About the Author

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.

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.

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

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

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

‘So?’ she asked.

I smiled conspiratorially. ‘So?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Definitely.’

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

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

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

Zoe rolled her eyes. ‘I call bullshit.’

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

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

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

‘Call his phone,’ Zoe had urged.

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

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

That was only eight weeks ago.

Zoe gave me a look of pity.

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

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

I grimaced. ‘He kind of was.’

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

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

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

‘On that point …’

She smiled. ‘Yes …’

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

‘This’ll be good.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Richard?’ I asked. ‘The principal?’

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

‘He does not.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘That doesn’t exactly sound like fun.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What do you want?’ I asked.

‘I’ve been thinking.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Hey?’

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

‘Can I come in?’

‘No, can’t say you can.’

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

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

‘Come on, Loo, for old time’s sake?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘It is?’ I asked.

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

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

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

I snorted. ‘We broke up.’

‘I’m sorry.’

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

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

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

‘How’s business?’ I asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I do.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOUR

Thomas the Tank Engine peered up at me from the passenger’s seat of my car. One pupil had slipped to the left, and the other had sunk down far enough that it looked like a booger. While I should have been cursing my last-minute rush job, I was too busy laughing to be too upset. I took a photo and sent it to Zoe.

I’m here, but Thomas looks a little absent.

Thomas is me right now.

Hurry up and get inside so we can laugh at it together.

Crouched beside my car, I reattached the eyes as best I could with the shake of a water bottle and a spare paintbrush. As I walked through the side gate and along the path, I was calculating how long it would be before I was able to toss my shoes aside and launch myself into the oversized blue and yellow jumping castle adorning the backyard. Any minute now, if I had my pick.

My theory that cake increased a person’s popularity was proving true as I navigated my way through a small sea of children. They followed me across the yard with their ruddy faces and half-drunk colas like I was the Pied Piper of Small People, yelping about how amazing Thomas looked and, please, when could they eat him? He did look brilliant now that his eyes were fixed. Zoe swatted the kids away like flies as she shepherded me inside.

‘Why didn’t you use the front door?’ she asked. ‘Save battling the kids?’

‘Oh, I heard you preferred the back door.’

Peter, her husband, snorted as he walked over to examine the cake.

‘He looks much less stoned than earlier.’ He clapped me on the shoulder and kissed my cheek before pushing a stiff envelope into my handbag. ‘You’re amazing.’

I shrugged. ‘He looks okay, yeah.’

‘Okay? Lucy, it’s wonderful,’ Zoe scolded. ‘Confidence, please.’

A small crowd of adults gathered around the cake, like it was baby Jesus in the manger. Instead of offering me any kind of rare gifts, they offered my cake to the Instagram gods. Photos were taken from enough angles to make a flip cartoon, and hashtags were liberally applied. I disappeared into the yard before anyone had the chance to corner me for conversation. Not that I wanted to avoid people, I liked people, but there was always someone who could make it cheaper, or who wanted to tell me it really wasn’t that difficult. If there wasn’t, we wouldn’t have entire websites dedicated to cake fails.

A trestle table by the back door offered up its finest childhood party treats. Rainbow-coloured fairy bread, unicorn cupcakes, homemade toffees, snack bags of crisps, Tetra Pak juices, and fun-size chocolates sat side-by-side with the obligatory cheese and biscuit plate for the adults. I grabbed a plate, piled it with one of everything and wandered aimlessly towards the grass.

School parents hung about like a live-action Guess Who? Among the crowd, was Carol from canteen. I giggled when I thought about how “Carol from canteen” sounded like a bad stage name. I tore the straw from my tetra pack and parked myself in front of a blow-up television screen at the opposite end of the yard.

My only companion seemed to be Emile, the birthday boy, who wandered over and launched himself onto my lap, threw his arms around my neck and kissed me thank-you for his cake. Instead of running off to play with his friends, like I hoped he would, he made himself comfortable and talked me through the second half of the Smurfs film.

