A graveyard of possessions piled up by the door. It had taken a week straight to pack my flat up. A by-product of working harsh hours was the habit of repurchasing essential items. Instead of doing a load of laundry, a pack of ten new knickers. Instead of loading and unloading the dishwasher, disposable cutlery and paper plates. I’d generated a shameful amount of waste that I wasn’t willing to carry with me into this next chapter. Everything was now out in the open. Moving in with Kit would be a clean start. A hit on the reset button.
I looked around my first adult flat. My shelter, now bastardized. It was bittersweet. I’d thrived here for years, but now I could only see signs of what Josh did everywhere: my stained bedside table, the bolt on the door. In certain moments, after dusk sank and the amber glow of the streetlamps streamed in, I was alone with him again.
I culled ruthlessly. Any item of clothing that I didn’t love went to the homeless shelter. Any book that I didn’t plan on rereading was donated to the charity shop. I left items of furniture out in the lobby of my building with a sign saying FREE—please help yourself. Items of any value, a Vitamix blender and my TV, I gave to my parents. I felt lighter with every item I said goodbye to, each a horcrux of my sadness.
Baba arrived in his trusty gray-blue fleece, his new one nowhere to be seen. The powdery-blue sky did not give away the crisp chill of late January. We worked methodically, carrying boxes downstairs and Tetrising them in the car. Hands rigid but torsos warm.
“Where’s the boy?” Baba heaved, as he squatted to pick up another box.
“Kit will meet us at the flat and help us move in,” I said, hoping this was true. He hadn’t replied to me all morning.
“Interesting,” Baba mused. “Only a mile between Clapham and here. This old man will lift all these heavy boxes alone.”
I ignored his pointed comments and deflected. “Baba, one of the clients I’ve been working with has offered me a job at her company.”
Baba froze mid-squat.
“When did you apply to her company?” he asked.
“I didn’t. She needs a new internal legal team and suggested me for one of the positions.”
He let the box thump on the ground. He walk-danced toward me, arms outstretched, hands cupped together until they held my chin.
“Mashallah, hayatim. Your work is paying off.” Baba nodded. “Will you take it?”
“Yes,” I said, too quickly. “I need to get this filing across the line at the end of the month, then she’ll send me all the paperwork. But this client—Genevieve—she is amazing, I’ve loved working with her.” Though that wasn’t the whole truth behind why I wanted to leave, nor was it a lie.
Jade Kaya, now:
Babe, we’re heading over to Clapham now. ETA—10 mins xxx
The Clapham Flat was undeniably an upgrade. Covetable high ceilings, original wood floors, and deep shelved alcoves which would look glorious filled with books. Every wall was painted a muted gray Farrow & Ball shade that, I’m told, an “expert colorist” chose for Ian Campbell. There were two bedrooms, the master of which had a large bay window with a balconette that you could imagine a rich woman leaning against as she drank her morning espresso. Am I the rich woman now? I guess so. The dissonance I felt with the decision to move into this flat crested inside me again. It didn’t feel right. I shook past it. I stood by the door and directed Baba to set down each box in a different room.
“Okay, what’s left to come up?” I asked.
“That’s everything.” Baba slapped his hands together. The air clung to the fact that there still hadn’t been a sighting of Kit on the plains of Clapham Common.
“Hayatim,” Baba began, looking anywhere but at me, “are you sure about this?”
I twinged at his tone.
“Yes, Baba,” I said, kissing him on the cheek, “I’m sure.”
Am I?
I fished out my double teapot and we brewed tea together in my new kitchen. An elaborate, time-consuming process which was very different from dunking a tea bag in a mug. For Turks, the process of making tea is ritualistic and familial, while the process of drinking tea is communal, essential. It would take under five minutes in any Turkish town to find stools haphazardly scattered along the pavement with uncles chain-smoking and drinking tea. Our teapot was a vertical gadget, with two pots, one on top of the other. Water was boiled on the stove (never in a kettle) in the bottom pot, with the loose tea leaves brewed slowly in the top.
“I must say, I’m very excited.” Baba zipped his fleece closed and picked up his toolbox.
“Yeah? What for?”
“I’m excited to find out what excuse that boyfriend of yours has for not being here.”
“Baba…”
“Listen to me. God gave you two ears and one mouth to listen twice and speak once. He’s cutesy and handsome, whatever.” I laughed at the word “cutesy” coming from Baba. “That boy has never had to lift a finger in his life, Jade. A girl like you, we have scraped our whole lives to make something out of you. You will clash.”
“Where is this coming from?” It was one thing to be annoyed Kit wasn’t here today, but Baba hadn’t previously expressed any concern about our compatibility. Has he thought this all along?
“I see things, babam. You’re pretending to be something you’re not for him.”
“What if I am that person and you’re just not happy with that?” I squawked. “Because I’m not where you guys are still?”
Baba, who didn’t have a spiteful bone in his body, looked astonished. God, I didn’t mean that.
