A Recipe for Disaster: A deliciously feel-good romance. Belinda Missen
‘Is that what this is about?’ he asked. ‘Really? Is that really the problem? Because, as far as I can tell, getting out of your life is what started this, so doing it again will only cause more problems.’
‘Please enlighten me then, Oliver, because I have no idea what else it might be.’ I shoved both my shoes in my handbag and kept walking. ‘Oh, wait, maybe it’s that you’ve been here long enough to organise wedding catering. What’s that? Two? Three weeks?’
‘I’ve been here three weeks. I doubt you would’ve wanted me on your doorstep while you were busy with him.’ He got back in his car, slamming the door. It began rolling again. ‘Are you sure you want to walk the whole way home? We’ve done this once before, remember?’
As if I could forget. We’d had the same car an entire week before it first broke down. It lulled us into a false sense of security, then threw in a faulty fuel gauge for a Stephen King-esque three a.m. breakdown, complete with pouring rain and rogue lightning. The only saviour of the night was a hot shower together when we got home, though I think we broke the shower curtain, so it wasn’t a complete loss.
I’d like to challenge anyone complaining about stepping on Lego to walk one hundred metres down the Hamilton Highway barefoot in the dark. Not only were there rocks, but also twigs, broken bottles, and random litter thrown from cars, because bins are so last century. I stopped on the spot. Oliver yanked on the handbrake again.
‘Come on, Luce, I’m not trying to upset you. I just want to see you home safely. I do care.’
I threw my head back, dropped my shoulders, and looked at the stars. Of all my friends, I knew how to get myself into stupid situations more than anyone else. Climbing fences when lost on holiday? Check. Falling over and getting disoriented in a forest? Check. Oliver leant over the front seat and pushed the door open. When I hesitated, he pouted.
‘Cock.’ I tossed my bag into the foot well and got in.
A Mercedes Benz was certainly a step up from the busted Volkswagen that now sat impotent on the side of the road. He pulled back onto the road, but the further we travelled, in dead silence, the more I felt like a trapped cat. Struggling for breath, for independence, and needing to get away, far away from what was making my hair stand on end.
‘Lucy, can I ask you something?’
I harrumphed. Arms folded, face scowling. ‘No.’
‘Did you really google me?’
I glanced at him briefly. He was laughing. Lord help me, he was laughing. I could have punched that smirk off his face.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Oliver. Is that all you’re worried about?’ I shrieked, a little more wild banshee than I expected.
‘What? No! But you said you had, and I was just curious. I mean, you could’ve called.’
‘You could’ve not been a complete jerk.’
Silence.
Farm fences gave way to streetlights, the pub, the general store, and then our street. My street. I was opening the car door before we’d come to a standstill. Stepping up onto the veranda, careful to bypass a broken plank, I’d planned to make a silent getaway until my phone rang. An unknown number. Without a second thought, I answered it.
‘Hello?’ I said.
‘Will you look at me?’ Oliver asked. ‘Please?’
If my head whipped around any quicker, it might have snapped off, leaving me forever looking like a Pez dispenser.
‘Please don’t hang up.’ He held a finger up. ‘Can I have five minutes of your time to have a reasonably adult discussion?’
‘This better not involve phone sex.’
‘I’m game if you are.’ He laughed at his own joke until he realised I wasn’t. ‘No, no phone sex. Just talk.’
‘Okay,’ I answered quietly.
‘My name is Oliver,’ he said, palm pressed into his chest. ‘What’s yours?’
I took a shaky breath in. ‘I’m Lucy.’
For the first time tonight, I looked at him. Not just a passing glance while trying to ignore him, but a proper look. It had been so long since I’d seen him in a suit and tie that I’d forgotten just how good he looked. He wore classic black and white with perfectly styled hair like he was born for it. He was always going to be someone special in this world.
His whole body relaxed. ‘I like that name. You look lovely tonight. Have you been out somewhere?’
‘Family dinner.’
‘Lucky family.’
‘Maybe not so much,’ I joked. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Just catching up with friends I’ve missed. It was nice to see them again.’
‘I’m glad you got to see them.’
‘Me, too.’ He smiled gently. ‘What’s the stain on your dress?’
I looked down at the still-blotchy mark. ‘That’s coffee. My nephew spilt coffee on me.’
‘Sounds interesting.’
‘It was awful,’ I said. ‘So, what brings you to a small town like this?’
‘Well, it’s a long story,’ he started. ‘But, basically, it’s about a girl.’
‘Oh, one of them,’ I played, feeling a lump tickle at my throat. ‘I get it.’
‘I knew her a long time ago, and I think I ruined something precious.’
‘I’m sorry for that.’ And I was.
‘Me, too.’ His voice broke. ‘I met her when I was very young, and I loved her for a long time. Then, one day, I thought I was better than all that, and left without thinking of the consequences.’
‘That would have hurt her. Greatly.’
‘I’m sure it did. When I close my eyes at night, I imagine her face.’
‘What does it look like?’ I asked. ‘Her face?’
‘Beautiful. When she smiles, she lights up a room. Unfortunately, the last time I saw her she was uncontrollably upset, so I often see that, too.’
Wind whipped up and rustled trees. Oliver blurred in my vision.
‘Really?’ I squeaked.
‘Really.’
‘Have you spoken to her since?’ I dabbed at my eyes with a thumb.
‘I tried to, but I understand she’s still hurt.’
‘Maybe she’s been trying to sort herself out. Have you tried since?’
He peered down at the steering wheel, picking at something. ‘Do you suppose she’d want to see me? Maybe catch up for coffee and a chat?’
‘It might be too hard for her yet,’ I said. ‘Start small.’
‘Would you let your husband back into your life? I mean, what if I told her I was back for good?’
‘If it were me? I would tell you I never was a fan of Take That.’
Oliver laughed. I’d always loved the sight and sound of his laughter; it was both beautiful and infectious.
‘I imagine he’d be too hard to let go,’ I continued. ‘But too hard to trust.’
He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘How do you tell someone you’re sorry?’
‘Maybe you need to show them you’re sorry. After all, actions speak louder than words.’
‘Good advice.’