you didn’t want to listen.’

‘I-I don’t know what you want me to say?’ Oliver stammered. ‘I can say sorry, but I … I don’t know.’

‘Yes, yes you do. You packed up and moved to another bloody country for what? Fame? And now you’re back with all your money and adoration and, what, you’re going to rub it all in my face all over again by opening our dream café?’ I shrieked. ‘Oliver, I don’t want your apology, I want a divorce.’

I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back, and I didn’t stop until I made it home. I locked the door behind me, and worked out my anger on some fondant because, even though I wanted to have a good old-fashioned cry and feel sorry for myself for a moment, I had a five-year-old waiting for a cake.