A Recipe for Disaster: A deliciously feel-good romance
A Recipe for Disaster: A deliciously feel-good romance
Belinda Missen
Life’s not always a piece of cake…Meet Lucy, master wedding cake baker, idealistic school canteen crusader, and someone whose broken heart just won’t seem to mend…Lucy is quietly confident that she has made the right choices in life. Surrounded by friends and family in a small country town, Lucy can easily suppress the feeling that something is missing from her life.But when a blast from the past arrives in the form of her estranged husband, international celebrity chef Oliver Murray, Lucy’s carefully constructed life begins to crumble beneath her like overbaked meringue.Is Oliver’s return all business or is it motivated by something more?A Recipe for Disaster starts long after most love stories would have ended, proving it is never too late to offer someone a second slice of cake or a second chance.Perfect for fans of Carole Mathews, Mhairi McFarlane and Carrie Hope Fletcher.
A Recipe for Disaster
BELINDA MISSEN
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Belinda Missen 2018
Belinda Missen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008296957
Version: 2018-07-02
Table of Contents
Cover (#u04238424-7ac4-5fac-b659-4435d1608851)
Title Page (#u5acf193b-2bd2-54d9-bf32-0b4b354e03e7)
Copyright (#ucd1a5032-8077-5a24-aa19-fa15f44a22de)
Dedication (#udb20bc2e-187d-546f-909d-b964c3fc846a)
Chapter One (#ua02dd6a4-e0e7-5422-b4cb-bb796c307cc8)
Chapter Two (#u3b8653f8-3ef5-502f-8725-f36a26fc17ed)
Chapter Three (#ue55c7f2f-dab9-5edc-b7b0-c234a8a39781)
Chapter Four (#u72e2771b-b27e-5555-b35b-15f4fe58ebaf)
Chapter Five (#u5287792f-b0f6-5866-833c-5df98d2cefa1)
Chapter Six (#udb596a80-0b21-5395-aab1-243512630b09)
Chapter Seven (#uf973df8e-a570-5afc-bde8-6ae220fa336f)
Chapter Eight (#uef9c7c07-ff72-50b8-94b7-b534ae4e9fa4)
Chapter Nine (#u993cd585-178d-580a-8740-6656f375993d)
Chapter Ten (#ub897a46c-45f3-584d-9110-ea9b18e07ee6)
Chapter Eleven (#uee2427bf-65cc-5c1e-9640-6ac17e3a05c0)
Chapter Twelve (#uc477997e-c380-5e6d-a348-f6c3fe41e778)
Chapter Thirteen (#uf846c93e-f6e9-532f-ac4f-c416611b2458)
Chapter Fourteen (#ua410a460-3e7b-50ef-8f17-dc88b7316b10)
Chapter Fifteen (#u1b56ccb1-c77b-5ea4-b74b-b91c92e9e1df)
Chapter Sixteen (#u06370e12-86c0-5870-bec2-e2804cdaeb1e)
Chapter Seventeen (#ub07e9fe8-b58e-5f1f-8c1e-f63dbdda9d41)
Chapter Eighteen (#u71424f50-1cdb-53cc-b60c-ec334bbc6228)
Chapter Nineteen (#u69ee6151-701c-558a-9d65-d391d0789911)
Chapter Twenty (#ue9beb8fc-6df9-5ca3-84a7-a580db0e8a56)
Chapter Twenty-One (#u1af9e4fd-4231-5109-9fef-c1479ef08f50)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#u15fec6f7-5ced-57a3-b8c4-edff161addd3)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#u4370f868-d5dd-5e1b-b9c4-772d5b758cbf)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#u4d540f0f-7d3e-5f5f-835c-332a92b6dd30)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#ub08981b0-5cde-514a-b8c7-ac6a6e2336aa)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#ub0011cfd-a638-5d73-bc9d-ad5f705b03dd)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u29d96876-b1ef-5831-ab01-5a5b0e840001)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u4764a07b-efb2-591b-a445-87b60fb8bd7b)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#ub367842a-6340-5432-858e-71e69534abb8)
Chapter Thirty (#ua3b50359-40fe-520d-8123-cda8860e1f01)
Chapter Thirty-One (#u8b8bcc92-3d2b-5d7c-9921-76d2ec81301b)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#u2be314b4-a6c7-5570-abd1-53eb94d53558)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#u5adc8e41-8ee5-5a46-ae18-5022b5dc1ece)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#u197a69e8-511e-5467-bc02-2613c829a384)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#u069f7e2c-1052-5e04-8589-bdb0be8f8475)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#uf3176ec7-629d-5ffa-865a-5bade9a5ddb5)
Acknowledgements (#u52c61848-fd41-5984-a2b8-d5dd5701adaa)
About the Author (#u332404fa-8fcb-5e54-af13-392c34fc6fc7)
Coming Soon (#udf82a35e-928b-505c-8ff1-d86d06f86dce)
About the Publisher (#u6276376b-c793-503c-ba0d-1e65f0c84fdd)
For Hannah, Nadine, and Shane – in no particular order.
CHAPTER ONE (#u5a2f783a-f348-56b8-8fee-8a7491880d30)
Wedding cakes have always fascinated me. When I was a young girl, they’d be the centrepiece of any drawing I fashioned up in school. Big ones, small ones, plain white ones with that awful marzipan icing, or the ornate beauty of a royal fairy tale. I marvelled at television programmes that featured cakes; each one of them a work of art. Someone had spent hours toiling away in a kitchen, hair in a net, poring over finer details of lace, ganache, height, and taste.
Now that job was mine.
As a baker, it was almost a shame to see your work sliced and served in greasy paper bags at the end of a long night. I’d woken after countless events to find a squashed slice of chocolate mud in the bottom of my handbag. I hated to think of wedding cakes ending their life like that, but I also loved seeing them enjoyed.
The history of the wedding cake was simple, stretching back to the time of Arthur and Camelot. Wealth, prosperity, fertility, and good luck were all said to come from consuming said baked delight. For me? It was all about the art. Was the icing set? Did I get that flower just right? What about the topper? Is the cake even cooked? Never mind the brides they were designed for.
Today, my bride was Edith. Keeper of chickens and knitter of ugly sweaters, she lived exactly four houses away from me in our not always quiet country town of Inverleigh, ninety minutes south-west of Melbourne. It was home to exactly one pub, one general store – which served as bank, post office, chippy, and advice line – a restaurant that closed twelve months earlier, and a football team. In two hours’ time, Edith was marrying Barry – a not-so-handsome football player with a thrice-broken nose and a penchant for homebrew strong enough to blind even the most seasoned of drinkers.
‘Are you listening?’ Edith’s screech verged on delirium.
‘I am absolutely listening,’ I said, hearing her bridesmaids cluck away in the background. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready?’
‘I am ready – I’ve been ready for hours.’ She yawned. ‘Is the cake still all right?’
The night before had been a last-minute panic over the cake being “too naked”, and whether I couldn’t “just add some more flowers”. I’d been at the florist at first crack of the door lock to get extra coverage, before dashing home to fill the gaps and please the bride. A quick dozen photo messages confirmed everything was in order, even if that cake now looked like it had sprouted a pubic region somewhere towards its front.
‘It’s beautiful.’ I smiled.
Sitting on the turntable in front of me were three layers of white chocolate and citrus mud deliciousness. A semi-nude cake, it was iced in soft lemon-gelati-flavoured meringue buttercream, and adorned with a selection of native flowers. Pink waratahs sat with golden wattle, grey-green eucalypt leaves and their gumnuts. I stood back and admired it again to the soundtrack of a grumbling tummy. Perfect.
‘Do you think it’s bad luck?’ Edith interrupted my thoughts.
‘What’s bad luck?’ I asked.
In my bathroom, the shower stopped running.
‘The whole dead baker thing.’
Two days ago, Edith’s original baker dropped dead. Just like that. I received a panicked phone call at one o’clock in the morning, asking if I could please, please, with extra money on top, resurrect my baking career to help her. It had been almost three years since I’d fashioned anything more than a birthday cake, but I was more than happy to help. So far, it was looking like a success.
‘Honestly, Eds, the only person it’s bad luck for is your baker, and his family. You and Barry are going to be completely fine. You’ll put your dress on—’
‘I’ve already got it on.’
‘Okay, so you’ll turn up, you’ll say your vows.’ I pulled lace curtains aside and looked out the kitchen window. ‘The weather is stunning, by the way. It’s a lovely Friday, with a little bit of sun and not too much wind. You’re going to have an amazing day, surrounded by friends and family. It’ll be one big eating, drinking lovefest.’
‘You’re right. Of course, you’re right.’ She breathed deeply into the receiver. ‘Okay. I’m going for photos now. I’ll see you there. Please, please don’t drop it.’ She hung up before I could get another word in.
I put my phone on charge, and walked into the bathroom to find Seamus buried under a cloud of shaving cream. Butcher to my baker, he’d been a trade-show find six months earlier. While I’d been wandering around, thinking I should buy a new stand mixer and considering my life path, he rounded the corner with an armful of carving knives, a headful of unruly auburn hair and bottle-green eyes. One drink had led to another, we’d discovered mutual friends, and slowly, but surely, started dating.
‘Everything okay, Pet?’ His Irish lilt was muffled by the soft white clouds that sputtered towards the mirror.
I pulled my blonde hair into a loose bun and leant closer to the mirror, poking at the new lines under my tired brown eyes. Baking, huh? ‘Yeah, all fine. Just need to deliver it, and hark, the herald angels sing.’
‘Good.’ He grinned, razor gliding through foam. ‘At least she’ll stop calling at all hours.’
