Page 46 of Little Miss Fortune

With only a week to go before the ‘big motive’ with the celebrity whose name I swear to god just keeps escaping my mind, Fawzia has given me a list of the remaining people to contact about the change in location. The catering company almost dropped us, but I was able to convince them that I might just jump in front of a train if they did that to me. That worked like a charm.

I was able to find a separate room—away from the sulking eyes of my supervisor. I don’t want to talk to him because I don’t know what will come out of my mouth. Eat shit doesn’t quite cover it. And I know he will want to talk about it. I just don’t know what he could possibly say that doesn’t make it ten times more awkward for both of us.

I think he knows that too; not a single message via the work portal, only official e-mails that I was cc’ed on.

Fawzia: could you draft up a very high-level progress report for me?

Fuko: Of course!

What does high-level mean? Does everyone know what it means? Do I not know it because I didn’t go to primary school in the UK?

Trying not to give myself an inferiority complex, I quickly search what that means.

‘At or of a level above that which is normal or average.’

So... basically board ready? I don’t know if I can do that by midday today.

I pull out all the stops, ignoring all the other e-mails and alerts on my phone that are coming through. I end up spending four hours on it, finishing about an hour late.

Fawzia: Fuko, I asked for high-level. This is so detailed.

Fuko: Is… that not what high-level means?

Fawzia: No, it means a very light touch, bullet points. I was wondering what was taking so long.

The message is going to haunt my dreams. I was wondering what was taking so long—maybe I am not as far from jumping in front of a train as I thought.

Fuko: I am so sorry. Let me redo it.

Fawzia: Don’t worry about it!

Inadequate friend and inadequate worker. Great.

You know what’s most upsetting about this thing is, I probably would have asked Toby if it were any other day and avoided this embarrassment. A heavy sigh percolates out of my lungs. I can’t mess this job up. The list of contacts is reopened again, and I double-check that I have contacted everyone and have received a response. Seemingly so.

All right, I can finally go on lunch. Dad has packed me a bento box. He is sweet, but it is a bit strange to do it for your 24-year-old daughter. I open the lid, and sausage octopuses (octopodes?) are smiling at me. The egg omelette is almost sweet and melts on my tongue. The rice with furikake (another word Sashka doesn’t approve of) adds a bit of crunch and umami flavouring to the usually boring rice. I shovel the lunch into my mouth. Fine, father, you win this time—the food cheered me up a bit.

‘I love your lunch. It’s so cute.’ Fawzia sits down next to me as I scroll through my phone.

Leon is talking about some invitation to a party. I think it might be the one Fawzia and the events team are organising. I’m not going to say anything. He will be so surprised when he sees me at the event.

Fawzia usually buys her lunch from the Lebanese place downstairs but brought her own food today. When the microwave pings, and she opens its door, the room fills with the most delicious aroma—rich in cumin and light acidity. The orange rice topped with vegetables and some deep-coloured meat.

‘Bariis with goat, do you want to try some?’ Her eyes glitter brighter than the stud in her nose.

I run to the drawer, grab a fork, and wait patiently.

‘Bismillah,’ Fawzia says, blowing on the steaming food.

‘Bismillah, itadakimasu,’ I say back, making my colleague chuckle, and try to select an optimal scoop of food, with meat, rice, and the veggies all resting on my fork without looking too greedy. The vegetables provide a comforting warmth. The rice grains glide on my tongue. The meat melts with flavour, despite having some bounce when I chew it.

‘How is it!’

‘It’s so good! Is it Somali?’

‘Yeah, Mum cooked for the family. Some of my relatives are back in town. Aunties, uncles, cousins.’

The bento in front of me suddenly looks cold and alone. I almost ask whether Fawzia wants my sausage octopus, when I remember that it’s pork. Having family around. It’s not as if Dad is a bad cook or anything, or that I can’t make my own food, I just wonder what the rice would have tasted like if it had been made by Mum. Maybe she would have added some mirin or white rice vinegar.