He said, very quietly, “You’re right, we don’t have much.” Baba stared through me, before finally saying, “but he’s got the best we have to give.”
I swallowed hard.
“I’m sorry, that was wrong of m—”
“I’m warning you, Ceyda.” I knew he meant business when he drew down his cherished grandmother’s name. “I don’t want you to wake up one day and realize your train has sailed.”
“Train? What train?” I stammered. “It’s SHIP, Dad! For God’s sake, it’s that my SHIP has sailed.”
“Whatever. You’re still young.” A new pleading crept into his voice. “I don’t want you to waste your best years. I didn’t raise you to be subservient to some white boy who doesn’t understand basic manners.”
“Why have you never said any of this before?”
“I know what people think about cultures like ours,” he said. “Your father controls you. Tells you what to do, what to wear, who to marry.” I felt like my heart might break. “I have always tried to let you make your own mistakes, create your own life.”
It was true. As I matured, it became assumed that I could be trusted to make the right choices. It was also gradually inferred that they didn’t—or rather, couldn’t—understand the nuances, the pressures of this career, this lifestyle, this Western relationship. Baba respected this status quo and fettered his observations. This escape of his doubts was momentous.
“And what’s changed now?”
“He should be here! Where is he?” Baba started theatrically opening wardrobes and cupboards, looking for Kit. “Hello! Are you in here? Helloooo?”
I tried to keep a straight face, but when Baba moved to the kitchen cupboards, throwing them open with gusto, I spluttered with laughter. He moved toward me, his point made.
“I’m serious, kizim.” Baba lifted a finger to my face. “The moment he disrespects you like this again, you come straight home. Do you understand?”
“It won’t happen again.”
Baba looked at the floor.
“Vallahi, you deserve better.”
Kit came home two hours later.
“Hey baby.” He kissed me on the forehead.
“Hello,” I said coolly.
“How did it go—” he began.
“Where the hell were you today?” I snapped.
“It’s been mental. You’ve seen the news, haven’t you? Theresa’s been thrashed in Parliament, again. Our clients are all racing to secure their positions in case of a no-deal Brexit—”
“I don’t care!” I shouted. “I don’t care what the clients want,” I mimicked him. “I moved in today! You were supposed to be here!”
Kit put his jacket down and placed his hands on his hips.
“What’s going on with you, Jade?”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t understand.” Kit rubbed his eyes. “We both have demanding jobs. We always have. I thought we both respected that about each other. You’ve practically been a ghost the past few months with Arrow. You’ve canceled dates, not replied to me for hours on end. And now I miss one day, and you’re going to give me a tough time for it?”
“It’s different for me, I have to work that hard,” I seethed. “You wouldn’t understand, you’re just—”
“Oh bloody hell, yep yep, I get it. I’m just another straight white guy. How could I possibly understand anything about hard work.”
“Did you even tell your boss about today?” I sneered. “Or are you so far up his arse, eager to please Daddy’s best mate, that you said yes to working today?”
“What has gotten into you, Jade! Do you tell Genevieve you can’t work a Sunday because you want to go and smell Aesop candles and drink overpriced cocktails with your boyfriend?” Kit stared at me. “Well? Do you? No, you don’t. You blow me off to go running to her. Can you appreciate that I might care about my career too? Or is it only you who matters in this relationship anymore?”
“I beg your pardon?” I stammered.
Kit threw his hands up and looked at me. He was panting slightly. His brows pulled together, and his face softened. He came to sit next to me.
“I don’t know. This is obviously bigger than today,” he said. We sat in silence for a while. “A few months ago you never would have picked a fight with me the moment I walked through the door.”
“I’m just trying to tell you how I feel!”
“You’re always feeling something, Jade! You’re never—” Kit’s hands were turning as if digging for the right word. “I don’t know, relaxed! We never have fun anymore!”
There was a lump the size of a golf ball stuck in my throat.
“Sorry my being assaulted has resulted in less fun for you, Kit,” I spat.
“Fuck, Jade. You know that’s not what I meant. We’re both running on fumes.” He sounded so defeated. “I want to be there for you, I do.”
“You haven’t tried to understand what’s going on with me, Kit.”
“I’m not a mind reader, Jade! I can’t miraculously know what you’re going through if you don’t communicate with me.”
“You don’t need to be a mind reader to realize that moving out of the place I was raped in was going to be a big deal.”
Kit winced. That word hung like a dirty smell in the room. It felt like a rhetorical tool. Like I said it for impact, without sincerity.
“I don’t know why you have to be so… direct.”
“I don’t have the luxury of tiptoeing around it,” I muttered.
“How are we going to move forward if you keep bringing up what happened in the past?”
“It’s not the past for me!” I was exasperated. “It may be long forgotten for you, but I can’t just ‘move forward.’ ”
“I can’t talk to you when you get like this, J.” Kit rubbed his forehead, looking like a new father, weary with his child’s wailing. “Everything I say is wrong. I feel like I’m treading on eggshells around you.”