‘She’s allowed to call at all hours. She’s my friend, she’s a client, and she’s stressed.’ I paused, arms in the air, bobby pin poised.
‘I’m just saying. Eleven o’clock on a Thursday night.’
‘And it’s completely fine,’ I stressed, agitated. ‘I need the money right now.’
As I walked away, he mumbled something just quietly enough that I couldn’t hear. I ignored the call to argument and closed the bedroom door. A grey pantsuit I’d dangled from the back of the door last night now hung limply from the door handle, and had been dragged across the floor. Really? Right now? I brushed the dust and lint from the bottoms and hoped for the best.
‘Oh, I got that magazine for you, too. The Gourmet Chef?’ he asked.
‘Gourmet Traveller?’ I tugged at my shirt.
‘Yeah, that might be the one.’ Seamus knotted his tie. ‘Something like that.’
The magazine he was talking about had already made its way to the floor of the lounge room, discarded the moment he walked through the front door. Not a moment later, as I waddled towards the front door under the weight of a cake, snapping at Seamus as I went, I kicked the magazine under the lip of the couch, and hoped for the best.
Unloading and transporting cakes is no different when they’ve been made for friends. In fact, it’s even more nerve-racking. While I resembled something close to awake, with my suit sorted and a dab of make-up, I struggled between keeping the cake upright, and trying not to kill Seamus as he sped along Winchelsea Road towards the reception venue. The road was far from safe, one lane of dusty orange gravel or knobby bitumen most of the way, twists and bends, oncoming livestock trucks, and a driver who was hellbent on getting to his destination as if he were piloting a live-action Mario Kart game.
Edith and Barry’s wedding reception was to be held in the function room of the very fancy, newly renovated Barwon Park Mansion. An 1870s bluestone building situated fifteen minutes from home, it was blessed with sweeping views of the grassy plains around it, and was the picture-perfect location for a country wedding. Perfect except for the corrugated gravel road that covered the last few hundred metres of the drive. If I could keep the cake from being smeared on the windscreen, I would die happy.
‘Do you want help?’ Seamus opened my door for me after we arrived.
‘Not treating the drive here like a go round a rally track would have been a great help.’ I huffed, sending a loose lock of hair outward in a cloud of frustration.
‘Right.’ He pursed his lips, eyebrows raised to the sky. ‘I’ll just go, then, if you’re going to argue.’
I couldn’t be bothered fighting, not now. ‘I’ve got this. Go and grab some seats.’
People were already arriving, an hour before the ceremony, which would take place under a marquee in the front gardens. Workers scrambled to add finishing touches to hessian bunting, gloss-white wooden fold-back chairs, and native flowers that hung from the end of each row of chairs. Tall eucalypts, grey and white, swayed in the breeze, offering up loose leaves and gumnuts that pitter-pattered like rain as they landed on the white tarpaulin roof.
I carried the cake along the gravel driveway, sidestepping up the front stairs like a crab, and in through the heavy door with the wedge of a foot and heave of a shoulder. The foyer revealed a wide sprawling staircase covered in red velvet carpet, a sign of the original owner’s wealth.
‘Hello?’ My voice echoed off marble statues and oil paintings of disapproving previous tenants.
No response. It seemed the building was empty, as was an ornate frame that would soon declare: “Edith loves Barry”. Every moment I stood, I became increasingly aware of the weight in my arms. Cakes were a little like babies in that the longer you held them, the heavier they felt. It was another reminder of how out of practice I was with this baking business.
A pot rattled in a far corner, so I followed the noise along a hall like Alice down the rabbit hole. Around a dark corner, a sign warned of a private function. Before I reached the kitchen, which smelt like the best roast beef I would ever eat, I was cut off by a woman who zipped past quicker than The Flash.
‘Hello!’ I stuttered.
‘Oh, the cake. Thank the gods. I thought you’d be here earlier.’ She threw her hands in the air, and a clasp of grey hair escaped her bun. She tucked it behind her ear. ‘I’m Sally, and I’m running the show today.’
‘Lucy Williams.’ I smiled. ‘Where do you want it?’
‘You really want to know?’ She scoffed, looking more 1800s housekeeper than event manager. Her dark pinstriped shirt was twisted and stained, and sweat patches leached from her underarms. ‘Sorry, it’s been one of those days.’ After more mumbling about brides, overextended budgets, ridiculous cakes, and awful caterers, she pointed me towards the next hallway. ‘There’s a small stand by the bridal table. I’m sure you’ll see it. Just let the catering team know. They’re getting the room ready now, but they’re bloody late, too, aren’t they?’
Without the usual throng of weekend tourists, the old halls felt empty and a little bit naughty. It reminded me of days when, as a child, I’d experienced my school devoid of other students, on nights and weekends when Mum was busy preparing teaching notes. I took a left, and a right, before I found the reception room.
Bluestone walls enclosed barn doors at the opposite end of the room, which was flooded with bright natural light, though festoon lights were strung across the room. Like the marquee, the walls were decorated with bunting, and the centrepieces matched the floral theme, making sure the room smelt like a Sunday walk in a national park.
Placing the cake by the bridal table soon became an early highlight of the day. The sweet relief on my arms coupled with a quick mental download. I’d made it, no dropping, no cracking, and no incidents. To celebrate, I snapped off some social-media-worthy photos, both to show off on my Facebook page and, also, in the odd event I felt spurred on to take up baking again. From above, below, side-on, and close-ups of the flowers, I took so many, I half expected the cake to make a duck-face at me and tell me to get a life.
Satisfied, I scrolled through my photos as I left. Reaching for the door handle, it swung open onto me, sending me scuttling backwards. That would teach me for having my head buried in a screen.
‘… and make sure the napkins are folded properly, too, not like last time.’ A man buzzed past me like an unwelcome memory, a mosquito on a summer night.
‘Yes, chef.’ Standing by a table, a teenager fiddled with silver cutlery that clattered to the ground in a display of nerves. He swore, and grabbed a fresh fork from his apron, which bore a gold “M” against the black fabric.
‘We should be ready by now. You should be in the kitchen helping with prep, not going over this again.’
‘Yes, chef.’ With each answer, a small part of the boy’s soul ebbed away. I’d been in his situation before – anyone who’d worked in hospitality had. It made me want to strangle the man responsible, the one who’d almost bowled me over. My only problem was, I recognised him – too well.
I knew his voice, and every possible incarnation it could take. The happy, the sad, the surprised, and the midnight whispers. I knew the tuft of black hair on the back of his neck and how it curled slightly to the left. The rest of his hair wound around itself like Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ when it got too long or wet. Without tiptoes, he could peer across the top of my refrigerator, and had done so many times looking for lost recipe sheets or keys.
The shape of his body had been burnt into memory, useful when trying to pick someone out in a crowd. So had his eyes, a neon blue that made it look like someone had scrawled on his face with Hi-Liter. As quickly as he made his entrance, he turned and made a beeline for the kitchen door, blustering along without so much as a glance in my direction.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ he snapped. ‘Do what you need to do and go. We’re busy.’
It took me a moment to realise he was talking to me. Had he not seen me at all?
‘Is this how you operate now, Oliver?’
God, he was still so beautiful, as much as it pained me to admit. He wore a black double-breasted uniform that pinched across broad shoulders, complete with the familiar “M” stitched into the breast in fine gold thread. His apron was covered in kitchen detritus. While he’d always been confident, there was added fire behind those eyes, a purpose in his soul. It was no wonder he had restaurant critics eating out of his hand. And yet, underneath it all, teenage vulnerability lapped below his concrete surface, if only you knew what to look for.
Oliver stopped, his body rigid as if on pause. He turned to me slowly, a confused frown lining his face. I felt like he’d reached into my chest and ripped out my still-beating heart. I expected that, somewhere between here and the door, he’d wave it around his head in victory, before taking a bite and spitting it out in disgust.
We hadn’t seen each other in three years. We hadn’t spoken in eighteen months.
‘Lucy.’
I swallowed. ‘Oliver.’
‘Lucy,’ he repeated nervously. ‘How … how are you? Are you well?’
I nodded. ‘Fine, thank you. You?’
‘I’m, yeah, I’m okay.’ He nodded.
‘This is … this is a surprise.’ And one I could have strangled Edith for right now.
‘You could say that, yes.’ He chuckled nervously, looking over his shoulder again. This time, at my cake. ‘One of yours?’
‘It is.’ I rubbed sweating palms on my pants. ‘Issue with the original baker, so here I am.’
‘Rough luck,’ he said quietly, looking behind him again. ‘It looks incredible, Lucy. You’re still unfairly talented. What is it?’ He walked across to the small distressed wood table. ‘Naked is the new black, isn’t it?’
‘Thank you.’ I’d be lying if I said the praise didn’t hit me in the sweet spot, even after all this time. ‘It’s citrus mud with lemon icing.’
‘It’s gorgeous.’ He leant in to look at the finer details.
I stepped forward cautiously. As proud of it as I was, I didn’t think it was overly intricate, but Oliver seemed intent on inspecting it from all angles. It felt like an hour had passed before he stood back and looked at me.
‘Are you … are you well?’ A nervous Oliver was like Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. You knew there was one out there somewhere, but you’d be hard-pressed to find it without some serious legwork.
I felt my tongue brush against my lips, my mouth sandpaper dry. ‘You’ve already asked that.’
‘I have. Right. Of course.’ He looked stuck between wanting to flee and trying to think of something else to say.
As for me, flight mode had well and truly kicked in. ‘Okay. So, I’m going to go now. See you later, I guess.’
