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.
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