“Why am I always the problem!”
“I think we should take a time out,” Kit said and stood up. “Cool off, come back to the conversation when we’re a little less heated.”
What? You can’t say all those things about me then walk off! I wanted to scream. But I knew that would get me nowhere. So I just nodded.
Cooking always relaxed me. The boundless possibilities. The method of it. I whipped together a quick fried rice and offered Kit a bowl in silence. A peace offering of sorts. His body language softened.
“Thank you, Jadey.”
We put the TV on to avoid speaking, catching a rerun of Mulan. We sat in silence. We might not be on the best terms, but relationships go through phases, right? If everyone gave up on a relationship with every rough patch, there would be no couples. Our fuses were short at the moment, but the dust would settle.
“Love you,” Kit murmured, calling a ceasefire. “I hate fighting with you.”
“Love you too.”
I do, I do, I do, I recited inside. He stroked my shin gently. When Donny Osmond’s voice hit the screen, we both jauntily jiggled to “I’ll Make a Man Out of You”—Kit singing Donny’s part with overenthusiastic verve that made him roll straight off the sofa. His head popped up from the floor and he kissed the ball of my foot as I chortled with a mouthful of rice. This is nice. This is us.
“Now that we’re living together,” he ventured, “maybe we could host something next weekend?”
“So grown-up!”
“Invite Eve. And I’ve barely met Adele. You spend so much time together, I’d love to get to know her more.”
He was trying.
“Okay, I’ll organize.”
“That was yummy, my Mulan,” he said, patting the bun on the top of my head.
Something within me splintered.
He’d called me Mulan before. I guess I thought it was cute. Or had it always jarred and I ignored it?
On the eve of my twenty-first birthday, nearly five years ago, I made my way to see Kit. His place was the penthouse apartment of a converted warehouse off Bermondsey Street, with a wraparound balcony and rooftop. The living room had exposed brickwork that made it seem like an artist’s studio. I arrived and let myself in, set the kettle to boil, and began rinsing out some mugs to make tea in. The boys all came in as I was drying a mug and wiping some tea off the counter.
“Hey.” Kit saw me at the sink, pulling me in at the waist and making a show of dipping me over and kissing me.
“There she is, our housemaid!” Ollie exclaimed.
“Hey, what the fuck?” Kit’s head snapped back to glare at Ollie, and his arm extended in front of me the way a driver does to their passenger when hard braking. “That’s not funny, mate.”
My cheeks burned with embarrassment.
“It’s fine.” I tried to laugh it off.
“What was that comment about?” Kit pushed.
“It was a joke, dude.” Ollie held his hands up. “Because she was washing up when we came in.”
“But would you have said the same thing about a white person?” Kit was animated. I was squirming. “Or are you saying that because she’s Asian? Do you think all Asian people are houseworkers?”
Nobody said that.
“Kit, stop…” I wheedled. “It was just a misunderstanding.”
“No, it wasn’t. Ollie, the things you say have subtext, you should be mindful of that.”
“Yeah, okay.” Ollie’s bravado melted away, having been scolded by the flat alpha. “I’m sorry, Jade. I never meant to upset you.”
I never even said I was upset! Kit was the one who had the issue!
“You don’t have to always pull people up on stuff like that,” I said later in his bed, facing the window.
“I do.” He tapped my shoulder. “Turn over?” I did as he asked, and we were nose to nose. “It’s my responsibility to call stuff like that out, the labor shouldn’t be yours.”
“You making a big deal out of it makes me feel,” I whispered, “really awkward and out of place.”
“And what would it say about me if I just stood by?”
At the time, I was silent.
I should have told him the truth. It wasn’t about him at all.
I went to the kitchen with our empty bowls and took measured breaths with my back against the door. Countless memories came flooding back to me, of all the times Kit had defended my honor. The time when I got kicked out of a club in Shoreditch for being too drunk, despite being on antibiotics and only drinking Pepsi Max all night. Kit ensured the bouncer in question got fired, then tweeted about how he was saddened to witness the shocking discrimination. The times we saw other interracial couples—always white men with ethnically ambiguous women—and Kit nodded at the boyfriend. The time we landed in Gatwick and the customs officer questioned the validity of my British passport. Kit hovered nearby, filming us, and told me I should post it to Instagram. The time we went to Tesco’s together and he was so thirsty that he opened a bottle of water before paying, and I was the one who got accused of shoplifting. Kit gave a speech in front of a dozen Sunday shoppers. He was prepared to disrupt comfort levels to defend me. But at the expense of whose comfort? And if he was so aware in public, why did he call me Mulan in private?
It slipped out, I told myself, you’re so sensitive these days! Am I the type of woman who picks fights with her man on a Sunday? Or am I the woman who understands he meant no harm and knows not to ruin an evening?