‘Luce, wait.’ He held out a hand. ‘Stay for a drink.’
I froze on the spot, hand clutching the door handle. We watched each other silently. Seconds stretched to minutes, and Oliver looked more hopeful than he had right to.
‘Why are you here?’ I asked.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his apron and rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘Catering Edith and Barry’s wedding.’
‘And she picked you?’
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. ‘Barry got in touch a few months ago, asked if I was going to be in town. I wanted to come back and sort a few things out, and we all know he has a bit of cash to burn through, so here we are.’
‘Here we are,’ I repeated, scratching my forehead. Somewhere in the back of my brain, an Oliver-shaped headache was forming. ‘Are you in town long?’
‘Maybe.’ He brushed over my question as if in a job interview, no reaction either way.
‘Right.’ I turned to walk away.
‘Lucy, stay. I’ll make coffee.’
I remember making the same request of him once upon a time. Stay, have a pot of tea, talk. I chose not to remind him. ‘Can’t stop, gotta go. See you later. Wedding thing. Have a great day, chef.’
I walked so quickly I would have been disqualified from Olympic gold for having both feet off the ground. Not until I’d locked myself in the toilets and sat down on the lid did I exhale. I fired off a text to my best friend, Zoe, confident she was the only one I trusted with this information.
Help. Oliver is here.
Hey?
MY HUSBAND OLIVER.
Yes, I know who he is.
I’m currently locked in toilets.
Practising breathing.
Oh. Shit.
CHAPTER TWO (#u5a2f783a-f348-56b8-8fee-8a7491880d30)
Oliver Murray and I met as pimply fifteen-year-old apprentices. Employed by the same artisan baker, we’d spent early mornings kneading dough and lifting flour bags, and later nights studying. When I split off to study and work patisserie, he became a chef. The night we celebrated his graduation was the night he asked me to marry him.
A week before our wedding, catering and drinks supplied as favours by friends, we moved into an old miner’s cottage in Inverleigh. Even though it meant moving away from family, real estate was cheap, and our home fitted our budget. The kitchen was small, enough space for one, and blended with the dining area. A cosy lounge kept two recliners, and the front of the house was skirted by a rickety old veranda that had once been shades of grey and white. Panels needed replacing, and the iron latticework needed painting but, for us, that only added to the charm.
The bathroom doubled as a laundry, and the bedroom was only big enough for a double bed and standalone wardrobe that looked like Madame de La Grande Bouche. But it was ours, and we loved nothing more than nights and weekends cooking new and wonderful recipes we’d picked up at work. I’m sure if you squinted, you could still see packing boxes in the background of our wedding photos.
Each morning, we commuted to Melbourne for work before most of the city was awake. Often, we’d take separate cars, because anything could happen with late shifts. After ninety minutes on the freeway, Oliver’s car would disappear towards Windsor’s, a five-star restaurant in Hawthorn. I would make my way up Spring Street to Mondial, a French café where I was already head of all things éclair and buttery pastry. The owners had been floating the idea of branching out and opening another site across town, putting me front and centre as the face of their brand. It was my first chance to make my own name around Melbourne. Windsor’s, however, had other ideas.
When they offered Oliver the role of head chef, he knocked them back. Even though he’d worked hard, he had always wanted his own restaurant. It was the next item on his bucket list. Windsor’s came back with another offer, one he couldn’t refuse. They gave him enough funding to put his name in lights with his own eatery. The catch? They wanted a European expansion, and he was their excuse. Oliver had to open in or near Paris. No choice.
At first, we talked about our options, looked at the costs involved in moving our life across the world. Asking turned to reasoning, travel brochures, and language guides scattered around the house. When none of that worked, frustrated arguments popped up to scratch away at us. I argued that Windsor’s should test a Melbourne-based business first. Why jump headfirst into the French countryside where we knew no one? But, no, the investors were adamant on France, and sold on Oliver.
That left me two options: stay, and continue to build on a promising career, or pack up and follow him across the world with no guarantee of anything.
I stayed behind.
Six years of dating and nine years of marriage disappeared down the street in the back of a yellow cab, three weeks after Oliver’s thirtieth birthday party. I had no option but to start again.
‘Are you okay, Pet?’ Seamus leant in.
I was so lost in thought that I’d missed most of the ceremony. I’d sat down, said hello to my parents and, after that, my brain raced down memory lane like a Le Mans driver headed for the finish line. Left turn here, right turn there, careful of the hairpin, give way to the oncoming freight train going through Emotion City, and I pulled up in time to see Barry kiss his bride.
Seamus gently nudged my side. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Hey?’ I asked.
‘You look distracted.’
‘Just worried about the cake,’ I said. It might not have been entirely true, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. You did a good job. I don’t know why you spend all day in a school canteen.’ He lifted my hand to his mouth and offered a damp kiss. The hair on my arms bristled.
‘Because I have bills to pay,’ I whispered. Seamus let go of my hand.
Edith and Barry took their first jaunt down the aisle, emerging into the sunshine of the garden to be showered with rice, confetti, and all manner of environmentally unfriendly wedding treats. Like a leaky tap, everyone followed, and stood around looking busy while the bridal party posed for photos around the property. Was it polite to look for the bar so soon?
Then again, being near the bar meant wandering inside and involved dealing with Oliver who, watching from the back of the pack, was already inching his way inside. When the door clapped shut behind him, I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he would disappear into the confines of the kitchen, and stay there for the evening.
Canapés and drinks around the marquee morphed into the splashy beginnings of a reception. Bodies crowded around the small frame in the foyer to find table numbers and, before we could lift our glasses in celebration, we’d witnessed a grand entrance, heard the MC’s introduction, and had moved directly into the first speech of the night. Each table was adorned with the shiniest cutlery, sparkling glasses, name cards, and a selection of red and white wine. I reached across the table for a red and knocked over my name card in the process.
Scribbled in its apex, in bold black lettering, a phone number. I snatched the card up quickly and tucked it into my breast pocket. My heart leapt into my throat as I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully, Seamus was busy chatting up the girl to his right. To my left, Mum was busy trying to tell Dad he was using the wrong glass. I could hear blood rushing through my ears and the bass drum of my heart picking up speed.
If I’d hoped Oliver would stick to the kitchen, I was sorely mistaken. It seemed he enjoyed leading by example, being a hands-on boss. He visited tables, helped serve meals, and stepped in to clarify allergy information. There was a collective gasp of recognition that rose around the room when he first emerged with plates balanced on forearms. A celebrity was about to serve dinner. Beside me, I thought my mother was about to collapse from excitement.
‘Lucy.’ Her fingers gripped my arm like a hawk with a salmon.
I braced. ‘Yes?’
‘Is that … no … Oliver?’ If she made her pointing more obvious, I was going to have to buy her a spotlight. Oliver zipped past the table again, leaving the kitchen door swinging, and Mum’s mouth slack with shock. I felt Seamus wriggle about uncomfortably next to me.
‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat. ‘That’s him.’
Again, she gasped. It was scandal, delight, pure bliss. If she were a computer game, her lives would have been at full strength, victory music tinkling as she prepared to take on the world.
‘Hang on, wait.’ Seamus looked at me. ‘You mean to tell me that’s the guy who left you?’
I nodded.
‘The one you were married to?’ He stopped himself with a pointed finger. ‘Sorry, are married to.’
My marriage was something we hadn’t spoken about in depth. I’d tried, but conversation was shut down, or the topic changed. Oliver had been mentioned as the husband who’d left, gone on to other things. What I hadn’t stated was that he’d gone on to conquer restaurants, magazines, Michelin stars, and was more than a little bit famous – as witnessed by all the mobile phones pointed in his direction as he moved around the room with plates and, at one point, stopped to pose for a selfie.
‘Are you kidding me right now?’ Seamus glared across the room. If he were a meme, he’d be screaming, ‘Fight me.’
‘Seamus, leave it alone,’ I grumbled, embarrassed.
‘Leave it alone?’ He turned his anger to me. ‘Firstly, this was something important you hadn’t told me.’
I hadn’t told him because he’d always shut me down and, well, even my mum thought it impolite to talk about Oliver in front of him. God knows why.
‘It’s really not.’ I watched as Oliver disappeared into the kitchen, laughing with a waitress. ‘It’s not detrimental to us.’
‘Detrimental? This guy … you’ve made me watch him on telly. You’re unbelievable.’ He scoffed. ‘Did you know he was going to be here?’
‘No.’ Not technically a lie, not entirely the truth. I had, after all, only seen him moments before the ceremony.
‘Honestly, Lucy, I don’t know why you’re not still with him.’
‘Oh, Mum! That is so rude!’ My face seared with embarrassment. Dad reached across the table, plucked a bread roll from the basket, and shoved the end in his mouth.
‘Thank you for that.’ Seamus scowled at her. ‘Really.’
She reached around and grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Now, don’t be like that, Shame-us,’ she said, over-pronouncing his name as usual. ‘You’re lovely enough, but I was so hoping Lucy could make her marriage work.’
I pressed fingers to my temples. ‘Kill me now.’
Entrées were an alternate drop of sticky maple ham with fig jus, and lemon-marinated prawns. They both looked delicious resting atop green leaves, and I was hungry enough to want either, despite my usual hatred of seafood. Today I wasn’t fussy. Seamus refused his plate of prawns.
‘Send it back. It looks like shite.’ He held a hand up before the plate could so much as dint the tablecloth.
