‘I spoke to your assistant, who confirmed you had to take your holiday, so I booked three weeks for me too. Charlie can cover me, it’ll be fine.’
‘And you’ve booked something?’ Chelsea wasn’t sure whether to be impressed or exhausted. She’d been quite looking forward to a few days of doing nothing.
‘I booked a short trip with the option for further stuff. It’s all very relaxed though,’ Kit explained, placing a hand on her knee as he parked outside her flat. ‘I thought you’d want to relax, but I know you wouldn’t last longer than two days before climbing the walls.’
Chelsea grinned. ‘I love you.’
Kit’s face lit up. ‘So go pack some clothes.’
‘I’m assuming I’m not going to be told where we’re going?’
‘Pack…light layers? Pretty stuff for evenings. Shoes that can walk on cobblestones. And a swimsuit.’
‘City break meets summer holiday?’
Kit blinked. ‘It’s warmer than here, but you might want a jacket or scarf or something for the evenings. And I’m not saying anything else.’
‘You know I hate being out of control.’ She rolled her eyes, opening the car door.
‘And you know I’ll make it worth it.’
The man was not wrong. His surprises, whilst they tended to mess with Chelsea’s natural need to be in charge, were always flamboyant and unusual. The problem was, she often felt that they were too much, that she didn’t deserve them. Like the private booth on the boat for Valentine’s Day, the weekend away in that castle for her birthday, the extravagant Tiffany box at Christmas. Kit did nothing by halves, but it was at least a comfort that he also seemed to enjoy the simpler things in life too. The pint in a Wetherspoons, the McDonald’s on the way home from some posh work function where they’d both drunk too much and eaten too little. He responded to each of these experiences as if they were adventures, something exciting and unusual. And from what she’d heard of his childhood, they were.
Chelsea let herself into her brightly lit but undeniably cramped studio, stopping to water the sad spider plant by the door and dump the bundle of letters and adverts from her mum’s on the side. She pulled out a few slim-fit dresses and wrapped them in tissue paper, then haphazardly threw in some jeans, tank tops and cardigans. She fished out a bikini, her very favourite white dress with the roses printed on it, and a pair of strappy heels, just in case. She didn’t like not being able to make her methodical lists, but she had to admit, every other time Kit had whisked her away it had been worth it. If she had to trust someone to take control, Kit was the one who could do it. Even if he had to wrestle it from her stiff, cramped fingers.
Chelsea dumped the entirety of her make-up bag into her suitcase (a small leather wheel along that Kit had bought her for the surprise trip to Spain for their first anniversary) along with shoes, and a light coat.
Chelsea normally took care of her clothes, not forgetting that she’d once never even dreamed she might own things that could cost so much. Fifty pounds on a pair of trousers? Teenage Chelsea would have smirked, ‘What, have they got no personality?’
She bundled the case down the stairs and Kit came out to help load it into the car, ever the gentleman. The man couldn’t help but be a cliché sometimes.
‘A woman who packs light, and packs quickly,’ he exclaimed, slamming the boot of the car and enveloping her in his arms. He always smelled spicy, clean like soap but with some masculine undertone she could never distinguish. He smelled like Kit, and that scent was both a turn on and a comfort.
‘Have I mentioned that I missed you?’ His lips captured hers, soft and full as his hands roamed her back, pulling her closer. A passing car honked at them, and Chelsea pulled back laughing, a blush on her cheeks.
‘You might have brought it up,’ she laughed, stepping away to get into the car.
‘You haven’t.’ He wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Didn’t you miss my various charms?’
‘I always miss your charms, darling, it’s the dirty clothes on the floor every time I come round that I could do without.’
‘You know I’d never leave my clothes on the floor,’ he gasped dramatically, jumping into the car. It was true, the man was a neat freak. He had a cleaner, Helena, come in once a week to re-clean what he’d already done, and iron his shirts for him. He tried, but never managed to get it right, so admitted it was better to ‘just throw money at the problem’. It made Chelsea uncomfortable in a way she couldn’t identify.
Maybe because his flat always seemed so clinical, she thought as they arrived at his bachelor pad a few moments later. It was only twenty minutes’ walk away, a walk in the park for two twenty-somethings who had just realised they were crazy about each other. She’d walked over to his so many times in those first few weeks, excited and hesitant, wondering what his place would look like, then where this was going, what it meant. She’d been shocked the first time she’d seen Kit’s place. A penthouse that seemed so typically masculine and modern, all black shiny surfaces and oversized technology.
Now she stayed quite often, because it was more spacious and comfortable than hers, and easier to get to work in the morning but almost everything about it screamed ‘rich pretty boy’. Sometimes she imagined seeing it through Tyler’s eyes and she knew he’d just roll his eyes and mutter ‘rich prick’. Some days even the ice machine in the fridge seemed to mock her, or the underfloor heating, or the remote control blinds. Here was a man who’d never had to huddle up with his siblings, wearing all his clothes, squished up under their duvets because the heating hadn’t been paid again.
‘Home sweet home,’ Kit said, putting her bag by the door and running a thumb down her arm, switching on the air conditioning. ‘Wine?’
‘Tea,’ she smiled, ‘it’s been a long day.’
Kit looked at her, scanning her face for a trace of something, his eyes soft and concerned.
‘How was the birthday boy?’
‘Thrilled with his presents, the trainers especially.’ Chelsea smiled her brightest smile, her I’m okay, really smile, and Kit nodded in that small way he had, like he was telling you he accepted that you didn’t want to talk about something. It was one of her favourite things about Kit, he didn’t push.
His blue eyes held hers for a fraction longer, then he simply kissed her cheek and went to put the kettle on.
The rest of the evening passed exactly as Chelsea wanted, cuddled up on the sofa, a comedian spouting rubbish on the TV as she laughed into Kit’s chest and tried not to hold his arm too hard.
Some days it seemed like she was desperately clinging to him, holding on as tight as she could without cutting off circulation. Kit seemed to sense these moments, usually after visiting her family, and held her a little tighter, rocking her slightly against his chest. He knew she liked to be quiet at times like that.
His soft eyes held hers that night in bed, as she looked at him, saying nothing, trying to convey in that small smile that she was grateful for him, for his patience and understanding when she retreated into herself.
She watched as he closed his eyes, smiling as he yawned and snuggled into the pillow. She always thought at times like this, of Kit’s offhand comment, a few months into their relationship: ‘You’re hard to get to know, but it’s okay because you’re very easy to love.’
So far he had been happy just to love her, but Chelsea wondered how much longer it would be until he wanted more.
***
‘It’s all about confidence,’ Ruby said as they walked down the high street, ‘start small, smile, and try to be invisible.’
‘You could never be invisible,’