Page 4 of Cakes for the Grump

“Your work visa is contingent on being sponsored by an employer in Barcelona. Without that support, you’ll have to go back to India. That would be a pity.”

Thank God. He doesn’t know the real story behind my situation. The rehab. That would make this even more complicated.

Not that he isn’t wrong about the work visa.

But why is he bringing that up? Am I being deported? Is this a threat? Severe discomfort blooms in my lungs.

“What is the saying?” says Luke, lazily tapping his foot on the floor. “Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.”

“I feed you.”

He shrugs. “Here is my offer. I found your meals serviceable so you can continue providing meal prep services for me, and then when I entertain business partners, you’ll make a special dessert for them. In return, I will sponsor your work visa and keep you in Barcelona. It is the best opportunity you’ll get.”

I don’t really hear his offer.

All I hear is one sentence.My meals are…serviceable?!

Cooking is my soul and the only connection I have with my mother. After most of the whiskey bottle would go empty, Dad would open up and sing praises of how my cooking is my mother’s cooking reincarnated.

And my mother’s could never beserviceable.

It can’t be.

The person who died so I could live wouldn’t only be serviceable. I refuse to believe it.

Luke Abbot’s expression is smug and full of preliminary victory. He can’t understand what I’m feeling, and how I’m not my usual objective self right now. I’m tired and scared, and unable to pretend I am okay. Personal righteousness takes control of all my senses, despite the fact that this is absolutely the most foolish thing I can do in my circumstances.

Without a backward glance and without saying a word, I walk out of his office. The only satisfaction left isthat I’ve done it.

I’ve surprised Luke Abbot. A man used to being obeyed by the world.

I, poor and not powerful, Rita Singh, turned him down.

What a great accomplishment this would be if my brain wasn’t screaming at me mere minutes later.

For I am still very much fired, poor, and screwed. And how am I going to possibly fix all that before I run out of money in a strange city I don’t belong in...

TWO

After the disastrousconfrontation with Luke Abbot, I head home to the second site of my suffering: my apartment building. Although, I don’t know how long it will stay mine. I only moved to Barcelona from Mumbai because my company agreed to give me a higher wage here and to subsidize the moving and housing costs for a year as a relocation incentive. But they also fired me last week…sonow what?I’ve been afraid to find out by asking anyone. Instead, all my efforts have been focused on applying for as many jobs as I can find in Barcelona.

No one has called back yet. I guess they don’t want a person they’ll have to sponsor a visa for, and I don’t speak the language, and there are so many other candidates without those two limitations applying for the same positions.

My shoulder hits the thick trunk of a palm tree. I’m holding onto it for support as another wave of panicked regret hits me. Did I just make the biggest mistake of my life by turning down Luke’s offer? Should I have swallowed my pride and agreed to it? Why do I care if he considers my meals “serviceable”?

(I care, I care so much).

Considering the status of my bank account (pathetic) and how my dad’s rehab payments keep hitting me month after month, I shouldn’t have standards or feelings. I can’tafford them!

If only Dad never drank… If only I wasn’t alone with no siblings to turn to… If only Mom was still alive… If only I was on my way to becoming a wildly successful chef at a fine-dining restaurant…

Then nothing would be the matter.

But, I can’t even make it as a meal-prep chef.

My legs wobble.What am I going to do?

Eventually, I reach the place I’ve called home for the last month in Barcelona. My building is three stories, has a mostly operational lift, and very little lighting which is supposed to keep the air cool in the heat but casts a depressive darkness over everything. At one point, the tile work inside must have been bright, beautiful, and glossy. Now it’s cracked and molded, the colors blanched to green-white.