I braced, waiting for the fallout. Looks were exchanged around the table, which was full of strangers, thrown together like some late-night speed-dating exercise. Normally, at a wedding, that’s a perfectly wonderful opportunity to meet, network, and exchange ideas. Only, tonight those ideas felt more like dirty laundry. Our waiter, a perturbed-looking teenager, disappeared back to the kitchen without another word.
Tables around us clattered and chattered, the noise rising to a crescendo of excitement as entrées became mains. It was under this umbrella of noise that Oliver made his way across to our table.
‘Problem with the entrée?’ he asked, a solid hand placed on the back of my chair.
‘Fuck off,’ Seamus grumbled.
‘Good to see you, Lucy. You’re looking well.’ Oliver offered up a plate. ‘Are you still allergic to seafood?’
‘What?’ Seamus stood, sizing him up. ‘She’s not allergic.’
‘No, you’re right, but she doesn’t like it, does she?’ Oliver placed the beef in front of me, seafood in front of Seamus. ‘If you tell the kitchen you’re allergic, you’re not going to be served it, are you?’
Seamus, a permanent frown now set on his face, glanced at me, at Oliver, and back again.
Oliver extended his hand. ‘Oliver – it’s good to meet you.’
‘Shame I can’t say the same.’ Seamus refused to shake hands.
‘I’m just here for the food.’ Oliver patted him on the shoulder. Seamus flinched. ‘No need to get antsy.’
Mum watched on gleefully, hoping Oliver would somehow white-knight me, perhaps sweep me away in a flurry of mashed potato and daydreams. All I wanted was to get through the night without it devolving into a fiery pit of who was right, who was wrong, or who was the better cook. As Oliver walked away, Seamus leaned in for an over-the-top, attention-grabbing, beer-infused kiss. As if I wasn’t already feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable.
‘Who picks fish for a wedding anyway?’ Seamus pulled his seat in. ‘What a joke.’
‘Seamus, please.’ I looked at him.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘It’s true. And I can cook better than this.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Okay?’
I huffed. ‘Yep. I’m agreeing. You can cook better than that.’
He couldn’t. It was one thing to debone an entire carcass of meat. It was another altogether to be able to cook it, and burnt steaks weren’t my idea of a good time. He reached across and gave my knee a squeeze, satisfied grin pinching at his eyes.
Mum’s plate had barely been cleared off before she barrelled Oliver into a corner. One minute she was eating, the next she was spilling secrets quicker than a Japanese fast train. With frown lines and his teeth dragging at his bottom lip, Oliver fixed her with a gaze that said he was drinking in every single word she had to offer. As for Seamus, he’d disappeared into a cloud of footballers by the bar. They yelled, they cheered, they shattered a beer glass on the floor.
‘You all right, Kiddo?’ Dad looked at me. Despite the glazed look in his eyes – too much beer – I could sense a talk coming on.
‘I am fine.’ I tore my eyes away from Oliver, who was watching me over my mother’s shoulder.
‘You’re a great liar.’ He smiled his way around the room, waving at an old family friend.
Holding my glass steady at my mouth, I almost laughed. ‘I am not.’
‘That’s what I meant.’ He pointed at me with an almost empty bottle. ‘You and your mother get that look about you when you lie. It’s all distant gazes and short sentences. I say it’s great because I can spot it a mile off. Made your teenage years much easier.’
I returned his question. ‘Are you okay?’
He hiccupped. ‘I’m great. You know she’ll be carrying on about His Nibs for months now?’
‘No doubt.’ I dug around in the bottom of my handbag for my phone. Facebook was having a stellar night. Edith had already uploaded a photo of her cake, which was overflowing with likes, comments, and questions about who had baked it. Zoe was freaking out in sync with me, if her messages were anything to go by, and I had a friend request from someone in Nigeria. That was about as legit as my night was fun.
‘Are you really all right?’ Dad leant in to the table like it was the only thing holding him up.
‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ I took a deep breath and waved my phone at him. ‘Just a surprise, that’s all.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ He offered a gurgling laugh, like a bath plug being pulled. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Nothing. It’s completely okay. People can choose whomever they want to cater. We’ll sort out what we need to sort out, and the sun will come up tomorrow.’ I grinned.
‘Buck up, Kiddo.’ He clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’ll work out in the wash.’
Another glass shattered, tinkling across the floor. Victorious, Seamus departed the scrum and made for a microphone sat by the DJ’s station. He picked it up, inspected it, tapped it, and switched it on with a squeal that brought the room to a standstill. And then he climbed up onto the bridal table.
‘Good evening, friends,’ he began.
A slightly enthusiastic cheer rose from a clueless crowd.
‘Jesus,’ I groaned. If I could have slid further under the table, I would have. And where was the DJ? Nowhere. Toilet break, maybe. A DJ was absolutely not going to save my life tonight.
‘Hello, everyone. Would you like to hear a … no, don’t take it from me, I have a story to tell you,’ Seamus started, his voice echoing through the room. ‘Get away. I want to say some words for the bride and groom.’
A chill ran up my spine. On the list of stupid things he could do, this was going to be the one that took the cake – absolutely no pun intended. My heart raced like a hamster on a wheel. This wasn’t going to end well for anyone.
‘Isn’t the bride beautiful today? You look incredible.’ He smiled proudly, chest puffed out as the crowd clapped and cheered. ‘And how about the cake, huh? Beautiful?’
More cheering. Well, that was a plus I was happy to take.
‘… so, Lucy has made this cake, right. It looks great but, I mean, let’s be honest – it wasn’t hard. A bit of flour, eggs, and chocolate, and suddenly, she’s handing out business cards and calling herself a baker.’
Behind me, Oliver mumbled low and slow, ‘Fucking hell.’
‘… it’s hardly a talent.’ Seamus burped. ‘Come on. It’s just a bleeding cake.’
The PA squealed. I grimaced. Confused faces looked around the room, everyone trying to work out just who Seamus was directing his ire at.
‘It gets better, though.’ He laughed. ‘Did any of you know she’s still married? You know who to, right? That caterer who’s been racing around here all night. Beef, chicken, beef, fish. Fuck off.’
He burped. The crowd gasped in horror. Each time someone tried to grab at him, he darted out of the way. The DJ was still nowhere to be seen, having left the room with the quiet warbling of mood music set to Repeat: All. Next up, ‘(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life’ for five hundred points.
‘I mean, anyone who was halfway serious about her life would have sorted that shit out years ago, but no, not you, Lucy. No. I’m just the doorstop it seems. Just the toy. Well, you know what? Couldn’t care. Not bothered. He can keep you, poncing around all night like he owns the place. Gordon Fucking Ramsay.’
During a brief, pin-dropping silence, a small scuffle broke out, sound-tracked by a collective gasp. Despite efforts, Seamus was still standing on the bridal table, swaying like a flag in a breeze. One foot between a hurricane lamp and a bouquet of flowers, the other pushing a plate out of the way. Barry enlisted a small rabble and, when Seamus wasn’t looking, too busy flipping me the bird, they pulled him to the ground.
‘They’re probably still shagging … arsehole.’ His voice was muffled, but still loud enough for everyone to hear exactly what he’d said. ‘Urgh. Bitch.’
I was numb.
It had taken less than ten minutes for my life to turn on its head. Again. Seamus had always been a bit of a loose cannon. I could forgive the missed calls and unanswered text messages. The family dinners he skipped because he ‘forgot’ could even be overlooked. Life was busy, after all. We weren’t living together, and we all slip up from time to time. Swearing at my friend, her husband, and their kids was the start of the decline. This? This wasn’t just the straw that broke the camel’s back. This was an out of control dumpster fire.
Edith sat by the bridal table, looking mortified. Barry and his group of friends shoved Seamus unceremoniously out the back door with little more than a glass of water and zero sympathy. I couldn’t blame them.
The moment the volume rose again, I stood and slipped through the front door. As I rounded the side of the building and made for the car park, the opening beats of Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ thumped from the speakers at each end of the dance floor. I wasn’t sure if it was clapping I heard as I walked away, or my brain farting in relief at the night being over.
‘Lucy.’ Seamus jumped up from a wooden log by the car.
I scurried past, feet crunching on gravel. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘Oh, no, Luce, I’m sorry.’
His words held no weight, likely as empty as every other garbage promise that had come from him in the last six months. Wind blew hair about my face, and I tried desperately to stop it sticking to my lip gloss. Clock that up to another fail.
‘You can collect your things tomorrow.’ I unlocked only the driver’s side while Seamus reefed on the passenger’s door. ‘If you’re not there by midday, whatever is yours is going in the bin.’
‘But I didn’t mean it, Lucy.’ He pouted. The cheek! ‘Come on, Sweetie, open up and let me in.’
The only thing I opened was my handbag, his wallet and phone still placed haphazardly atop of everything else. Aside from being a girlfriend, I’d become part-time carer when he couldn’t be bothered looking after his own belongings. The longer I sat in the car and thought, even as his tapping at the window grew louder, the quicker the cons outweighed the pros. I wound the window down, tossed his phone, keys, and wallet away, and drove off into the night.
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Belinda Missen
Life’s not always a piece of cake…Meet Lucy, master wedding cake baker, idealistic school canteen crusader, and someone whose broken heart just won’t seem to mend…Lucy is quietly confident that she has made the right choices in life. Surrounded by friends and family in a small country town, Lucy can easily suppress the feeling that something is missing from her life.But when a blast from the past arrives in the form of her estranged husband, international celebrity chef Oliver Murray, Lucy’s carefully constructed life begins to crumble beneath her like overbaked meringue.Is Oliver’s return all business or is it motivated by something more?A Recipe for Disaster starts long after most love stories would have ended, proving it is never too late to offer someone a second slice of cake or a second chance.Perfect for fans of Carole Mathews, Mhairi McFarlane and Carrie Hope Fletcher.
