Belinda Missen - A Recipe for Disaster

‘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.