Like all good levees, it took just one person to break the silence. One question about my cakes rolled into a price enquiry and, where one person started the discussion, others continued it in a small circle around me. Names and numbers were swapped, and notes were scribbled in diary pages. To some, it might not have meant much. To me, it meant everything. It was beginning to feel like the start of something fantastic.

‘So.’ Zoe sported an exhausted shuffle as she made her way towards me with a bottle of cola and two plastic cups. Her dark hair flopped out of its ponytail and clung to her forehead. ‘How’s your day been?’

‘Interesting.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Really? How so?’

‘Um, so, Oliver is opening a café in town.’

Zoe gasped. ‘That cheeky bastard. He’s got some form.’ Her head snapped around the yard.

‘What are you looking for?’ I asked, my eyes following the direction of her gaze.

‘I was hoping someone had abandoned their smokes.’ She nodded in the direction of the jumping castle. ‘Let’s go talk.’

‘Oh, I have been eyeing this up since I arrived.’ I kicked off my shoes and raced for the entrance.

‘I’m playing counsellor now. How do you feel about the Oliver situation?’ Zoe climbed in behind me. The cake had been cut, kids had spun out, and almost everyone had gone home. All that remained was the night sky, Zoe, me, and Peter trying to wrangle the kids inside.

We wibbled and wobbled about, teetering on the edge of collapse while yellow, red, and blue plastic warped and moulded to our bodies. Bouncing around distorted my vision like an acid trip in a kaleidoscope. I swayed, feeling somewhat disconnected from everything, while Zoe poured out some shaky plastic cups full of soft drink.

‘I’m angry.’ I sank back against the wall. ‘My thoughts have consumed me these past twenty-four hours. It’s wonderful for him because yay for success, but it just seems like such a … taunt. Like he’s rubbing his success in my face. Look what you could have had, Lucy.’

‘And?’ Her glance snapped up to me, her expression angry. ‘That’s not all.’

‘Well, why here?’ I asked. ‘Of all the sites he could have picked in the world.’

‘It’s almost like dangling the carrot?’

‘Exactly,’ I squeaked. ‘I mean, you’re still my wife, but you’re not because I ran away, but, hey, look, I’m back in town. By the way, I still have a fantastic cock.’

‘Well, he’s not wrong about that.’ Zoe glanced up quickly. ‘Not that I know about his cock, because I don’t.’

Cola fizzed in my nose as I tried to hold back a laugh. ‘I mean, I’m so ragey right now.’

The castle shuddered with her bounce. ‘Me, too.’

I joined her. ‘On the plus side, I had a few queries today.’

‘Good.’

‘I’d love to make more cakes like Thomas,’ I said. ‘But the idea of getting back into the fiddly, fancy patisserie stuff is so tempting, too.’

‘I just want to see you happy.’ Zoe tossed the cola bottle out of the jumping castle. It fizzed so hard the lid spat off and sprayed sugary drink everywhere. ‘If that’s with cakes, it’s with cakes. If it’s you and Oliver all over again, then Godspeed.’

‘What is happy, do you think?’ I asked.

‘Happy is having four crazy kids and a ridiculous husband who still doesn’t understand that cleaning the toilet is more involved than putting a Duck disc in it.’

I laughed. ‘Jesus. Olly wasn’t much better, and I’m sure Seamus didn’t know how to use the washing machine. He forgot clothes need to come out once you’ve hit the go button.’

‘I think you know you’re not fulfilled right now, but I’m worried about the slippery slide that having Oliver back might become, and you know I say that because I love you.’

‘Thank you.’ I tossed my cup aside and waited for her to do the same. ‘But, you’re right. I need to just move on and create my own success.’

‘That’s my girl!’ She threw her arms up in a cheer. ‘You’re opening a cake shop!’

I looked across at her. ‘I don’t know. Right now, I think no.’