A Recipe for Disaster
BELINDA MISSEN
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Belinda Missen 2018
Belinda Missen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © September 2018 ISBN: 9780008296957
Version: 2018-07-02
Table of Contents
Cover (#u04238424-7ac4-5fac-b659-4435d1608851)
Title Page (#u5acf193b-2bd2-54d9-bf32-0b4b354e03e7)
Copyright (#ucd1a5032-8077-5a24-aa19-fa15f44a22de)
Dedication (#udb20bc2e-187d-546f-909d-b964c3fc846a)
Chapter One (#ua02dd6a4-e0e7-5422-b4cb-bb796c307cc8)
Chapter Two (#u3b8653f8-3ef5-502f-8725-f36a26fc17ed)
Chapter Three (#ue55c7f2f-dab9-5edc-b7b0-c234a8a39781)
Chapter Four (#u72e2771b-b27e-5555-b35b-15f4fe58ebaf)
Chapter Five (#u5287792f-b0f6-5866-833c-5df98d2cefa1)
Chapter Six (#udb596a80-0b21-5395-aab1-243512630b09)
Chapter Seven (#uf973df8e-a570-5afc-bde8-6ae220fa336f)
Chapter Eight (#uef9c7c07-ff72-50b8-94b7-b534ae4e9fa4)
Chapter Nine (#u993cd585-178d-580a-8740-6656f375993d)
Chapter Ten (#ub897a46c-45f3-584d-9110-ea9b18e07ee6)
Chapter Eleven (#uee2427bf-65cc-5c1e-9640-6ac17e3a05c0)
Chapter Twelve (#uc477997e-c380-5e6d-a348-f6c3fe41e778)
Chapter Thirteen (#uf846c93e-f6e9-532f-ac4f-c416611b2458)
Chapter Fourteen (#ua410a460-3e7b-50ef-8f17-dc88b7316b10)
Chapter Fifteen (#u1b56ccb1-c77b-5ea4-b74b-b91c92e9e1df)
Chapter Sixteen (#u06370e12-86c0-5870-bec2-e2804cdaeb1e)
Chapter Seventeen (#ub07e9fe8-b58e-5f1f-8c1e-f63dbdda9d41)
Chapter Eighteen (#u71424f50-1cdb-53cc-b60c-ec334bbc6228)
Chapter Nineteen (#u69ee6151-701c-558a-9d65-d391d0789911)
Chapter Twenty (#ue9beb8fc-6df9-5ca3-84a7-a580db0e8a56)
Chapter Twenty-One (#u1af9e4fd-4231-5109-9fef-c1479ef08f50)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#u15fec6f7-5ced-57a3-b8c4-edff161addd3)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#u4370f868-d5dd-5e1b-b9c4-772d5b758cbf)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#u4d540f0f-7d3e-5f5f-835c-332a92b6dd30)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#ub08981b0-5cde-514a-b8c7-ac6a6e2336aa)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#ub0011cfd-a638-5d73-bc9d-ad5f705b03dd)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u29d96876-b1ef-5831-ab01-5a5b0e840001)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#u4764a07b-efb2-591b-a445-87b60fb8bd7b)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#ub367842a-6340-5432-858e-71e69534abb8)
Chapter Thirty (#ua3b50359-40fe-520d-8123-cda8860e1f01)
Chapter Thirty-One (#u8b8bcc92-3d2b-5d7c-9921-76d2ec81301b)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#u2be314b4-a6c7-5570-abd1-53eb94d53558)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#u5adc8e41-8ee5-5a46-ae18-5022b5dc1ece)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#u197a69e8-511e-5467-bc02-2613c829a384)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#u069f7e2c-1052-5e04-8589-bdb0be8f8475)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#uf3176ec7-629d-5ffa-865a-5bade9a5ddb5)
Acknowledgements (#u52c61848-fd41-5984-a2b8-d5dd5701adaa)
About the Author (#u332404fa-8fcb-5e54-af13-392c34fc6fc7)
Coming Soon (#udf82a35e-928b-505c-8ff1-d86d06f86dce)
About the Publisher (#u6276376b-c793-503c-ba0d-1e65f0c84fdd)
For Hannah, Nadine, and Shane – in no particular order.
CHAPTER ONE (#u5a2f783a-f348-56b8-8fee-8a7491880d30)
Wedding cakes have always fascinated me. When I was a young girl, they’d be the centrepiece of any drawing I fashioned up in school. Big ones, small ones, plain white ones with that awful marzipan icing, or the ornate beauty of a royal fairy tale. I marvelled at television programmes that featured cakes; each one of them a work of art. Someone had spent hours toiling away in a kitchen, hair in a net, poring over finer details of lace, ganache, height, and taste.
Now that job was mine.
As a baker, it was almost a shame to see your work sliced and served in greasy paper bags at the end of a long night. I’d woken after countless events to find a squashed slice of chocolate mud in the bottom of my handbag. I hated to think of wedding cakes ending their life like that, but I also loved seeing them enjoyed.
The history of the wedding cake was simple, stretching back to the time of Arthur and Camelot. Wealth, prosperity, fertility, and good luck were all said to come from consuming said baked delight. For me? It was all about the art. Was the icing set? Did I get that flower just right? What about the topper? Is the cake even cooked? Never mind the brides they were designed for.
Today, my bride was Edith. Keeper of chickens and knitter of ugly sweaters, she lived exactly four houses away from me in our not always quiet country town of Inverleigh, ninety minutes south-west of Melbourne. It was home to exactly one pub, one general store – which served as bank, post office, chippy, and advice line – a restaurant that closed twelve months earlier, and a football team. In two hours’ time, Edith was marrying Barry – a not-so-handsome football player with a thrice-broken nose and a penchant for homebrew strong enough to blind even the most seasoned of drinkers.
‘Are you listening?’ Edith’s screech verged on delirium.
‘I am absolutely listening,’ I said, hearing her bridesmaids cluck away in the background. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready?’
‘I am ready – I’ve been ready for hours.’ She yawned. ‘Is the cake still all right?’
The night before had been a last-minute panic over the cake being “too naked”, and whether I couldn’t “just add some more flowers”. I’d been at the florist at first crack of the door lock to get extra coverage, before dashing home to fill the gaps and please the bride. A quick dozen photo messages confirmed everything was in order, even if that cake now looked like it had sprouted a pubic region somewhere towards its front.
‘It’s beautiful.’ I smiled.
Sitting on the turntable in front of me were three layers of white chocolate and citrus mud deliciousness. A semi-nude cake, it was iced in soft lemon-gelati-flavoured meringue buttercream, and adorned with a selection of native flowers. Pink waratahs sat with golden wattle, grey-green eucalypt leaves and their gumnuts. I stood back and admired it again to the soundtrack of a grumbling tummy. Perfect.
‘Do you think it’s bad luck?’ Edith interrupted my thoughts.
‘What’s bad luck?’ I asked.
In my bathroom, the shower stopped running.
‘The whole dead baker thing.’
Two days ago, Edith’s original baker dropped dead. Just like that. I received a panicked phone call at one o’clock in the morning, asking if I could please, please, with extra money on top, resurrect my baking career to help her. It had been almost three years since I’d fashioned anything more than a birthday cake, but I was more than happy to help. So far, it was looking like a success.
‘Honestly, Eds, the only person it’s bad luck for is your baker, and his family. You and Barry are going to be completely fine. You’ll put your dress on—’
‘I’ve already got it on.’
‘Okay, so you’ll turn up, you’ll say your vows.’ I pulled lace curtains aside and looked out the kitchen window. ‘The weather is stunning, by the way. It’s a lovely Friday, with a little bit of sun and not too much wind. You’re going to have an amazing day, surrounded by friends and family. It’ll be one big eating, drinking lovefest.’
‘You’re right. Of course, you’re right.’ She breathed deeply into the receiver. ‘Okay. I’m going for photos now. I’ll see you there. Please, please don’t drop it.’ She hung up before I could get another word in.
I put my phone on charge, and walked into the bathroom to find Seamus buried under a cloud of shaving cream. Butcher to my baker, he’d been a trade-show find six months earlier. While I’d been wandering around, thinking I should buy a new stand mixer and considering my life path, he rounded the corner with an armful of carving knives, a headful of unruly auburn hair and bottle-green eyes. One drink had led to another, we’d discovered mutual friends, and slowly, but surely, started dating.
‘Everything okay, Pet?’ His Irish lilt was muffled by the soft white clouds that sputtered towards the mirror.
I pulled my blonde hair into a loose bun and leant closer to the mirror, poking at the new lines under my tired brown eyes. Baking, huh? ‘Yeah, all fine. Just need to deliver it, and hark, the herald angels sing.’
‘Good.’ He grinned, razor gliding through foam. ‘At least she’ll stop calling at all hours.’
‘She’s allowed to call at all hours. She’s my friend, she’s a client, and she’s stressed.’ I paused, arms in the air, bobby pin poised.
‘I’m just saying. Eleven o’clock on a Thursday night.’
‘And it’s completely fine,’ I stressed, agitated. ‘I need the money right now.’
As I walked away, he mumbled something just quietly enough that I couldn’t hear. I ignored the call to argument and closed the bedroom door. A grey pantsuit I’d dangled from the back of the door last night now hung limply from the door handle, and had been dragged across the floor. Really? Right now? I brushed the dust and lint from the bottoms and hoped for the best.
‘Oh, I got that magazine for you, too. The Gourmet Chef?’ he asked.
