Chapter 3
THREE
So, what does working for an evil scion look like when they sponsor your work visa and force you to make cakes for them?
Pretty routine, as it goes. The doorman sees me on the approved visitor list again and takes me up to the penthouse.
On my first day back, there is a list of duties waiting for me on the kitchen counter.
What I must continue doing: stock the fridge with nutritionally dense smoothies.
What I must do with more frequency: stock the fridge with portion-controlled meals that score high on the nutritional index. These meals should have a transfer-over appeal between lunch and dinner.
What I must do whenever requested: make a new kind of cake.
The good news? Though I now only have one meal prep client, all tasks combined cover most of the wages I lost when fired.
By my calculation, paying rent is possible again—as long as I keep Luke Abbot happy.
There still isn’t enough money to escape my current living conditions and afford my dad’s treatment, but I am in no position to complain. Or to want more.
This is about maintaining the status quo.
After getting so abruptly fired, my appetite for risk is lost for the moment. All I want to do is go on autopilot for a while, not worrying about whether I should be making different decisions in life or if I am trying hard enough to follow my dreams.
Luckily, after getting through the first few days of work, status quo is palatable.
In fact, it’s better than Janice’s evening chores.
That’s because there are no encounters with Luke.
He’s one of those robots who leaves his docking station (erm, home) before the crack of dawn, and then doesn’t come back—at least not before my eight hours are done.
Meal-prepping is quiet, rhythmic, and peaceful.
Until the first cake demand comes in.
He texts me a directive at the start of my shift.
LUKE
Make a cake today before you leave.
All of a sudden, I freeze. My cake-making skills are why he re-hired me in the first place.
If I don’t deliver this request perfectly, it being delicious enough to sway any ornery business partners into pliable happiness, I might as well fire myself.
Because anyone can make smoothies, steamed chicken, and blanched asparagus twigs.
I provide Luke with none of my real cooking talents since his dietary requests basically equate to elevated baby food, but this?—
This is the true test.
Not wanting to fail, I ask:
ME
Is this request for the same business guests that liked my other cake?
Do they have a certain type of cake they want to taste this time?
LUKE
No.
ME
No what, exactly?
Can you give me a hint of what kind of cake you want?
When he doesn’t answer, I text again.
ME
Cooperation makes it easier for me to help you.
Ten minutes pass.
LUKE
Surely someone of your caliber shouldn’t need such guidance.
My hand knocks over a glass of water. Is he wanting me to fail? Is he saying I’m of high caliber sarcastically? Or genuinely? Must be sarcastically. So he’s thrown down the gauntlet, trying to see what I can come up with. I grab a towel to wipe up my mess, and type back one-handed:
ME
It’s called preferences!
Depending on the type of food these business partners naturally like, I can use that to my advantage. Not all cakes have the same appearance, aroma, taste, and texture. I can pick the perfect recipe with more information.
Do they prefer highly palatable sweets?
Are they concerned with caloric intake?
Do they like strong acquired tastes where savory toppings might be more appropriate?
The tongue can distinguish between sweet, bitter, salty, sour, and umami. If you combine all that with individual reactions to the senses of smell and touch, there are way too many variables to choose blindly from.
His response is short and cocky.
LUKE
How did you manage to put me to sleep in the middle of a director’s board meeting?
P.S. Chocolate.
My cheeks flame with indignity! Here I am withering with stress and he is being…cheeky? I think? What does it mean? Have I engaged in mental warfare with my new boss?
With that minuscule bit of very generic information, and after working myself into a tizzy, I pick Wuzetka, a traditional Polish cake.
The chocolate sponge cake is constructed of flour, eggs, sugar, butter, cocoa powder, whipping cream, rum, gelatin, and plum jam.
Chocolate icing made of butter, milk, and dark chocolate is poured over the entire top, and when the cake sets, the Wuzetka is cut into cubes.
Effectively, it is chocolate, chocolate, and more chocolate.
Every step of the process, I try to be perfect, spending as much time on the cake as possible. The back of my tank top is damp with sweat. I’ve never obsessed over a baked creation this intensely ever in my life.
After it’s done, the next few days are radio silence, so I’m left going back to my regular schedule of cooking, but anticipation and nerves have eroded any sense of serenity I might have experienced before.
Was my choice a good one? Did the Wuzetka work?
Are his business partners satisfied? Or did my baking not live up to the overblown expectations?
Do I still have gainful employment? Is this what sends me home?