‘What do you truly love?’ She pushed me over in a squealing mess. ‘Besides me, of course.’

‘Memes.’ I rolled about the floor laughing.

‘Penis, yes, good answer.’

‘No, I said memes.’ I laughed.

‘Oh.’

‘But, seriously …’ I wriggled about and looked up at the sky. It could have been a shooting star; it could have been a satellite, the International Space Station, or David Bowie floating about in space. Whatever it was, a tiny blip hurtled across my line of sight. ‘I need to get back to me.’

‘I think you know what you need to do, then.’ Zoe slid down the wall, bouncing once, twice, three times into stillness.

CHAPTER FIVE

In complete contrast to my marriage, my parents had been married for forty-five years, even though they were chalk and cheese. Dad was drier than the Simpson Desert. His humour often flew over most people, including Mum, who was fruitier than an apple orchard in spring. The important thing was, it worked for them.

Their home, in an overpriced Geelong suburb, was a forty-minute drive from me. It overlooked a football stadium with lights so bright anyone within a ten-kilometre radius could perform surgery at midnight. Photos of grandchildren in mismatched frames clung to every surface, often competing with random biscuit tins for attention. My high-school photos still graced the desk in their study, as did a pocket-sized photo of Oliver and me at my eighteenth birthday party. Why? It was the awkward braces and ponytail phase. Why did anyone need to be reminded of that?

As much as I didn’t want to keep talking about the mess my life had become, Mum managed to squeeze all the juicy bits out of me before I’d so much as smelt my first whiff of roast dinner. Yes, Seamus was gone. Yes, I had seen Oliver. No, there was nothing happening there.

‘But isn’t it wonderful he’s back? And a new café! I want to be there on opening day.’ She hugged me with way more excitement than was warranted.

Dad and my older brother, Iain, looked at her like it was time to have her committed. For the record, I didn’t disagree. I unpeeled myself from her clutches and dropped my bag behind the couch. Barrel the cat, named so for resembling a keg on legs, lifted a sneering face in my direction before curling back in on himself.

While I had been busy learning to bake, Iain had set himself up with a web design and social media business. When I left the food industry, Mum had tried to get him to give me a job, but it wasn’t something I was interested in, and he was dead against the idea anyway. It was his business, not mine. What was my business was stopping his kids climbing on me like I was a Ferris wheel. I offered the three of them cupcakes I stole from Zoe’s in exchange for being left alone. It worked, and they were soon nattering away in the next room.

‘They love you.’ Iain offered me a stern “please be nice to my children” look.

‘Yeah, well they scare me.’ I grabbed a seat at the dining table. ‘I don’t want my own, let alone anyone else’s.’

‘They’re family.’ Sat next to me, he stretched out like a cat, overly long typist’s fingers scratching at his blond hair.

‘And a very lovely family.’ I smiled. ‘I love them, very much, from a distance.’

‘Wait until you have your own.’ Mum dithered about and slammed the door of the oven.

If I rolled my eyes any harder, they would’ve popped out of my head and made like marbles across the floor. ‘I’m not having any. Quite happy as I am.’

‘Good choice.’ Iain craned his neck towards the wine rack and plucked out a bottle of red, which he offered me with a look that begged for approval. I gave him two very parched thumbs-up signs.

‘See, he says that, and he has the little crotch goblins.’ I couldn’t uncork the bottle quickly enough. Every single time there was a family gathering, which happened about as often as politicians tweeting sense, the topic of my lack of childbearing ambition was raised, and ended up with Mum crying about wanting more grandbabies. Oh, and my husband.

‘But with Oliver back,’ she implored.

‘No.’

Iain laughed. ‘I heard that. Talk about an awkward sandwich.’

‘There is no sandwich; no one is eating anyone.’ I waved my hands about. ‘I just need to sort things out and move on.’

‘I think you should ask him for a job.’ Mum nodded.