‘Gourmet Traveller?’ I tugged at my shirt.
‘Yeah, that might be the one.’ Seamus knotted his tie. ‘Something like that.’
The magazine he was talking about had already made its way to the floor of the lounge room, discarded the moment he walked through the front door. Not a moment later, as I waddled towards the front door under the weight of a cake, snapping at Seamus as I went, I kicked the magazine under the lip of the couch, and hoped for the best.
Unloading and transporting cakes is no different when they’ve been made for friends. In fact, it’s even more nerve-racking. While I resembled something close to awake, with my suit sorted and a dab of make-up, I struggled between keeping the cake upright, and trying not to kill Seamus as he sped along Winchelsea Road towards the reception venue. The road was far from safe, one lane of dusty orange gravel or knobby bitumen most of the way, twists and bends, oncoming livestock trucks, and a driver who was hellbent on getting to his destination as if he were piloting a live-action Mario Kart game.
Edith and Barry’s wedding reception was to be held in the function room of the very fancy, newly renovated Barwon Park Mansion. An 1870s bluestone building situated fifteen minutes from home, it was blessed with sweeping views of the grassy plains around it, and was the picture-perfect location for a country wedding. Perfect except for the corrugated gravel road that covered the last few hundred metres of the drive. If I could keep the cake from being smeared on the windscreen, I would die happy.
‘Do you want help?’ Seamus opened my door for me after we arrived.
‘Not treating the drive here like a go round a rally track would have been a great help.’ I huffed, sending a loose lock of hair outward in a cloud of frustration.
‘Right.’ He pursed his lips, eyebrows raised to the sky. ‘I’ll just go, then, if you’re going to argue.’
I couldn’t be bothered fighting, not now. ‘I’ve got this. Go and grab some seats.’
People were already arriving, an hour before the ceremony, which would take place under a marquee in the front gardens. Workers scrambled to add finishing touches to hessian bunting, gloss-white wooden fold-back chairs, and native flowers that hung from the end of each row of chairs. Tall eucalypts, grey and white, swayed in the breeze, offering up loose leaves and gumnuts that pitter-pattered like rain as they landed on the white tarpaulin roof.
I carried the cake along the gravel driveway, sidestepping up the front stairs like a crab, and in through the heavy door with the wedge of a foot and heave of a shoulder. The foyer revealed a wide sprawling staircase covered in red velvet carpet, a sign of the original owner’s wealth.
‘Hello?’ My voice echoed off marble statues and oil paintings of disapproving previous tenants.
No response. It seemed the building was empty, as was an ornate frame that would soon declare: “Edith loves Barry”. Every moment I stood, I became increasingly aware of the weight in my arms. Cakes were a little like babies in that the longer you held them, the heavier they felt. It was another reminder of how out of practice I was with this baking business.
A pot rattled in a far corner, so I followed the noise along a hall like Alice down the rabbit hole. Around a dark corner, a sign warned of a private function. Before I reached the kitchen, which smelt like the best roast beef I would ever eat, I was cut off by a woman who zipped past quicker than The Flash.
‘Hello!’ I stuttered.
‘Oh, the cake. Thank the gods. I thought you’d be here earlier.’ She threw her hands in the air, and a clasp of grey hair escaped her bun. She tucked it behind her ear. ‘I’m Sally, and I’m running the show today.’
‘Lucy Williams.’ I smiled. ‘Where do you want it?’
‘You really want to know?’ She scoffed, looking more 1800s housekeeper than event manager. Her dark pinstriped shirt was twisted and stained, and sweat patches leached from her underarms. ‘Sorry, it’s been one of those days.’ After more mumbling about brides, overextended budgets, ridiculous cakes, and awful caterers, she pointed me towards the next hallway. ‘There’s a small stand by the bridal table. I’m sure you’ll see it. Just let the catering team know. They’re getting the room ready now, but they’re bloody late, too, aren’t they?’
Without the usual throng of weekend tourists, the old halls felt empty and a little bit naughty. It reminded me of days when, as a child, I’d experienced my school devoid of other students, on nights and weekends when Mum was busy preparing teaching notes. I took a left, and a right, before I found the reception room.
Bluestone walls enclosed barn doors at the opposite end of the room, which was flooded with bright natural light, though festoon lights were strung across the room. Like the marquee, the walls were decorated with bunting, and the centrepieces matched the floral theme, making sure the room smelt like a Sunday walk in a national park.
Placing the cake by the bridal table soon became an early highlight of the day. The sweet relief on my arms coupled with a quick mental download. I’d made it, no dropping, no cracking, and no incidents. To celebrate, I snapped off some social-media-worthy photos, both to show off on my Facebook page and, also, in the odd event I felt spurred on to take up baking again. From above, below, side-on, and close-ups of the flowers, I took so many, I half expected the cake to make a duck-face at me and tell me to get a life.
Satisfied, I scrolled through my photos as I left. Reaching for the door handle, it swung open onto me, sending me scuttling backwards. That would teach me for having my head buried in a screen.
‘… and make sure the napkins are folded properly, too, not like last time.’ A man buzzed past me like an unwelcome memory, a mosquito on a summer night.
‘Yes, chef.’ Standing by a table, a teenager fiddled with silver cutlery that clattered to the ground in a display of nerves. He swore, and grabbed a fresh fork from his apron, which bore a gold “M” against the black fabric.
‘We should be ready by now. You should be in the kitchen helping with prep, not going over this again.’
‘Yes, chef.’ With each answer, a small part of the boy’s soul ebbed away. I’d been in his situation before – anyone who’d worked in hospitality had. It made me want to strangle the man responsible, the one who’d almost bowled me over. My only problem was, I recognised him – too well.
I knew his voice, and every possible incarnation it could take. The happy, the sad, the surprised, and the midnight whispers. I knew the tuft of black hair on the back of his neck and how it curled slightly to the left. The rest of his hair wound around itself like Van Gogh’s ‘Starry Night’ when it got too long or wet. Without tiptoes, he could peer across the top of my refrigerator, and had done so many times looking for lost recipe sheets or keys.
The shape of his body had been burnt into memory, useful when trying to pick someone out in a crowd. So had his eyes, a neon blue that made it look like someone had scrawled on his face with Hi-Liter. As quickly as he made his entrance, he turned and made a beeline for the kitchen door, blustering along without so much as a glance in my direction.
‘Don’t just stand there,’ he snapped. ‘Do what you need to do and go. We’re busy.’
It took me a moment to realise he was talking to me. Had he not seen me at all?
‘Is this how you operate now, Oliver?’
God, he was still so beautiful, as much as it pained me to admit. He wore a black double-breasted uniform that pinched across broad shoulders, complete with the familiar “M” stitched into the breast in fine gold thread. His apron was covered in kitchen detritus. While he’d always been confident, there was added fire behind those eyes, a purpose in his soul. It was no wonder he had restaurant critics eating out of his hand. And yet, underneath it all, teenage vulnerability lapped below his concrete surface, if only you knew what to look for.
Oliver stopped, his body rigid as if on pause. He turned to me slowly, a confused frown lining his face. I felt like he’d reached into my chest and ripped out my still-beating heart. I expected that, somewhere between here and the door, he’d wave it around his head in victory, before taking a bite and spitting it out in disgust.
We hadn’t seen each other in three years. We hadn’t spoken in eighteen months.
‘Lucy.’
I swallowed. ‘Oliver.’
‘Lucy,’ he repeated nervously. ‘How … how are you? Are you well?’
I nodded. ‘Fine, thank you. You?’
‘I’m, yeah, I’m okay.’ He nodded.
‘This is … this is a surprise.’ And one I could have strangled Edith for right now.
‘You could say that, yes.’ He chuckled nervously, looking over his shoulder again. This time, at my cake. ‘One of yours?’
‘It is.’ I rubbed sweating palms on my pants. ‘Issue with the original baker, so here I am.’
‘Rough luck,’ he said quietly, looking behind him again. ‘It looks incredible, Lucy. You’re still unfairly talented. What is it?’ He walked across to the small distressed wood table. ‘Naked is the new black, isn’t it?’
‘Thank you.’ I’d be lying if I said the praise didn’t hit me in the sweet spot, even after all this time. ‘It’s citrus mud with lemon icing.’
‘It’s gorgeous.’ He leant in to look at the finer details.
I stepped forward cautiously. As proud of it as I was, I didn’t think it was overly intricate, but Oliver seemed intent on inspecting it from all angles. It felt like an hour had passed before he stood back and looked at me.
‘Are you … are you well?’ A nervous Oliver was like Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket. You knew there was one out there somewhere, but you’d be hard-pressed to find it without some serious legwork.
I felt my tongue brush against my lips, my mouth sandpaper dry. ‘You’ve already asked that.’
‘I have. Right. Of course.’ He looked stuck between wanting to flee and trying to think of something else to say.
As for me, flight mode had well and truly kicked in. ‘Okay. So, I’m going to go now. See you later, I guess.’
‘Luce, wait.’ He held out a hand. ‘Stay for a drink.’
I froze on the spot, hand clutching the door handle. We watched each other silently. Seconds stretched to minutes, and Oliver looked more hopeful than he had right to.
‘Why are you here?’ I asked.
He shoved his hands in the pockets of his apron and rocked on the balls of his feet. ‘Catering Edith and Barry’s wedding.’
‘And she picked you?’
I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw the corner of his mouth twitch. ‘Barry got in touch a few months ago, asked if I was going to be in town. I wanted to come back and sort a few things out, and we all know he has a bit of cash to burn through, so here we are.’
