Lives Between Walls

Sindi had come to believe that love was not enough to hold a relationship together.

At least, not by itself.

Bright-eyed and full of hope, she had married in her early twenties, only to watch the marriage collapse a few years later. After that, she retreated into the less formal architecture of boyfriends and girlfriends, believing marriage itself had been the problem.

The pattern continued there too.

Every relationship began with promises and ended in disappointment.

That was when she realised that love had been the common denominator in every failure. Everyone had treated it as a foundation. Nobody had stopped to ask whether it could carry the weight.

Her most recent relationship had been the worst.

It began, as these things often do, with fireworks, then slowly deteriorated into ash. The house she lived in became cold, resentful and emotionally abusive.

Combined flaws had proved to be the right ingredients for a perfect storm.

That relationship split her into two.

The house made her feel difficult, undesirable and excessive.

The office building admired her.

People greeted her warmly. They listened when she spoke. They remembered her birthday. They sought her approval. Some of the younger men clearly had crushes on her. Her staff worked late for her, defended her decisions and celebrated her achievements.

As the relationship deteriorated, she began staying at the office long after everyone else had gone home.

She told herself she was working.

In truth, she was hiding from a house that always seemed to shrink her.

The air-conditioning system would hum sweet nothings into her ear while the lights of the city flickered beyond her office windows. By the time she returned to the frowning house, she would already have received enough smiles, praise and attention to survive the silence.

It was during that period that she began asking herself a question:

Why was there more affection waiting for her at work than in her own home?

Eventually, she left the relationship. The house however, never stopped hurling insults at her.

She tried to sell the house once.
The house refused.

She didn’t blame him, or the house. She blamed love.

She remained single for a long time afterward.

During that period, she became even more devoted to work. The company became her family because it was the only place where relationships made sense.

At work, expectations were clear.

People had contracts.

People had duties.

People were accountable.

People received rewards for loyalty.

People faced consequences for neglect.

Sindi began to suspect that romantic relationships failed because they were too informal.

In romance, people spoke about forever without defining working hours. They promised loyalty without performance indicators. They demanded emotional availability without agreeing on deliverables.

Then the realisation came to her.

People were loyal when there was something to gain and something to lose.

Marriage itself was a contract. Employment was a contract. Business partnerships were contracts.

Why should friendship, companionship and romance be left to feelings alone?

So Sindi brought the workplace home.

She created vacancies.

There was a post for a Personal Assistant, another for a Friend and Social Companion, an Emotional Adviser, a Gym Partner, a Weekend Recreation Coordinator and, finally, a Domestic Lover.

Each position came with a job description, working hours, a monthly salary, leave days, performance indicators, a probation period, pension contributions, unemployment insurance and disciplinary procedures.

Candidates submitted CVs.

They attended interviews.

References were checked.

People were appointed.

I was hired as the Emotional Adviser.

My duties included listening to Sindi when she was distressed, helping her process difficult decisions and offering objective guidance when she became overwhelmed. I was not a therapist. The contract stated that clearly. I was simply required to be emotionally available for a fixed number of hours each week.

The salary was good.

She respected labour law.

She paid on time.

In Sindi’s mind, she was not purchasing people.

She was purchasing certainty.

For the position of Domestic Lover, she appointed Junior.

He was young, attractive, intelligent and calm. More importantly, he did not appear intimidated by her wealth or status.

His duties included waking her with breakfast on selected mornings, asking about her day, accompanying her to dinners and events, taking walks with her, attending films and social outings, providing affection, sleeping beside her, maintaining a regular sexual relationship and offering comfort when she was distressed.

No wonder he was paid more than the rest of us.

Their boundaries were discussed professionally during the interview.

Junior signed the contract.

There was no uncertainty.

No pretending.

Everyone knew what was expected.

Her home began to operate like her company.

The assistant managed her appointments.

The friend joined her for lunch and gossip.

I listened to her problems.

The gym partner kept her disciplined.

The recreation coordinator arranged outings.

Junior fulfilled the lover role.

At the end of every month, salaries were paid.

Performance reviews were conducted.

At first, Sindi appeared deeply satisfied.

Nobody forgot her birthday.

Nobody disappeared without explanation.

Nobody told her they had lost feelings.

Nobody left her waiting beside a cold dinner.

Even the house seemed kinder to her, appeased by its new role.

She had finally designed a life in which abandonment was a breach of contract.

Junior soon became exceptionally good at his job.

He did everything required of him and then began going beyond the performance agreement.

He remembered small details Sindi had mentioned weeks earlier.

He noticed when she was pretending to be fine.

He sat with her long after his agreed hours.

He wiped her tears without being asked.

He bought her small gifts with his own money.

He learned exactly how she took her coffee.

He sent messages on days when he was not scheduled to work.

When she fell ill, he stayed beside her through the night.

None of those things appeared in his work plan.

His performance became impossible to measure because he kept giving her things she had never requested.

That was when Sindi began speaking about him during our sessions.

“Do you think a person can begin by performing love and eventually feel it?” she asked me one evening.

I looked down at the notes on my lap.

“I think people can develop feelings in almost any environment.”

“That is not what I asked.”

I closed the notebook.

She leaned back in the chair.

“Sometimes Junior looks at me as though there is nobody else in the room.”

“Maybe he’s just doing his job.”

She hated that answer.

The uncertainty had begun to consume her.

She watched Junior closely.

She noticed the way he looked at her when he thought she was not watching. She began to wonder whether his affection had become genuine.

Perhaps he no longer saw her merely as an employer.

Perhaps somewhere between the duties and the salary, he had fallen in love with her.

The thought excited her.

For the first time, she began imagining a life with Junior outside the contract.

Then doubt entered.

One evening, after he had comforted her through a difficult day, she almost asked whether he loved her.

But the house stopped her.

Even if he said yes, how would she know?

He was paid to reassure her.

Paid to remain close.

Paid to touch her.

Paid to say the right things.

Paid to make her feel wanted.

He may have loved her.

Or he may simply have been excellent at his job.

The system she had created to protect herself from false love had made genuine love impossible to identify.

“Would he still hold me like that if payroll stopped?” she asked me.

It was not really a question.

She was already planning the experiment.

I advised her against it.

She ignored me.

That month, everyone received their salary – except Junior.