‘Hey?’ Iain asked, surprised. ‘No. I think she should move on and look after herself first. And the fact he’s been a right chop about it all. I mean, he cannot be serious, just blustering back into town like nothing’s happened and set up shop.’

‘You’re not wrong.’ Dad sat to Iain’s left. He held out a wineglass for someone to fill it for him.

‘Thank you.’ I chinked glasses with them both, grateful for some level-headed advice.

Somewhere in a past life, Mum must have catered for an army. There was enough food cooked to feed at least twenty people, though it might explain my love of food and catering. Spread between the kitchen bench and dining table were two different meats, potatoes, pumpkin, peas, gravy, fresh crusty bread, and sweet potato. That was all before she’d started on the sweets.

‘I thought Taylor would be here.’ Mum pulled her chair in and arranged herself. Napkin first, wine second, followed by a Himalayan salt mountain, and a pinch of pepper.

Iain swallowed an entire glass of wine in what appeared to be a single gulp. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘It seems I have a bit of news on that front.’

Every head at the table spun in his direction, not that the news could ever be good following a statement like that. It was the same gut-sinking feeling I got whenever someone said, ‘We need to talk’. Even the kids were quiet – their little legs ceased kicking at the sideboard long enough for the news to break.

‘Is she at work?’ Mum sliced into her potatoes. ‘She’s been working an awful lot lately.’

‘Taylor’s decided to enrich herself and her spiritual wellbeing with someone she met on a girls’ cruise last year.’

My shoulders sank. ‘Oh, Iain, I’m sorry.’

He shook his head. ‘Don’t be. It’s perfectly okay.’

‘But it’s not,’ I argued.

‘I promise you, it’s fine.’ His eyes darted nervously towards the boys. ‘It’s all very amicable and … happy.’

For the first time since I’d arrived, Mum was speechless. Iain and Taylor had only been married for what felt a hundred years. With her jet-black hair, Tipp-Ex teeth, and model physique, she’d been the shining beacon of light, bringing grandchildren and elaborate outfits to Christmas dinners since I was fourteen. I was still in my teens when they said their wedding vows on the blustery summer grounds of the Melbourne Cricket Ground. Sam, their oldest child, was almost twelve.

Iain’s marriage became the new topic of conversation, Dad ready to offer advice where he could, and Mum preparing to put an action plan into place. It was now Operation Save Iain and Taylor, instead of Resurrect Lucy and Oliver. The game of compare and contrast started. This wasn’t like Lucy’s situation; that didn’t happen with Oliver; that’s a new one; what are you going to do with the house; surely, she can’t have it? And on Mum went, unchecked and unstopped while Iain offered effusive answers and did his best to remain positive with the kids in earshot.

Selfishly, I was glad it had taken the spotlight off me.

More dessert than we could handle was wheeled out under the pretence of making us feel better. I guess sugar comas have their place: Christmas Day, Easter Sunday, and breakups. That was fair. I was more than over it after one of the boys knocked a coffee off the table and onto me. Using my stained clothing as an excuse, I packed up and headed home.

I’d never been so pleased to see the inside of my car. Ever.

Under the dim glow of the interior light, I dabbed at the stain with paper towels, tissues, an old T-shirt, anything unfortunate enough to be in the car and absorbent. Late-night talkback radio had picked up on the vibe, and was busy offering relationship advice. Open yourself up to options, it said. Don’t be bitter and closed off, but embrace change and new love. Ignoring that, I changed the station and drove off into the night, counting streetlights as I went.

My car wasn’t exactly my car. It was Oliver’s. Among the many things he hadn’t considered when he left was that I couldn’t sell a car that wasn’t legally mine. Every twelve months, the registration and insurance papers would appear in the letterbox, just to let me know the universe was still watching me. I’d stump up the money for another year, send it off for a service, and hope it kept running.

Tonight, my luck ran out. A train line crossed the highway about five kilometres from home. That crossing, at the top of a hill, would prove to be the death of my car. I’d made it over the rumble of the tracks when my headlights dimmed, engine powered down, and I rolled to a stop. No lights, no power, no idea.

