Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
It is wonderfully sunny outside, birds chirp conversation circles in the trees, and the site of Abbot Industries is a black rectangle of gleaming glass and steel.
I feel pastoral in my sundress, bringing in a bag of homemade soup and bread. The gingham pattern napkins and the single orange on top (for Vitamin C) certainly don’t help my professional credibility either. Might as well skip over to the reception desk for full effect.
I don’t. Nor do I make nonsensical small talk with the stern man by the security turnstiles.
“Do you have an appointment?”
“I’m his employee,” I say.
“But do you have an appointment?”
I don’t, though I insist Luke will want to see me anyway. I’ve come with food for him, and he gets cantankerous when not fed.
Technically true.
I’m told to wait to the side so my identity can be confirmed. I wait and wait some more. Other people get in ahead of me. Not understanding why it’s taking so long, I go up and ask the man again. He looks confused by my appearance. Apparently, I’ve been forgotten. Lovely.
Again I sit and wait, but this time I notice he’s not calling anyone. No, he’s meandering around and arguing with another guard who snacks on their lunch.
Seriously? At this rate, I’ll spend the whole night here.
I see the next rush of people leaving. They look like prisoners on release day, sweeping toward the exit in the quickest way possible without breaking out into an actual run.
They crowd around the turnstiles, which gives me the perfect cover to slip through them too, but in the opposite direction.
Not my best moment, but the soup is getting cold!
And I need to drop it off so I can go home.
I’m starting to feel a little wobbly, but chalk it up to the stress of prolonged exposure to this humorless air.
Scared of getting caught, I run to the elevator and slip between the doors of one conveniently closing.
There’s a few people inside already. They give me curious looks, but I keep staring straight.
Only after we’ve risen a few floors do I feel comfortable enough to select my floor. The top one, of course.
Now I can feel them really staring at me.
Do people not go up there? And why is there such an aura of skittishness around me? I’m starting to get nervous about this plan to see Luke at work.
“Good luck,” mutters the last man exiting the elevator a few floors down from me.
“Excuse me?”
There is no answer. He’s already left.
Alone, I rise to the top floor. When the doors finally open, the first thing I see is a sweeping view of Barcelona’s sprawling architecture. Wow . If height equates to luxury, I’ve stepped into the most expensive square footage in the city.
My shoes clip on the black tiles. Going around the next corner, I’m stopped by a reception desk manned by a woman wearing a gray blouse, beige cardigan, and what looks to be a high-waisted skirt.
There are pearls dangling from her ears and matching pearls as buttons on her sweater.
Brown hair is swept up into a tidy chignon.
Age-wise, I would put her down as early forties.
Even her wrinkles look carefully maintained.
She blinks, surprised by me.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m here to see Lu—Mr. Abbot.”
“He’s in a meeting. ”
“Oh. How long?”
“It depends. Who are you?”
“His…chef.”
She smiles placidly. “That doesn’t tell me much.”
“Right. It’s just that—well, I’ve brought food for his dinner. And if he’s busy, maybe I can drop it off at his office? Or you could do it for me?”
“Sorry, I can’t. Security risk. You shouldn’t even be here.”
“Okay, is there some way to tell him Rita is here?”
She gasps. “Oh, Rita. I’ve heard of you.”
I’m surprised, and now desperately curious about the details. “You have?”
“Yes, I didn’t expect you to look—that is, you aren’t what I was expecting.”
That can mean a number of things. It can mean she didn’t expect me to be bigger, or it’s a reflection of my casual summery outfit, not befitting this building or the professionalism of its occupants so far.
Either way, I shore up my own self-confidence and ignore any slight.
I’m amazing, and not everyone will see that I’m amazing and that is their business, not mine.
“You are on the list,” she tells me. “Well, the phone list. I’m supposed to forward any calls from you directly to the boss. But he’s never mentioned anything about in-person visitation.”
I quickly dig out my ID and show it to her. “Just so you know, it’s really me.”
“Um—”
“Please, I just want to give him this food and then go home.”
“I don’t know?—”
“ Please .”
Her brows furrow. “Alright. He’s in a meeting, but I can put you in our waiting area further inside. Then I’ll let him know you’re here and see what he says.”
She takes me to a couch. I sink in, grateful for the cool leather against my legs. Is it warm in here? I’m patting my forehead, feeling clammy.
The receptionist leaves. And then I wait again. I’m not sure how long, but I decide I should use the bathroom to splash water on my face before anything else. I’ll ask her where it is when she comes back. Though it’s taking a while …
Minutes string by. Then some more.
Feeling more and more uncomfortable, I finally get up and poke my head around the corner to see if a bathroom is nearby. Nothing is obviously labeled and so I explore a little further…and then a little further than that…and soon I’m disoriented and lost.
Now I’m frustrated by everything: the unmarked doors, how maze-like these corridors are, that I’m feeling queasy in my stomach, and how I ever thought bringing dinner to Luke’s office was a worthwhile endeavor.
All these feelings escalate when the next turn I take opens up into a great big yawn of a boardroom.
The walls are high, the meeting table is long and dark, data reports flash on the screen, and there are dozens of heads aimed forward in one direction.
At him. The head of the beast. Luke Abbot in a dark blue suit, leg crossed over, looking emotionless but also powerful like a twitch of a finger can cleave heads off.
