I take a step, but he doesn’t budge. In my mind, I imagine breaking his arm. It would be easy, especially at this angle. Easier than I’m sure he realizes, or he wouldn’t stand here like this.
The nice thing to do would be to just sock him in the jaw and let him take a little nap on the floor of this fancy elevator. The doorman can find him in the morning.
Instead, I get in his face and sneer. “Fine. You got me. I’m a criminal.”
Holding up my right hand, I let him see the white gauze and crimson-covered fist. His nostrils flare, and his body recoils.
Would you look at that? The exact effect I was going for.
“Night,” I call, shoving his arm away and marching off down the hall toward my apartment. He doesn’t say a word or come after me, and before I even get my key in the door, the elevator is closed, and he’s gone.
Rule #3: Always watch the clock.
Freya
“Not enough salt,” I mumble to myself, tossing the spooninto the sink and sprinkling a pinch of the white flakes into the sauce and stirring it vigorously. My eyes dash to the timer on the stove, watching it to be sure I can get this pan off the heat before I need to pull the Wellington out.
My foot is tapping, the mustard oil is sizzling, and “White Rabbit” is blaring through the Bluetooth speaker on the counter behind me. This is the crescendo of the symphony, the high-pitch, full-vibrato climax when everything either comes together perfectly or falls apart tragically.
I whisper a quiet a prayer to myself as I wait. “Bhagwan ji, please let this go well.”
The timer buzzes, so I burst into motion, switching off the fire on the range, pouring the sauce into the individual cups, and grabbing my oven mitts to pull the Wellington out of the oven. The spicy aroma fills my kitchen, making my mouth water as I take stock of the dish. My nani would never touch it because ofthe beef, but it was something I perfected in culinary school, and I’m determined to make it shine.
“Crust looks good,” I mumble to myself, biting my bottom lip as I gently scrape the sharp edge of my knife across the exterior. “Could be a bit darker…and flakier…”
I don’t have time to make it again. Or the ingredients. Not that it would matter anyway. I’m sure even if I perfected it, it would still lack color and texture. In my eyes at least.
After covering the beef with foil to keep it warm, I turn to the Lahori chicken samosas, each filled with slow-cooked meat steeped in cinnamon, cardamom, and smoky dried chilies. The buttery pastry flakes beneath my fingers as I plate them, adding a streak of chili-yogurt raita and a few edible marigold petals to brighten the tray.
The song has switched to something by King Crimson, and I get lost in the moody sound, taking my time on the presentation of each dish. While I work, I get lost in thought. I think about how even getting this job—ifI get it—is like a dream. I’ve worked in so many kitchens at so many jobs I hate just for a chance to cook my own menu for clients who wantmyfood.
And now…I’m getting to present my dishes for one of the wealthiest families in Paris. Granted, they are my best friend’s parents, but still. I’m getting my chance to wow them. I just hope I’ve done enough.
My mother would say to practice gratitude. To stop roughing up the edges of my blessings with self-deprecation. I can hear her voice in my head now.“Don’t stir your blessings with worry, beta.”
But then again, my mother is my biggest fan and thinks everything I do should be celebrated.
The truth is that my confidence in the kitchen is like this dirty old apron. It might be covered in key lime pie and chili jam and goat cheese, but it’s not the real thing. It’s just a type of armor. The dishes themselves stand alone, the real test of my skill and talent.
And I fear that with one bite, they’ll see the truth—that I’m just a fraud.
Once everything is plated, I take a step back and admire my work. No matter how hard I try, I only see the crystallized sugar on the crème brûlée and the burned bits on the bottom of the potatoes.
“Oh well,” I say with defeat. “I don’t have time to make any of it again.”
Time.Oh shit. What time is it?
Spinning around, I glance at the clock and see it’s half past three, which means I have thirty minutes to get ready, bag this all up, and rush over to Amelia’s house.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I stammer to myself as I tear my apron off in a mad dash for the bedroom. It lands in a heap on the floor of my messy flat. I quickly toe off each dirty sneaker and rip the Pink Floyd T-shirt over my head.
King Crimson dissolves into a thumping pop beat. The playlist is one I share with my dad, and it makes me instantly miss him. I’m trying to make him love my modern favorites, and he’s attempting to make me appreciate the classics. Successfully, I might add. Not that I’d admit it to him.
Snatching a midi skirt off the back of a chair in my room, I quickly pull it on and throw a bright blue silk blouse on top. Before I even have a chance to button it, I stumble into my bathroom and assess myself in the mirror. My thick black hair is piled on my head in a scrunchie/hair clip combination, and it takes a lot of wrangling to get it free. Once it’s down, it hangs over my shoulders and doesn’t look half bad for being so unkempt. Giving it a quick spray of water and a tousle with my hands, it almost looks like I intended it to be this wild.
Leaning over my sink, I wipe the smudge of flour from my cheek, swipe my lashes with a mascara brush, and smear on some red lipstick before calling it enough. That’ll have to do.
Then I quickly roll on some deodorant and spritz myself withperfume. On my way out of the bathroom, I button my blouse, pull on a pair of black ankle boots, and throw my black leather jacket on in a rush. A smarter girl might have taken more than ninety seconds to get ready for the biggest job interview of her life, but I’m not one of those girls.
