A Recipe for Disaster: A deliciously feel-good romance. Belinda Missen
yes, it was a wee bit chilly.
‘It’s been lovely to talk to you.’
‘Likewise,’ I said.
‘If you ever need me, you have my number.’
‘How do I know you’ll answer?’ I asked.
‘If you call, I will answer,’ he said.
‘Promise?’
‘I promise,’ he said. ‘I’ll leave when you’re safely inside. Goodnight, Lucy.’
‘Night, Oliver.’ I shoved the key in the lock. ‘Wait, wait, before you go.’
‘Yes?’
‘Thank you for the lift.’
‘You’re welcome.’
I ended the call and put my phone away. He waited. It wasn’t until the front door locked behind me that headlights swung across the front of the house and down the road. The first thing I did was check the back of the cupboard in the bedroom, my hands rustling around like a cat paw under a bathroom door until I found what I was looking for.
Buried deep in the confines was a tattered shoebox. I sat on my bed, on what had been Oliver’s side, and peeled through an archaeological dig of our history. On the very bottom, school reports and aptitude tests, photos of teenage friends and random parties. They gave way to photos of me as a fresh-faced apprentice, stills of moments that held the most wonderful memories.
There were photos and a certificate from that one time I beat Oliver to first prize at some community cooking competition. It felt like an entire shopping centre came to watch us. Goofy, starry-eyed graduation photos were buried by newspaper clippings. ‘Local baker donates to charity’, for me; a cake sent off to auction for a local returned services club. ‘Coastal cook apprentice of the year’ was Oliver’s headline. But, where mine ended, his continued. From the opening of the first Murray’s, to his first Michelin star, the random celebrities, and stratospheric ride, Oliver had gone from strength to strength.
At the very top of the pile were the recent articles. ‘Oliver Murray marriage shock’, followed quickly after there’d been some speculation about a model girlfriend. Photos of me looking not particularly appealing to anyone were printed in Technicolor for the world to see and analyse. And no good scandal would be complete without a copy of the wedding certificate. I’d never quite worked out who’d sold us out, though Oliver’s refusal to confirm and renowned refusal to talk about his private life made me feel like someone’s dirty secret.
So, the question screaming at me from the bleachers of my mind was: why the hell was he back? Why me? And was he really planning on staying?
When I woke the next morning, the Volkswagen was in the driveway. I sat up in bed and peered out the window. Magic, fairies, or Oliver had returned it with a fresh battery and a full tank of fuel. Rested in the valley between the windscreen and the bonnet of the car, a scrunch of white tissue paper.
Nestled among the tissue paper was a bouquet of pink camellias. A quick internet search will tell you they signify longing. What it won’t tell you is the story of my first flower – a pink camellia presented by a nervously sweating fifteen-year-old Oliver. It was my birthday – a whole six weeks younger than him – and it was the first birthday I’d had since we’d met. Never mind the fact I’d completely ignored his birthday.
It was the early days of brick phones, and he’d sent me a text late at night, asking me to meet him at work five minutes earlier. To this day, it was still one of my favourite memories, his face, the nerves, and the smile that broke out when I told him I loved it.
It soon became our thing, and each year proceeding warranted another flower, along with whatever gift he’d organised. Later, he admitted to stealing the first one from someone’s front yard. By the time we made it to our wedding, my bouquet had one pink camellia for each year we’d been together.
Stuffed between the flowers today, a card that read: ‘I’ve missed you’. I tucked the bouquet inside the front door and left for work, hoping like hell he didn’t swim around in my head all day.
Baking sugar-filled packet-mix muffins in a school canteen had not been what I’d envisaged for my life, but that’s exactly what happened about six months after Oliver left. With the rising cost of fuel, and suddenly looking after a mortgage on one wage, I had little option left but to find work closer to home. My solution popped up in the way of a four-day week at the local primary school.
Above all else, I loved the convenience of it. Gone was the daily three-hour commute. I could walk to work, which was bliss, and was back in my pyjamas by three o’clock each afternoon. As much as I didn’t want my own kids, I laughed at the sight of the lunchtime zombie apocalypse, students climbing over each other to be the first in line for food. But – there was always a “but”.
The menu was atrocious. Jamie Oliver wouldn’t just have a heart attack if he saw the type of food on offer. There was every chance he’d declare the four horsemen of the apocalypse arrived, and start a weird basil-infused cleansing ceremony on the doorstep of the school, all the while screaming at us to repent.
It wasn’t just pink sludge nuggets, but every other red alert food we were advised to avoid. I’d spent so much time reading about food guidelines I’d started ignoring my own pantry for fear a government official might jump from a shelf, wrap my house in an E.T.-style bubble, and declare it a health hazard.
Each night, I stank of deep fryer. The oily scent clung to my hair and clothes, and I was sure there was a small deposit of kitchen muck lodged up my nose. Not since I’d worked at McDonald’s as a teenager – an event that lasted all of four weeks before I got my apprenticeship – had I smelt this bad.
In my spare time, I’d created a healthier menu. It showcased homemade products and fresh produce, cut down on waste, and had the potential to turn the canteen into a profitable business. Currently, it ran at a huge loss. I’d spoken to the school principal, at length, even taking over an interview for the promotion to rail about my plans. What could I say? I was excited by the prospect of a bit of autonomy, a slice of creativity, and enacting change. I’d even wrapped my application with samples and a new, laminated menu I’d created.
When Richard summoned me into his office on the Monday, I bounced in ready for the good news.
‘Hey, Lucy.’ Richard pushed himself off a filing cabinet where he stood, reading, and walked to his whiteboard like a country boy on a catwalk.
Richard was everything you’d see in an R.M. Williams catalogue. He was perfectly styled strawberry-blond hair and designer stubble, overpriced plaid shirts and moleskin pants, topped with pointy-toed boots that had never seen a day’s work on the land. Looking at him, I wondered when moleskins got to be so tight? Jesus. It certainly wasn’t offensive, and he was popular with the school mums, but …
‘Come in.’
‘You rang?’ I asked.
He waved me in. ‘Come, come. Sit down.’
Good thing, too, because I’d been on my feet all day. I flopped into the chair opposite his desk like an inflatable air dancer at a car yard sale and threw my head back. Richard laughed and closed the door with a quiet click. His office was everything I remembered about being in school. Awards covered the wall, along with drawings, notes on the whiteboard, and a roll of scratch and sniff stickers on his desk. Grape was my favourite sticker.
‘How was your day?’ Richard breezed past and sat down. His chair squeaked as he leant back, arms behind his head.
I yawned.
‘I’m hearing you.’ He laughed. ‘It’s been one shit fight after another today. Parents here, broken windows there, throw in a few detentions just to