Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
I get an email telling me the results of the last CUM round are going to be announced today.
I wish to wait on the couch cradling my phone, refreshing my inbox every second, but Mr. Duncan is at Abbot Industries today, so I’m supposed to meet everyone there as they go over strategy.
He was ecstatic to learn about our fake fiancé ploy.
In his mind, it will increase our success at the conference, which starts tomorrow. It’s finally here.
When I enter the foyer, I gird myself. The same security guard is manning the turnstiles, arms crossed and mouth puckered.
Post-lunch time rush, there is a thick queue of people waiting to scan their badges to get inside.
It’s doubtful I’ll get another chance to sneak in like last time.
He probably has me pinned to an internal Wanted board somewhere. Rita, the soup menace.
The guard spots me lingering at the back. He arrows himself over, elbows lifted.
I suck in a breath.
“Ms. Singh?”
“Yeah?”
“Right this way.”
I’m escorted past the line, past employees ogling us. More evidence I’m in an alternative universe. The security guard asks me if he can hold my bag for me .
“Oh, there’s no need. It’s super light.” I show him by raising my tote up and down.
“It would be my honor, Ms. Singh. Please.”
Eventually, I concede. This trip is very different from the last one.
The guard asks me if I require anything to drink or if he can run miscellaneous errands for me.
I look at him with a frightfully blank mind and shake my head in a vigorous no.
It’s nice (I guess) but also super weird to be suddenly given this much consideration.
The trip up the elevator is escorted, but it doesn’t feel like I am being supervised. More like he wants to make sure I don’t have to lift a finger, even to press the button.
The doors slide open. And he bows as his goodbye.
Flustered, I’m not exactly focused when I meet Luke’s receptionist again.
“There you are!” She leaves her desk to greet me with an enthusiastic sprint over. Her hair is in the same tight chignon, but today’s outfit is a two-piece wine-colored suit with kitten heels. A dragonfly brooch in deep emerald is pinned to her lapel, the color also matching her delicate studs.
She escorts me to the boardroom. There aren’t many suits in here today, only Mr. Duncan, a woman who is legal counsel, and?—
“Theo!”
He runs over to squeeze me. His ivory-colored silk blouse is cool against my arms, and I relax, partially. A few hours with him will hopefully help me forget about the competition results coming in today.
“Not that I’m complaining, but how are you here?” I ask. “I thought you were gone.”
“It’s a big week for Luke. As his best friend, I had to fly in.”
Luke comes over. “He wanted a go in the private jet.”
“For support!”
“You emptied the bar and ate all the meals.”
“Again! For support!”
Luke slides an arm around my waist, and under the guise of a welcome kiss, murmurs, “Everything okay? Need anything?”
“I’m good.”
He tips my chin up. “Something has you stressed.”
“It’s nothing that can’t hold. I’ll tell you later.”
I will . When the wait is over, and I know whether I’m making it to the final round of the meal kits competition, one step closer to having the career I want, a phase of progression I can finally be proud of.
“Let’s get down to business,” says Mr. Duncan.
He’s rolling out a long sheet of paper onto the boardroom table.
No chance of digital leaks before the white whale attack tomorrow.
The sharks (including Duncan) circle it.
Contract verbiage is ripped out, rearranged, and scraped together again. It’s a war room of clauses.
Theo and I watch from the outskirts, sipping wine.
“I told myself I wouldn’t meddle,” he starts. “But you and Luke are faking it too well,” he explains before I can argue. “There’s no way the conference is your pretend fiancé deadline.”
“I don’t want to think about it.”
I haven’t been. Mostly. Maybe.
His expression is thoughtful. “What happens after?”
“There are other things that need my focus.” Like whether my sandwich recipe is innovative enough to win over MealKits Masala. Whether they’ll like the direction I’m going in. If it’s enough to keep going.
This new hope is scary: the stakes feel way too high. Because it’s possibly my big break. After ten years of being a cog in a machine, working to survive—will I finally have a career ?
The prizes…I’ve been dreaming about them. Being launched in a newsletter, name recognition, being rewarded for ingenuity, abundant prize money, the chance to interview for a top recipe development position…
If it all happens, there won’t be this gap between Luke and me. The two of us, side by side, won’t be so lower middle class rags and top percentile riches. But first I need to win.
Theo smiles. “I told Luke how after the conference, he’d be single again. Like me. He snarled. One might consider that a sign.”
“A sign he’s stressed about business.”
“Or about losing you.”
“Losing his deal .”
“Romance is depressing.”
“To switch this around, talk to me about your heart.” I grab his glass and top it up with more wine. I skip over mine because I’m staying levelheaded today. “You said you’re single? Were the burly thighs not up to par?”
Theo tells me burly thighs went to the gym far too many times during the week, but he ignored that red flag.
His best friend was his mother. Second possible red flag.
When they started talking about what they were looking for, his gym and mother-loving date said he wanted a partner with a “calm and quiet nature.”
Our laughter is unconfined.
More stories are told. It’s another hour into this strategy meeting when my phone vibrates. I glance at the sender. It’s here. The email has come in. MealKits Masala has contacted me.
Excusing myself, I sneak into the bathroom.
Anticipation expands in my chest, but I can’t seem to get a good enough breath in.
I’ve never wanted something so badly before.
Never nakedly hoped and pinned all aspirations into one chance.
I don’t like it. It feels thick. Sticky.
As if it’s a fool’s courage to want everything to work out perfectly and for all your problems to solve.
I have a feeling that after this, things will never be the same again.
“You can do this,” I whisper to myself. “Just look.”
I do.
The results:
Dear Ms. Singh ? —
Great dish ? —
Unfortunately, the competition was very high.
Here is a coupon for our services.
I look in the mirror and see my face has drained of color. Someone who is in a lot of shock and pain is staring out at me. I poke at the cheeks. They don’t regain life. Splashing water isn’t doing much either.
Not sure I’m understanding, I open my email again.
The last line shouts at me.
We wish you all the best in your future endeavors.
What future endeavors? I wonder. This was it. They didn’t like my dish enough. I’m not going on to the final round. It’s all over. My future… Everything I saw coming together has been stripped. There is no prize for making it to the semifinal. No consolatory recognition.
Stuck again.
Theo texts me. He is wondering if everything is alright in the bathroom, and whether I’ve run into an emergency that requires anything, perchance a tampon. If so, he’ll acquire it promptly for me.
I tell him I’m coming out. It takes everything in me to walk calmly back to the boardroom.
I have to force myself not to run out of the building, although the temptation is a drum beating through me.
It’s time to turn it back on. My fake-cheer persona, set at the most maximum of settings.
The only way to make it through the day is to turn myself into plastic.
I walk slowly back, and when I return to the group, I’m perfectly blank.
Before joining Theo, I refill my wineglass.
Then again, when that finishes.
To avoid Luke for the rest of the night, I go opposite his orbit every time he moves. Good thing he’s in the trenches of his billion-dollar takeover. If I wasn’t so numb, I’d be awed by the intensity of his attention to detail.
Theo prods me with banter, which I return with the perfect swing of a tennis champion. We trade jokes. Talk about date fails. He pries about how far Luke and I have gone in commitment to our fake fiancé drama.
Patting his arm, I laugh. A smidge too loud.
Luke raises his head. Mr. Duncan tries to get his attention, pointing at something with his pen, but he doesn’t waver. Gray-blue eyes narrow.
To cover for myself, I shoot him an enthusiastic, perfectly punchy thumbs-up.
He cancels the meeting.
Everyone, including me, tries to argue.
It doesn’t matter.
“That’s enough for tonight.”