Page 3 of Cakes for the Grump
“How rude of me to momentarily forget your wealth and status.”
“You are excused.”
Part of me wishes I had cake right now to throw at his face. “Your message said to come over right away for an important discussion. I can say we haven’t spoken about anything remotely important yet. Perhaps we have different ideas of importance. Maybe you simply hate being disobeyed and this confrontation”—I sweep my arms up to encompass the room—“is orchestrated to give you the satisfaction of an apology. Is that it? May I say sorry for the cake? Should I grovel at your feet for my use of sprinkles?”
Luke leaves his desk to come over to my side, lowering himself into a chair by the window.
I have to turn to face him. If I step close enough, I can look down mynose at him. A reversal of positions, and one I don’t understand the strategy behind.
Then he drapes himself on the armchair, arms propped up and legs loosely spread as if to prove any sitting object can be one of his thrones. Luke turns his face to the side and stares outside. I follow his gaze but only see a blue patch of sky. If I walk closer to it, I know the twisted spires and flying buttresses of the Sagrada Família will become visible, but I’m unsure if that is what he seeks.
Not that it matters. I decide to wait him out and do some thinking of my own. Before getting fired, I had one month of preparing meals in his mammoth apartment, and I remain unsure whether I have gained any further insight into how the rich and capitalistically evil side of society lives. The home of Luke Abbot barely employs staff. Most days were nicely quiet and that’s one quality I’m going to secretly miss. I enjoyed having access to a peaceful kitchen, even if it was used largely to prepare smoothies, rice, and blandly seasoned protein for lunches and dinners.
Where is the chaos and the vitriol a household with his last name and legacy should have? Shouldn’t an Abbot be an obvious zealot or I don’t know…slimy?
Instead, he smells indecently nice.Eau de masculine, woodiness and fresh laundry.
“Why am I here?” I ask again.
Luke finishes his contemplation and looks at me.
“Last night, I was attending to important businessmen at the apartment and the meeting wasn’t going well,” he says with a scowl. “They had already eaten, but my assistant wrongly assumed the cake you illicitly made was for them since she is aware I personally don’t consume?—”
“Anything worth eating, yes, I am aware.”
“—sweets,” Luke argues, eyes flashing at me. “But before I could intercept the motion, your cake was served to the businessmen, and theyreacted.”
Shit.“Was someone allergic?”
“Worse than that. Before Cake-Gate, I was offering to keep their team onboard, deliver more value to shareholders, and bump up my offer by another two points, pushing the bid to eighty, but guess what? That didn’t faze them. Millions in profit over their company’s estimated value, and they pretended not to be interested. And then they ate the whole cake.”
“They ate the whole cake?”
“Engulfed it. It was rather obscene.”
I’m confused. “And now you’re mad?”
“I’m not mad,” says Luke, perhaps unaware he is grinding his teeth. “They agreed to more negotiations on the stipulation that I procure more cake for them.”
“But I only baked the one.”
“I’m aware. You bake, but so do a hundred other bakers in Barcelona. That’s what I thought when I bought eight full-size cakes from around the city to feed my businessmen at our next meeting.” One of Luke’s knees starts to bounce erratically. “But guess what happened? They said the new cakes weren’t as good, and the deal has gone south again.Overcake.”
Incredulity and bitterness sharpened the edge of those last two words. His tone equates cake with absurd nothingness that should have no consequence anywhere in a proper world.
Conversely, I’m aware of a giddiness blooming in my chest. Whether he believes it himself or not, Luke Abbot has complimented my cake. It stands above other cakes. The hours I’ve put into practicing my culinary abilities matter, and despite losing my job, I continue tomatter. Maybe hope is not forsaken. This is encouragement that I could have what it takes to eventually become the head chef of my own restaurant. What I really want to do is enchant people with my unique flavors, treating them to a multi-layered culinary experience worthy of being remembered for months to come, and in my wildest thoughts, is also recognized internationally.
What a turn of events! I don’t regret leaving that cake after all or coming to see him today.
This optimism is clearly not shared by Luke. He glowers at me.
“If we’re talking about a million-dollar deal, it appears your status, money, and advanced business strategies aren’t enough,” I say proudly. “In that case, are you asking me to make you more cake? Because I am the only person who cansave your day?”
Maybe later on, when I try to understand how it all went wrong, I conclude that my arrogance is fuel for his arrogance. My boasting—however justified against a man who revels in his own worth—is a matador’s challenge. Waving red in the heavy air between us like an angry sun spitting out rays.
“Actually, it is my understanding that you need a job.” Luke brings hisclasped fingers in front of him, placing them above his belt. A silver watch speckles light refractions across the room. “Your last employer very unprofessionally provided me with personal details about your termination in their last email. They told me about your situation.”
“…What details?” I stammer.