‘Here we are,’ I repeated, scratching my forehead. Somewhere in the back of my brain, an Oliver-shaped headache was forming. ‘Are you in town long?’
‘Maybe.’ He brushed over my question as if in a job interview, no reaction either way.
‘Right.’ I turned to walk away.
‘Lucy, stay. I’ll make coffee.’
I remember making the same request of him once upon a time. Stay, have a pot of tea, talk. I chose not to remind him. ‘Can’t stop, gotta go. See you later. Wedding thing. Have a great day, chef.’
I walked so quickly I would have been disqualified from Olympic gold for having both feet off the ground. Not until I’d locked myself in the toilets and sat down on the lid did I exhale. I fired off a text to my best friend, Zoe, confident she was the only one I trusted with this information.
Help. Oliver is here.
Hey?
MY HUSBAND OLIVER.
Yes, I know who he is.
I’m currently locked in toilets.
Practising breathing.
Oh. Shit.
CHAPTER TWO (#u5a2f783a-f348-56b8-8fee-8a7491880d30)
Oliver Murray and I met as pimply fifteen-year-old apprentices. Employed by the same artisan baker, we’d spent early mornings kneading dough and lifting flour bags, and later nights studying. When I split off to study and work patisserie, he became a chef. The night we celebrated his graduation was the night he asked me to marry him.
A week before our wedding, catering and drinks supplied as favours by friends, we moved into an old miner’s cottage in Inverleigh. Even though it meant moving away from family, real estate was cheap, and our home fitted our budget. The kitchen was small, enough space for one, and blended with the dining area. A cosy lounge kept two recliners, and the front of the house was skirted by a rickety old veranda that had once been shades of grey and white. Panels needed replacing, and the iron latticework needed painting but, for us, that only added to the charm.
The bathroom doubled as a laundry, and the bedroom was only big enough for a double bed and standalone wardrobe that looked like Madame de La Grande Bouche. But it was ours, and we loved nothing more than nights and weekends cooking new and wonderful recipes we’d picked up at work. I’m sure if you squinted, you could still see packing boxes in the background of our wedding photos.
Each morning, we commuted to Melbourne for work before most of the city was awake. Often, we’d take separate cars, because anything could happen with late shifts. After ninety minutes on the freeway, Oliver’s car would disappear towards Windsor’s, a five-star restaurant in Hawthorn. I would make my way up Spring Street to Mondial, a French café where I was already head of all things éclair and buttery pastry. The owners had been floating the idea of branching out and opening another site across town, putting me front and centre as the face of their brand. It was my first chance to make my own name around Melbourne. Windsor’s, however, had other ideas.
When they offered Oliver the role of head chef, he knocked them back. Even though he’d worked hard, he had always wanted his own restaurant. It was the next item on his bucket list. Windsor’s came back with another offer, one he couldn’t refuse. They gave him enough funding to put his name in lights with his own eatery. The catch? They wanted a European expansion, and he was their excuse. Oliver had to open in or near Paris. No choice.
At first, we talked about our options, looked at the costs involved in moving our life across the world. Asking turned to reasoning, travel brochures, and language guides scattered around the house. When none of that worked, frustrated arguments popped up to scratch away at us. I argued that Windsor’s should test a Melbourne-based business first. Why jump headfirst into the French countryside where we knew no one? But, no, the investors were adamant on France, and sold on Oliver.
That left me two options: stay, and continue to build on a promising career, or pack up and follow him across the world with no guarantee of anything.
I stayed behind.
Six years of dating and nine years of marriage disappeared down the street in the back of a yellow cab, three weeks after Oliver’s thirtieth birthday party. I had no option but to start again.
‘Are you okay, Pet?’ Seamus leant in.
I was so lost in thought that I’d missed most of the ceremony. I’d sat down, said hello to my parents and, after that, my brain raced down memory lane like a Le Mans driver headed for the finish line. Left turn here, right turn there, careful of the hairpin, give way to the oncoming freight train going through Emotion City, and I pulled up in time to see Barry kiss his bride.
Seamus gently nudged my side. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘Hey?’ I asked.
‘You look distracted.’
‘Just worried about the cake,’ I said. It might not have been entirely true, but it was the first thing that came to mind.
‘I’m sure it’ll be fine. You did a good job. I don’t know why you spend all day in a school canteen.’ He lifted my hand to his mouth and offered a damp kiss. The hair on my arms bristled.
‘Because I have bills to pay,’ I whispered. Seamus let go of my hand.
Edith and Barry took their first jaunt down the aisle, emerging into the sunshine of the garden to be showered with rice, confetti, and all manner of environmentally unfriendly wedding treats. Like a leaky tap, everyone followed, and stood around looking busy while the bridal party posed for photos around the property. Was it polite to look for the bar so soon?
Then again, being near the bar meant wandering inside and involved dealing with Oliver who, watching from the back of the pack, was already inching his way inside. When the door clapped shut behind him, I breathed a sigh of relief, hoping he would disappear into the confines of the kitchen, and stay there for the evening.
Canapés and drinks around the marquee morphed into the splashy beginnings of a reception. Bodies crowded around the small frame in the foyer to find table numbers and, before we could lift our glasses in celebration, we’d witnessed a grand entrance, heard the MC’s introduction, and had moved directly into the first speech of the night. Each table was adorned with the shiniest cutlery, sparkling glasses, name cards, and a selection of red and white wine. I reached across the table for a red and knocked over my name card in the process.
Scribbled in its apex, in bold black lettering, a phone number. I snatched the card up quickly and tucked it into my breast pocket. My heart leapt into my throat as I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. Thankfully, Seamus was busy chatting up the girl to his right. To my left, Mum was busy trying to tell Dad he was using the wrong glass. I could hear blood rushing through my ears and the bass drum of my heart picking up speed.
If I’d hoped Oliver would stick to the kitchen, I was sorely mistaken. It seemed he enjoyed leading by example, being a hands-on boss. He visited tables, helped serve meals, and stepped in to clarify allergy information. There was a collective gasp of recognition that rose around the room when he first emerged with plates balanced on forearms. A celebrity was about to serve dinner. Beside me, I thought my mother was about to collapse from excitement.
‘Lucy.’ Her fingers gripped my arm like a hawk with a salmon.
I braced. ‘Yes?’
‘Is that … no … Oliver?’ If she made her pointing more obvious, I was going to have to buy her a spotlight. Oliver zipped past the table again, leaving the kitchen door swinging, and Mum’s mouth slack with shock. I felt Seamus wriggle about uncomfortably next to me.
‘Yes.’ I cleared my throat. ‘That’s him.’
Again, she gasped. It was scandal, delight, pure bliss. If she were a computer game, her lives would have been at full strength, victory music tinkling as she prepared to take on the world.
‘Hang on, wait.’ Seamus looked at me. ‘You mean to tell me that’s the guy who left you?’
I nodded.
‘The one you were married to?’ He stopped himself with a pointed finger. ‘Sorry, are married to.’
My marriage was something we hadn’t spoken about in depth. I’d tried, but conversation was shut down, or the topic changed. Oliver had been mentioned as the husband who’d left, gone on to other things. What I hadn’t stated was that he’d gone on to conquer restaurants, magazines, Michelin stars, and was more than a little bit famous – as witnessed by all the mobile phones pointed in his direction as he moved around the room with plates and, at one point, stopped to pose for a selfie.
‘Are you kidding me right now?’ Seamus glared across the room. If he were a meme, he’d be screaming, ‘Fight me.’
‘Seamus, leave it alone,’ I grumbled, embarrassed.
‘Leave it alone?’ He turned his anger to me. ‘Firstly, this was something important you hadn’t told me.’
I hadn’t told him because he’d always shut me down and, well, even my mum thought it impolite to talk about Oliver in front of him. God knows why.
‘It’s really not.’ I watched as Oliver disappeared into the kitchen, laughing with a waitress. ‘It’s not detrimental to us.’
‘Detrimental? This guy … you’ve made me watch him on telly. You’re unbelievable.’ He scoffed. ‘Did you know he was going to be here?’
‘No.’ Not technically a lie, not entirely the truth. I had, after all, only seen him moments before the ceremony.
‘Honestly, Lucy, I don’t know why you’re not still with him.’
‘Oh, Mum! That is so rude!’ My face seared with embarrassment. Dad reached across the table, plucked a bread roll from the basket, and shoved the end in his mouth.
‘Thank you for that.’ Seamus scowled at her. ‘Really.’
She reached around and grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Now, don’t be like that, Shame-us,’ she said, over-pronouncing his name as usual. ‘You’re lovely enough, but I was so hoping Lucy could make her marriage work.’
I pressed fingers to my temples. ‘Kill me now.’
Entrées were an alternate drop of sticky maple ham with fig jus, and lemon-marinated prawns. They both looked delicious resting atop green leaves, and I was hungry enough to want either, despite my usual hatred of seafood. Today I wasn’t fussy. Seamus refused his plate of prawns.
‘Send it back. It looks like shite.’ He held a hand up before the plate could so much as dint the tablecloth.
I braced, waiting for the fallout. Looks were exchanged around the table, which was full of strangers, thrown together like some late-night speed-dating exercise. Normally, at a wedding, that’s a perfectly wonderful opportunity to meet, network, and exchange ideas. Only, tonight those ideas felt more like dirty laundry. Our waiter, a perturbed-looking teenager, disappeared back to the kitchen without another word.
Tables around us clattered and chattered, the noise rising to a crescendo of excitement as entrées became mains. It was under this umbrella of noise that Oliver made his way across to our table.
‘Problem with the entrée?’ he asked, a solid hand placed on the back of my chair.