I tapped at the fuel gauge. No movement. With a quarter of a tank left, that wasn’t my problem. The torch on my phone illuminated nothing more than the fact all four tyres were still inflated, and nothing in the engine bay looked out of order. There was no steam, no sound, nothing around me, except darkness. The sky was an inkpot, and the moon its silvery screw-top lid. It was so dark that, without streetlights, land blended with the horizon. I had one option: I had to walk.

I gathered my handbag and phone, locked the doors, and started the long walk home. One car zipped past, and then another. Did no one stop to help the lost and deserted any more? What was with that? It was late, almost eleven o’clock, and I was a lone female walking along the highway. I made a mental note that, barring a creepy clown suit or a sign that said ‘Free Sweets’, I would endeavour to help people on the side of the road in the future.

Eventually a car slowed to a crawl beside me. The passenger’s window wound down with an electric hum.

‘Lucy?’

Who else could it possibly be while I was schlepping my way along the highway? Bloody Oliver. I held my head high and kept walking. The car kept rolling alongside me.

‘What’ve you done?’ he asked, laughing.

‘I haven’t done anything. It broke down. Your stupid bloody car died.’

‘Get in – I’ll drive you home.’

I refused to look at him. If I couldn’t see him, he wasn’t there.

‘Lucy, for God’s sake,’ he called. ‘Get in the car. It’s late. I’ll drive you home.’

My heel snapped as I turned to lean in through the open window. Because why would anything go right tonight? Oliver regarded me with smug pleasure, quite like he’d expected his night to end like this.

‘Why?’ I asked.

‘Because it’s late.’ He tugged at his tie and shifted in his seat. ‘I will drop you home and you can pick up your car tomorrow.’

‘It’s your car, if you remember,’ I said. ‘You can fix it.’

‘Whatever, just get in.’

I considered his offer for the briefest moment, and hobbled away. I was still flame-throwingly angry with him. In the back of my mind, I willed my ankle to roll, just to round off a perfect night of entertainment for the masses. The horn sounded as the car pulled up with a click of the handbrake. Oliver climbed out and walked after me.

‘Lucy, I could do this all night,’ he called, arm pointing at his car like he was a game show model.

‘I don’t care!’ I replied over my shoulder, hobbling away at slow speed.

‘What’s so wrong with a lift home?’

I turned to him. ‘Are you kidding me right now?’

A truck blared its horn as it rumbled past, spraying us with pine splinters and burrs that flew from a trailer of fresh-cut logs. I watched its taillights disappear into the night. Yeah, that was a long walk.

‘It’s a genuine offer,’ Oliver continued. ‘You are in trouble; let me help. I want to help.’

‘I want you to leave me alone,’ I returned. ‘Get out of my life and leave me alone.’

‘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.’ He sighed heavily. ‘Thank you, Lucy. I should probably let you go – it must be cold outside.’

‘A bit, yes.’ If cold meant legs turning to icicles then, 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?

CHAPTER SIX

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 keep me on my toes.’

‘No, it’s good.’ I waved a hand. ‘It’s just been a big weekend.’

‘Mine was a madhouse.’ He shuffled papers, before handing me a menu. ‘So, the school council went through the new menu submissions Friday night last.’

‘I’ve been thinking about that.’ The menu I held wasn’t the one I’d produced, nor was it the one we’d been using this week. A sinking feeling settled in my stomach.

‘You have?’ he asked.

‘Well, not just the menu, really, the whole process.’ Talk, Lucy, talk. Sell it to him like you used to sell cakes.

‘Okay.’ That had caught his attention. Pen clicking, he leant in and opened to a page of his diary. I took a deep breath and jumped.

