Law firms billed in six-minute increments; every six minutes of the day had to be accounted for. An individual’s value measured by one variable: How many hours are you putting in? My Contract of Employment had the clauses you agree to waive your rights to the limit of 48 hours per week set out in the Working Time Regulations 1998 and you agree to devote the whole of your time, ability, and attention to your role and duties as an Associate of the Firm. The past fortnight, I obsessively checked Josh’s Skype status. I told myself I did this for my own safety. I started getting in super early when I could see he wasn’t online yet; watching until his icon went orange late at night before leaving. I stalked his calendar and only got lunch when I saw he was in a meeting. If I couldn’t determine where in the building Josh was, I didn’t leave our office. It meant my working hours were expanded even further. I flung myself into Project Arrow with utter devotion, working through the relentless lack of sleep. I steadfastly continued to uphold my duties to the Firm. At the expense of my duties to myself.
Kit and I moved through the fortnight after he’d found out with timidity. He stayed over at mine more often, woke me up from the nightmares, held me close. In the mornings, he got up, showered, shaved, wore his navy suit, clipped on his Omega, kissed my forehead, and left for work.
Kit held me late one night—the only time of day we came together—and said that he felt like our relationship had taken a hit recently. Desperation leaped across my organs. What did he mean? I couldn’t bear to lose him.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so busy,” I said quietly.
“It’s me too. We’re both working too hard.” He squeezed me, and I felt halfway to relieved. “But I do think we should prioritize spending more time together.”
I nodded against the pillow.
“I’ve raised this with you before, about the Clapham Flat, what do you think?”
“What do you mean what do I think?”
“For you and me.”
“As in…?” I was confused. The Clapham “Flat” was a town house overlooking the Common, where Kit’s dad first sequestered his mistress Lisa and their love child, Olivia. Once their affair came to light, he moved them into another home in Notting Hill. There was no mortgage, so the Clapham Flat sat empty. Ian Campbell had suggested it would be a “perfect first home” for us. Kit blanched at the implication that Ian had viewed it as a starter home for his secret family too. It took a few years for me to navigate the grooves of the subject of “Dad” with Kit. Mutually beneficial is how he described their relationship. Kit got his foot in the door, when needed, and Ian in return had an only son like Kit to refer to when he spoke of his legacy.
“Don’t you think it’s time we lived together?” Kit asked. I said nothing. I didn’t have the mental bandwidth to consider such a relationship milestone properly. “It means I can be around more so that… nothing can happen… again.”
I stiffened. Does he want to move in together to keep an eye on me? I’m being uncharitable. It grated on me how he alluded to what happened with Josh but had not expressly acknowledged it since it all came to light.
“I’d want to move in together in a shared space so we’re on more equal footing,” I eventually said. “We can afford to get somewhere nice together.”
“I get it,” Kit said, with levity. “You’re earning a fuckload at the moment.”
“No, sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
“Don’t be sorry!” he laughed. “You can be my sugar mama, given I get paid peanuts.”
Kit romanticized financial hardship. It was true; I now had some money. I also had a compulsion to save it. Omma and Baba’s insurance business went under, then the car wash teetered on the cliff of bankruptcy in 2008. Both due to fates entirely out of their control. So I squirreled my salary away and refused to accept my financial standing as one that now was comfortable. Complacency was foolish when you never knew what lay around the corner.
So yes, Kit earned a lot less than me. His choice, allowed by a healthy asset portfolio. When his grandfather died, Kit denounced his inheritance, said he needed to make it on his own. Tightrope walking can be exciting when you know there’s a net under you. The cash was parked, interest compounding. The Clapham Flat was a cash purchase, relieving Kit from rent, mortgage payments, or the need to save for a deposit. I often wondered what love was, and sometimes I thought it was supporting the person your partner is trying to be. I loved Kit, so I let him believe he was worse off than me.
This time seven years ago, Kit and I had been dating for just over a month. We were back in London for Christmas. We walked hand in hand, crunching on the crisped fallen leaves as we strolled. His hands held my hips to stop me, and he stroked my cheek before kissing me softly.