“The subsidiary, sir—” says a man.
“Has been sloppily run,” interrupts Luke. “I don’t have time for negative growth. They should have never been purchased in the last round of buy-outs. Find me ways to slice their operating costs in half.”
Shocked whispers run through the business suits.
“Half?” questions a brave soul.
“Why do you need me to repeat myself?” scolds Luke. “That’s what I said. Do whatever it takes. Now, someone talk to me about the stock figures. We don’t have all night. I’m sure some of you want to head home before the sun sets.”
The projector screen flicks to another set of dense numbers. Not that I’m paying it any attention. My eyes are on him. I don’t recognize the extremeness of this personality. It’s too cold. Uncaring. Brutal.
Another suit talks about daily analysis, but his explanation is cut short by an audible squeak. The receptionist has found me. Every head turns our way in synchronicity.
Luke is already standing and heading over to us. His eyes are hard and bright. “What is it? Are you hurt?” he asks me.
I shake my head, really feeling I shouldn’t have come now. To bring soup is silly , a childish assumption to go where I am not invited.
“I’m sorry,” the receptionist apologizes.
“It’s alright,” says Luke. “I’ll take it from here. This way, Rita.”
He leads me through the maze until we reach what must be his office, considering it feels as if it takes up at least a fifth of the floor.
Fleetingly, I notice details like accolades on the walls, the separate seating area, another breathtakingly broad view of the city—that with the sun setting—looks to be on fire.
This reminds me of our first meeting, like I’m having an audience with the king. The most important person in this building. Heir to billions.
“What is it?” he asks again, his eyes scanning me up and down. “Tell me what is going on. Is everything alright?”
His tone is not as even-keeled anymore, as if my presence has snuck under that slick polish and struck a nerve.
“I’m okay,” I say. “And your kitchen hasn’t burned down, promise.”
“Then why have you come here?”
In an attempt to make things simple, I hold out the food. I’m about to unveil the soup and bread, but his face caught under the bright overhead lights stops me. It’s drawn out, and up close I can see how pale he is. There is a sheen to his forehead.
Forgetting all awkwardness, I squint closer at his symptoms. “You look terrible.”
“What?”
“You weren’t kidding when you said you were unwell.”
Unconsciously, I reach for his forehead.
He grabs my hand before it can make contact.
“Stop that,” he orders.
Using that same hand, I twist my fingers so they hold on to his wrist instead. “You should sit down, I think. And eat. I’ve got a feeling you haven’t had anything all day, which is why I’ve brought soup.”
I attempt to lead him to the seating area, but he’s stronger than me. Realizing it’s futile, I take the food and start unpacking it on the couch.
“If that’s why you’ve come, I don’t have time for that.” His eyes sweep over me, linger, then cut away. “I don’t have time for you. Not here.”
“Everyone has a few minutes to eat.”
“No.”
“But you’re unwell!”
“So what? It’s the real world.”
I stop what I’m doing. “What does that mean?”
He places a palm down on his desk as if trying to control himself. “You thought you could come in here, and I could—what? Abandon my meetings and have some food together? That’s not how it works. Not that you?—“
He cuts himself off, but I won’t have it.
“…Not that I what? Tell me. Finish what you’ve got to say.”
His jaw clenches so much it ticks. “Not that you can understand. You bake cakes. Not that I don’t appreciate it, but what I have to do is— hard . It costs me. I can’t have you?—”
He scrubs a hand over his face, his eyes too bright, unfocused, and bleary.
My chest constricts into a vise. He doesn’t think I understand what hard means…
I could laugh. He knows nothing about me!
Not about how I live or what I have to do to survive.
How raw my hands get scrubbing and cleaning at night, the tinned dinners I’ve rationed, those nights when I snuck out of bed as a child to spill a bit of my dad’s bottles down the drain.
Not enough to go empty, but enough to lessen the chance he’ll drink himself to oblivion.
“You should leave, Rita. You can’t be here.”
I take a few breaths, try to control what is building inside me, irritation giving way to this painful hurt.
Luke doesn’t want me outside of those little mornings in his kitchen, because that’s a bearable set of fifteen minutes.
Not much sacrifice to fool me into softening, so I make his good food and eventually give in to going to that conference.
How obvious. This was never about being real friends.
I’m a tool he needs momentarily. All for his own benefit.
“You want me to go away…”
Luke pinches the bridge of his nose and mutters a desperate oath. “You have to.”
“Oh, I will. I came all this way for soup because some part of me was worried you were sick and needed nourishment, but it’s all for nothing, isn’t it? Silly me, I’ve forgotten who you really are.”
I don’t stop there.
“We’re not friendly,” I hiss. “This—any of it—will never work. Not with someone as—as—horrible as you.”
The hand on his desk now grips the edge. He leans his weight against it. “Don’t overreact.”
“Don’t tell me what to do! You mean nothing in my life, so you’ve got no right!”
He laughs, the sound glass-like. “Is that so? Then why are you still here? I’ve already told you to go.”
“I am so done,” I say, taking a big step towards the door. “I’m walking away from you.”
“I shut the door first, Rita. Or did you not understand that part?”
Screw him!
Storming my way out the door, I give him the finger.
I hear the contents of the desk clatter to the floor behind me.