‘You can’t implement this. You discuss healthy eating in classrooms, and looking after our bodies, but then you pick a menu with doughnuts, cakes, slices, lolly bags, pies and pasties. Even if we’re offering apples, or a single grainy sandwich, I don’t know any kid who would pick the healthy option over a doughnut. Hell, I wouldn’t even pick the brown bread.’

Richard scribbled notes quickly. ‘Right.’

‘My menu is all healthy, low sugar, homemade, and it’s low waste, which helps the budget—’ I pulled out my phone to remind him.

‘Luce.’

‘—and it’s helping to promote the guidelines we teach. I’m really excited about everything it can do for us.’

‘Lucy. It’s been decided already.’

‘What?’ I asked.

‘We’ve already given this the go-ahead.’ He opened the document I’d emailed him. ‘Yours was described as … too much of a radical change.’

‘That’s not bad, though, shaking things up.’ I sat a bit taller. ‘It’s good. Change is good. Who Moved My Cheese? and all that.’

‘It’ll involve a lot of training,’ he reasoned.

‘Won’t somebody please think of the children?’ I joked. I was bombing, badly, a deflated balloon washing down a dirty drain somewhere.

‘Lucy, we can’t.’ Richard sat back. ‘As much as I admire your work, I just can’t. We’ve gone with Elouise for head of canteen, and this is her menu.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’m sorry, Luce. I know you worked hard on it.’

‘No problem.’ I nodded. ‘That’s understandable.’

‘Are you sure?’

Not really, I was about an inch away from throwing a shoe. ‘It’s fine, really.’

This was a sign.

Things had to change. After Edith’s cake and the breakup with Seamus, this was beginning to look a lot like bad luck arriving in threes. Except, if I chose to look at it differently, it was the universe lining circumstance up and pushing me in a direction that made me little bit tingly, excited, and a whole lot nervous. Making decisions on the spur of the moment was not my thing. In fact, it frightened the life out of me. However, people do like to tell us we should do something that scares us every day.

After sitting quietly for a few moments, Richard looking on as if he wanted me to say something, anything, I stood and handed him back the menu.

‘Richard, thank you for allowing me this job for the past three years,’ I said.

His face fell. ‘No, Lucy, that’s not what this is at all.’

‘That’s fine,’ I said. ‘But I think my time here is done.’

‘What?’

‘I’m probably ready to move on to other things, so it’s good timing, really.’

Richard wasn’t convinced. ‘Well, could we maybe catch up and talk about this over a drink? Outside the more rigorous confines of the school? I’m sure we could work something out.’

‘Perhaps not.’ I smoothed my shirt down and clasped at the door handle. ‘Goodbye … and thank you.’

Relief washed over me as I skipped out the front door. I felt like I now had all the time in the world, and a thousand plans to enact. I wasn’t worried, but excited. My brain was awash with possibilities. Recipes I’d once cooked regularly were flipping up on rotation like an old jukebox as I turned left down High Street towards the general store.

A jacaranda tree, which did its best to hide the local church, smelt sweeter and seemed a brighter purple today. Even leaf litter on wet and muddy footpaths couldn’t dampen my mood. Cars pootled past slowly, in and out of the farm supplies shop, and on towards the general store, where I was headed. I threw a few dollars over the counter for coffee and a newspaper, collected my mail, and headed home.

With a diary, pens, pencils, and paper, I spread myself across the lounge-room floor and scribbled out a rough plan. Not that it was hugely elaborate and, really, amounted to writing, “See what happens” on a piece of paper, but there were some things that needed doing.

One of the best things about this house was the kitchen. Small, yes, but it was functional, and we’d been able to secure a commercial permit about eight months before Oliver left. It had since lapsed, but I made a note to get everything operating again. If I was truly going to succeed at this cake business, I was going to need that first and foremost.

I called those who’d made enquiries, chatted about designs and dates and, soon, had a few bookings in the diary. The fact they were all friends, or friends of friends, didn’t bother me. After all, word of mouth was the best form of advertisement, good or bad.

