Belinda Missen - A Recipe for Disaster

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.

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?