Belinda Missen - A Recipe for Disaster

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.