A few more days later, I receive the following:
LUKE
Make another cake for Friday.
Is he serious?
Is that it? There is no feedback, no indication if he wants more of the same or anything done differently. Am I supposed to wait alone in his kitchen for marching orders, stressing and obsessing over every bake as if it’s my job on the line each time?
I fire off a reply without thinking.
ME
Anything else, my lord? I beseech myself on the foot of your altar and await further commands.
I’m getting fired for sure. I’ve taken it too far. Why did I have to be so honest and rash? Why can’t I be docile, sweet and superficially cooperative when it comes to Luke Abbot? While wondering whether I should follow with an immediate apology, my phone beeps.
He responded.
LUKE
Are you aware you’re the only employee who speaks to me like this?
This is it. The hypothetical question preludes an ax coming down. Feeling nauseous, I try to recover this conversation with some light-hearted joking.
ME
Guess the baking is getting to me! Hopefully that means you think I belong in rarified air?
LUKE
Your vocabulary is not half bad, meal-prep chef.
P.S. Today’s salt and pepper ratio in my dinner was adequate.
An egg cracks in my hand, spilling yolk everywhere. Blindly, I grab it with my fist, needing something more to crush with my fingers.
Adequate. Isn ’ t that another way of saying serviceable?
Okay, I decide he is the worst.
And again, very rashly, I react by sharing my real opinion with him.
ME
If I am being honest, you are kind of rude.
His answer?
LUKE
Thank you.
Great, I’ve complimented the insufferable and arrogant ponce.
At least, I remain employed. This time I make an Amandine; the traditional Romanian cake is filled with chocolate.
Resolutely deciding his feedback isn’t important to me, I complete the rest of the week not caring about anything other than my daily tasks.
The following week after that goes well until it doesn’t.
For the first time, I have to contact Luke on my own accord.
ME
Did you hire a new assistant recently?
He was in your apartment and when I asked him who he was, he wasn’t very nice in his response.
I’m just letting you know in case he brings it up to you.
..in which case I should defend myself by saying I didn’t ‘give him the finger.’ I was merely scratching my shoulder and then my hip in no particular way.
I suppose I should know better than to interact with your staff, although your house manager Valeria is always very nice to me so I was misled that this assistant would be too.
Don’t worry, I won’t make that mistake again. I’m very good at being invisible when needed.
The rest of the shift concludes. I go back to my dingy apartment and spend the next few hours trying to lift mold off a kitchen sink, as per Janice’s detailed instructions.
Afterwards, when I’ve finally had dinner and am exhausted in bed, my phone buzzes.
I reach over for it and find a delayed response from Luke.
LUKE
Don’t be invisible.
Peculiarly, my heart skitters at his directive.
Then I read his next text.
LUKE
I fired him.
My stomach flares. An unrelated indigestion response.
ME
Oh. Thank you?
I don’t expect him to answer right away, but he does.
LUKE
It wasn’t for you.
He annoyed me.
Although his reports of how many ways you sneakily gave him the finger were amusing.
ME
Glad you find me entertaining.
P.S. How was your recent smoothie? I changed the formulation.
LUKE
May I remind you that I run a multi-billion dollar conglomeration?
I don’t have time to think or comment on the smoothies I chug down in between meetings.
Bake me another cake for Tuesday.
Maybe it’s my bone-weary tiredness or a reaction caused by whatever fumes were generated when I blasted biological fungi with chemical cleaner tonight, but I’m brave enough to snap back.
ME
It wouldn’t kill you to say please once in a while.
LUKE
Rita, I pay you.
But if it makes you work harder, fine. I can subscribe to the a-carrot-makes-a-better-stick-than-a-stick model of leadership.
Please make me a cake that I pay you to make.
P.S. I’m curious whether you would try to sneak me the finger. Although our schedules don’t intersect, so we’ll never find out.
ME
I could ambush you one day.
LUKE
Excellent, I’ve hired a stalker.
ME
Who makes great cakes.
LUKE
I can’t personally verify that.
ME
There must be a sweet you enjoy. Everyone has one.
How about honey-flavored nuts? Those aren’t that sugary.
LUKE
I’m not indulging this conversation any longer.
Go away, Rita .
I’ve exasperated him. An unexpected tingle of satisfaction puts a smile on my face when I go to sleep. This isn’t close to being my dream job and I’m not on my way to becoming a chef of a fine dining, upscale restaurant, but for this very brief moment, it’s okay.
It’s okay that this is my life.