Later that night, I woke to a knock at the front door. I’d fallen asleep on the floor, pencil in hand, pizza and garlic bread stuck to my cheek. A slice fell back into the box unceremoniously, and I scrubbed at my face with a napkin as I opened the front door.

‘Oliver.’ I stepped out onto the veranda, which creaked under foot. ‘Hey.’

‘How are you?’ He fiddled with an orange envelope in his hand. His hands were crusted with paint and stain, fingernails full of dirt.

I nodded. ‘Not bad.’

‘Were you sleeping?’ he asked, the briefest hint of a smile, pleased that he still recognised that look on my face.

I pointed at my face. ‘Pizza stuck to me. It’s great fun.’

‘Well, if you’re going to sleep with something, may as well be pizza.’

‘True enough.’ I smiled. ‘Thanks for the car, by the way, and the flowers – they were lovely.’

‘Ahh, you’re welcome. Have you used the car since?’

‘Yeah, when I grabbed dinner.’

‘Okay. Good. It was just the battery, nothing major.’

We stood about awkwardly for more moments than I wanted to count. I couldn’t think of anything to say, not after the last few days, and Oliver looked like he wanted to spit out everything that came to mind. He looked around nervously, and took a deep breath.

‘Look, I know things haven’t got off to the best start between us. I wanted to, I don’t know, give you a bit of space. I’ve been thinking about what you said to me the other night. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, actually.’

‘Me, too.’

‘You have?’ he asked.

I nodded.

‘Okay.’ He chewed his bottom lip and silenced the phone that rang in his pocket. ‘You mentioned divorce, so I went to my lawyers and got an agreement drafted up. I’ve also organised a lump-sum payment for you. As you rightfully mentioned, I haven’t done my part in the mortgage business. I want to make that right.’

‘Thank you,’ I said quietly as he passed the envelope over in a moment that was proving more emotional than I wanted it to. Or maybe that was the financial relief. I couldn’t be sure.

‘Don’t thank me – you make it sound like I’m doing the right thing.’ Again, he silenced his phone, this time switching it off completely. ‘How are you? I heard you quit your job today?’

I think I smiled. ‘News travels fast.’

‘I was actually thinking about that, too.’ Oliver reached up with his left hand, scratching behind his right ear, perfecting the look of pure innocence that often got him out of trouble. ‘You got a few minutes? Can I come in? Would that be okay?’

‘Sure.’

We sat across from each other at the dining table, one at which we’d always, always sat next to each other. I placed the orange envelope of destruction on the bench, out of sight, and out of mind, flicked on the kettle, and turned the radio on low.

‘Like I said, I’ve been thinking a lot recently. I know that money will help you, or at least I hope it will.’

‘It will, thank you.’ Elbows on the table, I leant my chin in the palm of my hand. ‘Help get some stuff fixed.’

Oliver nodded. ‘There’s something else.’

‘Oh?’ Right now, as I sat, I was waiting to be told he had a small army of children or some such coming to stay.

‘There’s a job for you at Murray’s. If you’re interested, that is.’

I cringed, and I think I recoiled involuntarily. ‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’

Oliver shrugged. ‘It’s certainly not my worst idea.’

‘I don’t think we should. I think we should just close this chapter off and move on.’

He took a deep breath and dropped his chin onto his chest, almost deflated. ‘I’m happy to hold off on the opening date to accommodate your needs.’

‘No,’ I said. A final push back to what would be the easy option. ‘I’m going to concentrate on my cakes, and see where that takes me.’

‘All right. Okay.’ Oliver wiped his hands on his pants and stood up. ‘You’ll get that paperwork back to me whenever you’re ready?’

‘Will do.’

‘Goodnight, Lucy.’ He stopped by the front door. ‘Good to see you.’

‘You, too.’

I didn’t move from my seat as he closed the door behind him, offered a brief wave, and slipped into the night. I picked up my phone and fired off a lunch request to Zoe. She’d know what to do.

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