Chapter 90 - The Lunch with the Boys (1/2)

”I think he's angry,” Mary whispers, looking around to make sure nobody's eavesdropping on them.

”I think he's only very hungry,” Claire says. ”He was gone so briefly. It's not possible that he'd already had lunch.”

Claire considers going back to speak to Gabriel. She wants to make things clear. She feels something large—the elephant in the room—has not been addressed since morning. Miguel's right—Gabriel must have been nursing a grudge because of last night, and because they failed to talk about it this morning, it must have snowballed in Gabriel's heart. And now he's being cranky. Normal people talk about these differences, these conflicts; they didn't. They merely ignored it, acting like it never happened. Yet it did.

Mary notices her falling silent. ”Would you like to go back?”

But they're already inside the elevator, and it's full of people. There are at least two layers of people in front of them, and when the doors finally slide close, Claire says, ”No, it doesn't matter. I'll take care of it later.”

”Are you sure?” Mary says.

Claire blinks. Of course, she's sure. What does Mary expect her to do, stop the lift and hassle everybody here? ”Yeah, it can wait.” She tries to smile.

The descent seems to take forever. Maybe she's just paranoid, but Claire feels as if people are giving them sideward glances, scrutinizing her, wondering why she's here, going among the ”peasants.” And the place is packed; the man in front of her has ”accidentally” elbowed her brėȧst quite a few times already. When finally the panel dings to ”2” and the doors slide open, Claire breathes a sigh of relief.

”The entire second floor is our dining room, Claire,” Mary says, like a tour guide. ”The menu is usually a well-balanced offering consisting of a chicken, beef, pork, or fish meal. And salads. And a variety of desserts.”

”Is the payment deducted from employees' salary?”

”Oh, no,” Mary says. ”It's all free. You can eat as much as you want, as often as you want. In fact, the problem here is self-control—people are gaining weight, especially the new ones who didn't yet realize how much calories they are packing on their trays.”

Noted carefully, Claire thinks, touching her waist. ”That would be no problem with me. I only eat bird seed.”

Mary giggles. ”So that's why you have that killer figure!”

”Why is it free, by the way?”

Mary shrugs. ”I'm not sure. It has always been free ever since the beginning. It's one of Mr. Tan's company perks. Everyone eats here, even the vice presidents or the directors. But of course, considering they have gigantic pay checks, they often choose to have some posh lunch elsewhere.”

”Oh, I see.”

”Which brings me to one important question: When are we dining at your place again?”

A beat, before Claire realizes what she's asking. ”Oh, you mean at the Residence?”

Mary nods enthusiastically, picturing the exquisite meal she had when last she was there, courtesy only of Claire.

”We can dine there anytime you want,” she says. ”How about tomorrow?”

”Oh, wow! Really? Jesus, I won't eat breakfast so I'll have enough room.”

Claire laughs. ”I'll ask the chef to prepare something fabulous.”

The entrance to the dining room is unassuming: just silver double-doors with safety signs and an access ramp for persons with disability. Mary opens the door for Claire, saying, ”Welcome to the very source of all our weight problems.”

The interior is nothing fancy. It look just like a huge restaurant, with rows of tables, each of which could seat six people. ”Would you know the capacity of this place?”

”Seating capacity, you mean? Maybe around ten thousand people. And this operates twenty-four hours, seven days a week.”

”How come?”

”Well, it's because almost half of the building's occupied by business process outsourcing companies operating under TXCI. Call centers. Mr. Tan's business never sleeps.”

Imagine the burden of all that business, Claire thinks. And to think this is only one of several.

”This way, please, Miss Bella,” Mary says, acting like a proper usherette.

To enter the area where food is served, they have to tap through a turnstile, much like on the subway. People get a tray, then fall in line. Claire looks at the selection of food served by the people clad in white chef uniforms. ”Not bad,” she says. ”So this is like a daily buffet for everyone.”