A Recipe for Disaster

BELINDA MISSEN is a reader, author, and sometimes blogger. When she’s not busy writing or reading, she can be found travelling the Great Ocean Road and beyond looking for inspiration. She lives with her husband, cats, and collection of books in regional Victoria, Australia.

A Recipe for Disaster

BELINDA MISSEN

Also by Belinda Missen

A Recipe for Disaster

An Impossible Thing Called Love

Lessons in Love

One Week ’Til Christmas

Accidentally in Love

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: 2019-11-13

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

Also by the Author

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Acknowledgements

Coming Soon

About the Publisher

For Hannah, Nadine, and Shane – in no particular order.

CHAPTER ONE

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

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.