Page 10 of Friends with Benefits

I’ve tried not to think about whether I miss Emily. I used to. When I first came to London, I was crushed sometimes by how much I wanted to speak to her, even just send her a text message. We’d gone from speaking every day and knowing every single tiny thing there was to know about each other – or so I thought – to nothing.

I’m going to the Hamptons. I have to. I want to. My brother and our friends are going to be there. A week of hanging together in one house is bound to be crazy fun. But I just can’t see Emily. What are we supposed to do? Act like nothing happened, continue as we always were? Or wind up in some kind of awkward handshake-hug, neither one of us knowing how to speak to the other?

By the time I get back to the apartment, I feel like I’ve stewed enough. I’m hoping Jess is home. When she’s writing for her regular column or doing her freelance fashion stuff, she usually works from cafés because she gets too distracted at home. That’s the thing about Jess; she’s always easily distracted. Well, except when we’re…

Anyway, she mentioned that she was putting together some new clothing ideas today, which could mean sketching or sewing and pinning things. When she does the practical stuff, she tends to go to a studio she rents from a friend in Camden. So, chances are, she isn’t home, but damn, I want her to be. She’s pretty much the only person I feel like speaking with right now.

I open the door of the apartment and don’t see her but can smell her. That might sound odd, but she has this distinct scent, like flowers and candy. Sweet and bubbly. Like her. I also hear her music, ‘Nine to 5’ by Dolly Parton, is playing through the iPod dock on the dining table. Then I see her mess. Fabric, pens, scissors, thread, sketch pads, all scattered around the rug in the living room.

She’s a walking hot mess. But an outrageously loveable one.

I call out for her but when she doesn’t answer, I go in search of her. I hear her talking and assume she’s on the phone. Her bedroom door is ajar so I nudge it open to ask if she wants anything, maybe one of her funky loose-leaf teas from Spitalfields market. But I don’t ask because she looks uncommonly stressed. She’s pulling on her bottom lip, her cell phone pressed to her ear as she paces in front of her window.

‘You know I hate to ask. It’s just that one of the magazines hasn’t paid up this month and the fashion show I did last week actually cost me money. I have most of the rent but I’m about a hundred short and it needs to be paid today.’

She’s talking about the rent on the apartment. I know because it’s on my to-do list for tonight: transfer money to landlord.

‘Oh, really? No, I understand. No, really, don’t worry. I’ll figure something out. It’s one month. I always pay on time. I’m sure it will be fine. The magazine said the money should be in my bank early next week. Thank you, anyway. Sorry to interrupt your mai tai.’ She chuckles, her dimples showing beneath her high cheekbones. ‘Okay, speak soon.’

I move quietly away from her door, then call out to her from my own bedroom. ‘Hey, Jess!’

‘Hey! I didn’t realize you were home.’

‘Just walked in. I’m going to grab a shower, then I’ll be out.’

‘Great. I’m going to make some tea. Sencha with orange and rose petals. Do you want some?’

‘Sounds gross. I’m good, thanks.’

What I could really use is a natural disaster to stop Emily going to the Hamptons next week. Okay, I don’t mean that. But maybe, I don’t know, high winds or something. Nothing fatal.

I jump in the shower to remove the office grime and pull on a pair of sweatpants when I get out. I take my Mac from under my bed and load my internet banking. Jess said she was a hundred short. I add two hundred pounds to my usual rent contribution and log off.

In the living room, Jess is sitting among her mess, her legs crossed in offensively bright floral lounge pants. She looks content. Happier than she was when I arrived.

She beams when she looks up at me. ‘How was your day?’

‘A lot less messy than yours by the looks of it.’

She twists her face and presses the tip of her index finger to her button nose. It’s a thing she does when she knows she’s being cheeky. ‘Sorry. I didn’t feel like heading up to Camden today, what with the underground strike. I’m almost done with this piece, then I’ll clean up.’

‘Don’t move it for me; I can watch TV around you.’ I take a seat on the sofa behind her and lean back, my legs spread. ‘Do you have chopsticks in your hair?’ I ask, studying the way she has pinned her brown locks.

‘Oh, yeah. I’ve never eaten with them or anything, though.’ Her words are only just decipherable as she speaks with a pin in her mouth. ‘There. Done.’

She stands and holds up a silk top. It has an Asian feel to it. Like a short kimono. It is red with pink, green and blue flowers embroidered down the sides. But she has added lace around the low V-neck so it finishes like a ruched turtleneck. Okay, my descriptions of chick clothes aren’t the best, but you can imagine the kind of things she makes. Fusion. Victorian British meets geisha.

‘I like it,’ I tell her, non-committal because I know what comes next.

‘What do you like about it?’

There it is.

‘I like the colors. Red silk works for me. As does black lace, for the record.’

She picks up a sofa cushion and throws it at me but smiles as she does. ‘Your mind is in the gutter.’

‘Always.’

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