“Jade,” he whispered against my mouth. We could’ve been there for seconds or minutes, the entire period elided into one memory. Then he turned and pulled me up the mosaiced walkway to a building.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
He unlocked the forest-green door to the flat with one hand and pushed against it with his shoulder. “This is my dad’s place.”
I wandered in. The place was dimly lit by an overarching lamp in the corner. It was furnished to project masculinity: leather sofas and concrete worktops. He walked up to me and kissed me again, softly, tenderly, before hungrily and passionately. His hands prowled my waist until they moved up to my chest. He cupped my left breast, his hips already pushing against me.
Afterward, we lay in the master bed, sticky and panting.
“Jade?” Kit kissed my shoulder as I lay on my tummy. “Why didn’t you tell me you were a virgin?”
“Was it obvious?” My cheeks burned.
“No, it was sensational.” That made me beam. “But I wish you had told me—we could have taken it slower.”
“Don’t worry about me.” I laughed his concern off, eager to come across as a woman of experience.
“No, seriously.” He held my face. “I want to make sure you were ready.”
“Why are you so worried!”
“I can’t help it.” He smiled at me, as if guarding a secret. “I care about you. I… sarang-hae.”
My chest trumpeted as my brain caught up with what he’d said.
“What did you—”
Was this a joke? Surely not. That would be cruel.
“Did I not say it right?” he asked. “I looked it up earlier.”
“No, you did. But—”
“But nothing.” Kit intertwined his fingers with mine and drew our fused hands to his mouth, gently kissing my knuckles. He spoke softly, “I know it’s early days, but I know that I do.”
He was perfect. Even down to saying it in Korean. It felt like he was saying I know that you have more sides to you. I’ll learn to make space for all of you. I eventually replied.
“I love you too.”
We bunkered down all that weekend. We rolled around in bed in our Clapham haven, tangled in sheets, as it blustered outside. We had that special form of intimacy that could only be created by oversleeping into the late morning together, with no plans for the day. Kit sneaking out on Sunday morning and waking me up to crumbly pastries and coffee. We pulled the mattress into the living room and rotated between sex and naps and movies and sex. We got ingredients and cooked, playing house. We ventured to the pub and asked the deep questions people newly in love asked. Clapham was the land of our future, populated by young professional couples who were looking to get onto the property ladder. It held so much promise then.
I recounted those gilded memories. The honeyed nostalgia of our early days had immeasurable mileage, especially now that I felt myself corroding inside.
“What about my parents?” I asked. It was a feeble excuse I used to stall. “Living together before marriage, or even an engagement.”
“What about them?” Kit shrugged, seeing through me. “Come on, Jade, they were the original mavericks! I doubt they’d even care.”
Dammit.
I looked up at the ceiling, and Kit put his head on my chest. I thought of my conversation with Genevieve, where I admitted that it was a goal to own a home. Something so symbolically important. It was always the next big step, one of my “whys” to pushing myself so hard at Reuben. Hard work resulted in security. That was the equation drilled into me. Moving into my boyfriend’s gifted flat, not paying rent, was cheating on that dream. Taking a shortcut. Compromising on my integrity, in a way.
“I know what your parents think is important to you, Jadey. I do, that’s why we’ve waited this long, but I need us to take this next step.” He paused, thinking about what he should say next. “Surely you know why?”
I knew why. I wanted to cling on to this relationship with both hands. After everything I put Kit through, how could I say no now?
“Let’s do it,” I whispered, the words spoken before the decision was fully formed in my mind.
The next morning, Kit showered, shaved, wore his navy suit, clipped on his Omega, kissed my forehead, and left for work. Around noon, he texted me, saying can’t wait for us to live together—bring on the new year! It was like nothing had happened. And that made me feel an annoying, invisible pain that lingered throughout the day. Like a microscopic but deep paper cut.
It felt like another paper cut when he came over later in the week and put Game of Thrones on after dinner. As Sansa’s screams reverberated through my living-room speakers while she was attacked by her husband, Kit didn’t notice me slip into the bathroom. I stumbled in, the cries of gratuitous violence still bouncing around my flat. It was another paper cut when he told me there was nothing to worry about when I got twitchy that a man was walking close behind us after dark. It was another paper cut that he never once asked what it was I was dreaming of that made me thrash at night.