A colleague kept taking my lunch, thinking it was a joke. So one day, I made extra-spicy pies with the hottest chilli I could find.
I work in a large company, with offices designed to the last detail: bright rooms, modern furnishings, and a kitchen stocked with every possible appliance and utensil. It all seems perfect just turn up and get on with your job. But, as with any group of people, if someone troublesome turns up, the harmony quickly falls apart.
Cooking is both my hobby and my way to unwind. While my coworkers mostly order takeaway, grab ready meals, or settle for quick sandwiches from the high street, my evenings are spent in the kitchen: I stir béchamel for lasagne, knead dough for pasties, roast joints of pork, and put together elaborate layered salads. I always bring homemade food to work, never seeing it as a chore.
Trouble started about six months after Rebecca joined our team. She was in her mid-forties, boisterous, full of energy, and had an overwhelming need to lay down her own rules. She constantly took personal calls at top volume, handed out unsolicited fashion advice, and seemed not to recognise anyones personal boundaries.
The first red flag was on a Tuesday. That morning, Id brought in a homemade carbonara that Id been looking forward to all night. Come lunchtime, I walked over to the kitchen, opened the fridge, and immediately saw that my labelled container felt suspiciously light.
Lifting the lid, I found my lunch had been halved, quite obviously by someone tucking in with a fork right from the tub. Glancing around the kitchen, I spotted Rebecca sipping tea.
Rebecca, I asked, trying to stay calm, have you seen anyone nicking my food?
She turned, beamed at me, and replied without an ounce of embarrassment, Oh, dont be silly! I just had a quick taste. The smell when I opened the fridge was irresistible. Youre so slim anyway, theres no way youd finish all that. And I need the energy carbs are good for you!
She spoke with such ease; it was as if shed borrowed my pen, not helped herself to my lunch. Rebecca, thats my food. Please dont do it again. I make it for myself.
Oh, youre such a softie! she chuckled. Dont be stingy, it was only a forkful or two! Were a team almost like family, arent we? Back at my previous place, absolutely everything was communal. Dont take things so seriously.
I didnt reply. I didnt want a row over pasta, but it ruined my day. After someone elses fork had been in my food, I just couldnt eat it, and ended up buying crisps from the vending machine.
If only Id realised it was just the beginning.
Over the coming weeks, bits of my lunch vanished regularly. Whenever I tried to reason with Rebecca, she either laughed it off or accused me of being selfish.
Youre such an egotist! shed announce to anyone in earshot if I caught her eating my food. Its only a bite! Stop acting like its the end of the world. Its about teamwork, sharing, office spirit!
What stung most was the response of others. The men kept out of it, pretending they hadnt noticed. The women would offer sympathy when we smoked in the courtyard, but were too wary of Rebeccas boldness to stand up to her. Gradually, I began to question myself: Was I being petty? Maybe sharing food at work was normal?
I tried everything. I left notes: DO NOT OPEN! MEDICINE INSIDE. Rebecca would just laugh: Medicine in chicken stew, really? I hid my food at the back of the fridge no use, shed always find it. I bought a container with a number lock; next day, it was in the bin, the lid snapped off. It fell and cracked, she claimed with a flutter of the eyes. I threw it away so it wouldnt smell. But your meatball was tasty thanks for feeding me!
The broken lock and her blatant cheek over my missing lunch was the last straw. There was honestly no point in talking anymore. I thought about going to management, but it would sound childish: She ate my porridge! No I needed a solution Rebecca wouldnt forget.
I would never resort to harming someone. That would be vile. But spice? That was a different matter. Some people like their food spicy; others, not so much.
At the weekend, I went to Borough Markets spice stall. I wasnt looking for a bog-standard supermarket chilli, but something that could really pack a punch. The vendor raised an eyebrow when I picked out Scotch Bonnet peppers. Thats feisty, love. Careful with those, he warned.
Perfect, I smiled.
That Sunday, I decided to make meat pies: golden crust, juicy British beef. I baked ten: seven were perfectly ordinary; three were special. Into those, I finely chopped the Scotch Bonnet.
From the outside, the surprise pies looked no different to the rest. I packed them in my usual Tupperware, sealed, and stuck a nametag on as always.
Monday rolled round.
First thing, I put my lunch right on the most prominent fridge shelf. Rebecca was already at the coffee machine.
Pies? she asked, peering over. Did you make them yourself?
Yes, I replied shortly. Thats my lunch.
Back at my desk, I spent the morning listening out: would she take the bait? Maybe this time shed brought her own?
Around half twelve, I heard the fridge open, the microwave beep, a chair scrape and then, sudden silence.
And then came a noise impossible to mistake halfway between a croak, a cough, and a wail. WATER!!! PLEASE!!!
Rebecca shot down the corridor, propelled by some invisible force. Her face was the colour of beetroot, eyes bulging and streaming. She gasped for breath as though shed been pulled out of the Thames. She fumbled at the water cooler, panic making her hands useless. Someone passed her a mug, but anyone familiar with real chilli knows water only spreads the heat. You need milk or bread, and Rebecca, alas, had no idea.
You she tried to rasp, but could only wheeze. Youve poisoned me!
The commotion brought the whole office over. A moment later, our manager arrived. Whats going on? Rebecca, are you alright? Should we call an ambulance?
She Rebecca gestured toward me with a shaking hand. She put poison in the pies! Im burning up inside!
Everyone stared at me now. Calmly, I stood up and walked over.
What poison, Rebecca? What on earth are you talking about?
The pies! Theyre inedible! Youre mad!
Hold on, I interrupted, feigning confusion. Did you take my pies? Out of my container? Which clearly had my name on it?
So what?! she snapped, tears streaming down her cheeks. Youve put broken glass or acid in them! Youre trying to kill me!
I shrugged. Rebecca, I love spicy food. Those are my grans recipe. Yes, theyre pretty hot. I made them for myself. How was I to know you’d help yourself to my lunch?
This isnt food, its a biohazard! she yelled, though her voice was little more than a croak.
Our manager walked over to the table, sniffed the half-eaten pie with caution. Thats a strong chilli smell, he said. See! Rebecca shrieked. File a complaint shes tried to poison me!
He looked from her to me, then at the container clearly labelled with my name. Rebecca, why were you eating someone elses lunch in the first place?
I um got confused thought it was up for grabs she mumbled, realising her victim act wasnt selling.
Its labelled, plain as day, he said flatly. Go wash up, find some milk if theres any about. And thats it no more drama about food. Leave peoples containers alone. Were not in primary school, for heavens sake.
Rebecca spent about forty minutes in the loo, or so the rumour went, guzzling cold water from the tap. For the rest of the day, she kept her head down, barely making a peep or meeting my gaze.
By the next day, the story had ripped round the building at the speed of gossip. Some thought Id gone overboard; others shook my hand in secret and asked for the recipe. The important part is this: it worked.
From then on, my food was left untouched. The communal fridge found new discipline overnight. The mysterious disappearances of yoghurts, chocolates, even breakfasts not just mine suddenly stopped. Apparently, the fear of an explosive surprise was far more effective than office memos.
Rebecca hasnt spoken to me for nearly a month. Around the office, she tells anyone wholl listen that Im a witch and a menace. You know what? I dont mind that reputation one bit. She can call me anything she likes as long as my lunch stays where I left it.
Sometimes, the only way to stop bullies is to stand your ground, even if it means thinking outside the box. Respect for others boundaries matters and if you ignore them, dont be surprised by the consequences.