‘Fuck off,’ Seamus grumbled.
‘Good to see you, Lucy. You’re looking well.’ Oliver offered up a plate. ‘Are you still allergic to seafood?’
‘What?’ Seamus stood, sizing him up. ‘She’s not allergic.’
‘No, you’re right, but she doesn’t like it, does she?’ Oliver placed the beef in front of me, seafood in front of Seamus. ‘If you tell the kitchen you’re allergic, you’re not going to be served it, are you?’
Seamus, a permanent frown now set on his face, glanced at me, at Oliver, and back again.
Oliver extended his hand. ‘Oliver – it’s good to meet you.’
‘Shame I can’t say the same.’ Seamus refused to shake hands.
‘I’m just here for the food.’ Oliver patted him on the shoulder. Seamus flinched. ‘No need to get antsy.’
Mum watched on gleefully, hoping Oliver would somehow white-knight me, perhaps sweep me away in a flurry of mashed potato and daydreams. All I wanted was to get through the night without it devolving into a fiery pit of who was right, who was wrong, or who was the better cook. As Oliver walked away, Seamus leaned in for an over-the-top, attention-grabbing, beer-infused kiss. As if I wasn’t already feeling claustrophobic and uncomfortable.
‘Who picks fish for a wedding anyway?’ Seamus pulled his seat in. ‘What a joke.’
‘Seamus, please.’ I looked at him.
‘What?’ he asked. ‘It’s true. And I can cook better than this.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Okay?’
I huffed. ‘Yep. I’m agreeing. You can cook better than that.’
He couldn’t. It was one thing to debone an entire carcass of meat. It was another altogether to be able to cook it, and burnt steaks weren’t my idea of a good time. He reached across and gave my knee a squeeze, satisfied grin pinching at his eyes.
Mum’s plate had barely been cleared off before she barrelled Oliver into a corner. One minute she was eating, the next she was spilling secrets quicker than a Japanese fast train. With frown lines and his teeth dragging at his bottom lip, Oliver fixed her with a gaze that said he was drinking in every single word she had to offer. As for Seamus, he’d disappeared into a cloud of footballers by the bar. They yelled, they cheered, they shattered a beer glass on the floor.
‘You all right, Kiddo?’ Dad looked at me. Despite the glazed look in his eyes – too much beer – I could sense a talk coming on.
‘I am fine.’ I tore my eyes away from Oliver, who was watching me over my mother’s shoulder.
‘You’re a great liar.’ He smiled his way around the room, waving at an old family friend.
Holding my glass steady at my mouth, I almost laughed. ‘I am not.’
‘That’s what I meant.’ He pointed at me with an almost empty bottle. ‘You and your mother get that look about you when you lie. It’s all distant gazes and short sentences. I say it’s great because I can spot it a mile off. Made your teenage years much easier.’
I returned his question. ‘Are you okay?’
He hiccupped. ‘I’m great. You know she’ll be carrying on about His Nibs for months now?’
‘No doubt.’ I dug around in the bottom of my handbag for my phone. Facebook was having a stellar night. Edith had already uploaded a photo of her cake, which was overflowing with likes, comments, and questions about who had baked it. Zoe was freaking out in sync with me, if her messages were anything to go by, and I had a friend request from someone in Nigeria. That was about as legit as my night was fun.
‘Are you really all right?’ Dad leant in to the table like it was the only thing holding him up.
‘Yeah, I’m okay.’ I took a deep breath and waved my phone at him. ‘Just a surprise, that’s all.’
‘Isn’t it just?’ He offered a gurgling laugh, like a bath plug being pulled. ‘What are you going to do about it?’
‘Nothing. It’s completely okay. People can choose whomever they want to cater. We’ll sort out what we need to sort out, and the sun will come up tomorrow.’ I grinned.
‘Buck up, Kiddo.’ He clapped a hand on my shoulder. ‘It’ll work out in the wash.’
Another glass shattered, tinkling across the floor. Victorious, Seamus departed the scrum and made for a microphone sat by the DJ’s station. He picked it up, inspected it, tapped it, and switched it on with a squeal that brought the room to a standstill. And then he climbed up onto the bridal table.
‘Good evening, friends,’ he began.
A slightly enthusiastic cheer rose from a clueless crowd.
‘Jesus,’ I groaned. If I could have slid further under the table, I would have. And where was the DJ? Nowhere. Toilet break, maybe. A DJ was absolutely not going to save my life tonight.
‘Hello, everyone. Would you like to hear a … no, don’t take it from me, I have a story to tell you,’ Seamus started, his voice echoing through the room. ‘Get away. I want to say some words for the bride and groom.’
A chill ran up my spine. On the list of stupid things he could do, this was going to be the one that took the cake – absolutely no pun intended. My heart raced like a hamster on a wheel. This wasn’t going to end well for anyone.
‘Isn’t the bride beautiful today? You look incredible.’ He smiled proudly, chest puffed out as the crowd clapped and cheered. ‘And how about the cake, huh? Beautiful?’
More cheering. Well, that was a plus I was happy to take.
‘… so, Lucy has made this cake, right. It looks great but, I mean, let’s be honest – it wasn’t hard. A bit of flour, eggs, and chocolate, and suddenly, she’s handing out business cards and calling herself a baker.’
Behind me, Oliver mumbled low and slow, ‘Fucking hell.’
‘… it’s hardly a talent.’ Seamus burped. ‘Come on. It’s just a bleeding cake.’
The PA squealed. I grimaced. Confused faces looked around the room, everyone trying to work out just who Seamus was directing his ire at.
‘It gets better, though.’ He laughed. ‘Did any of you know she’s still married? You know who to, right? That caterer who’s been racing around here all night. Beef, chicken, beef, fish. Fuck off.’
He burped. The crowd gasped in horror. Each time someone tried to grab at him, he darted out of the way. The DJ was still nowhere to be seen, having left the room with the quiet warbling of mood music set to Repeat: All. Next up, ‘(I’ve Had) The Time of My Life’ for five hundred points.
‘I mean, anyone who was halfway serious about her life would have sorted that shit out years ago, but no, not you, Lucy. No. I’m just the doorstop it seems. Just the toy. Well, you know what? Couldn’t care. Not bothered. He can keep you, poncing around all night like he owns the place. Gordon Fucking Ramsay.’
During a brief, pin-dropping silence, a small scuffle broke out, sound-tracked by a collective gasp. Despite efforts, Seamus was still standing on the bridal table, swaying like a flag in a breeze. One foot between a hurricane lamp and a bouquet of flowers, the other pushing a plate out of the way. Barry enlisted a small rabble and, when Seamus wasn’t looking, too busy flipping me the bird, they pulled him to the ground.
‘They’re probably still shagging … arsehole.’ His voice was muffled, but still loud enough for everyone to hear exactly what he’d said. ‘Urgh. Bitch.’
I was numb.
It had taken less than ten minutes for my life to turn on its head. Again. Seamus had always been a bit of a loose cannon. I could forgive the missed calls and unanswered text messages. The family dinners he skipped because he ‘forgot’ could even be overlooked. Life was busy, after all. We weren’t living together, and we all slip up from time to time. Swearing at my friend, her husband, and their kids was the start of the decline. This? This wasn’t just the straw that broke the camel’s back. This was an out of control dumpster fire.
Edith sat by the bridal table, looking mortified. Barry and his group of friends shoved Seamus unceremoniously out the back door with little more than a glass of water and zero sympathy. I couldn’t blame them.
The moment the volume rose again, I stood and slipped through the front door. As I rounded the side of the building and made for the car park, the opening beats of Queen’s ‘Another One Bites the Dust’ thumped from the speakers at each end of the dance floor. I wasn’t sure if it was clapping I heard as I walked away, or my brain farting in relief at the night being over.
‘Lucy.’ Seamus jumped up from a wooden log by the car.
I scurried past, feet crunching on gravel. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘Oh, no, Luce, I’m sorry.’
His words held no weight, likely as empty as every other garbage promise that had come from him in the last six months. Wind blew hair about my face, and I tried desperately to stop it sticking to my lip gloss. Clock that up to another fail.
‘You can collect your things tomorrow.’ I unlocked only the driver’s side while Seamus reefed on the passenger’s door. ‘If you’re not there by midday, whatever is yours is going in the bin.’
‘But I didn’t mean it, Lucy.’ He pouted. The cheek! ‘Come on, Sweetie, open up and let me in.’
The only thing I opened was my handbag, his wallet and phone still placed haphazardly atop of everything else. Aside from being a girlfriend, I’d become part-time carer when he couldn’t be bothered looking after his own belongings. The longer I sat in the car and thought, even as his tapping at the window grew louder, the quicker the cons outweighed the pros. I wound the window down, tossed his phone, keys, and wallet away, and drove off into the night.
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Belinda Missen
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 25.04.2024
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О книге: Life’s not always a piece of cake…Meet Lucy, master wedding cake baker, idealistic school canteen crusader, and someone whose broken heart just won’t seem to mend…Lucy is quietly confident that she has made the right choices in life. Surrounded by friends and family in a small country town, Lucy can easily suppress the feeling that something is missing from her life.But when a blast from the past arrives in the form of her estranged husband, international celebrity chef Oliver Murray, Lucy’s carefully constructed life begins to crumble beneath her like overbaked meringue.Is Oliver’s return all business or is it motivated by something more?A Recipe for Disaster starts long after most love stories would have ended, proving it is never too late to offer someone a second slice of cake or a second chance.Perfect for fans of Carole Mathews, Mhairi McFarlane and Carrie Hope Fletcher.