Page 55 of Friends with Benefits

I smiled as she asked about their day at school and they told her tiny, pointless details about snapped crayons and broken biscuits at reading time, but she was interested.

‘Oh, hello.’

I turned to see a woman I instantly recognized.

‘Stephanie Ashley! Hi! It’s Jess. I used to live—’

‘Oh my gosh, yes! I remember you lived across the road. We went to school together.’

Like her mother did, she hugged me. It was one of the most bizarre days of my adult life, and there had been a few. As we spoke of our past and Mrs Ashley told us stories we didn’t even remember, I had an overwhelming sense of belonging. For the first time ever, it felt as if I had a past. Not one that I had made up and perhaps even twisted, but one that other people had shared.

I stayed with Mrs Ashley for a few weeks. I helped her by doing chores around her house and she came with me some days to buy materials and fastenings for my clothes. I hadn’t intended to stay in the UK. I wasn’t sure where I was headed; I had only wanted to come and refresh my memory of my parents, but in those weeks, I found myself reluctant to leave. And so, for the first time since I could remember, I considered planting roots.

Small roots, that could be dug up easily and carried with me, but semi-permanent roots, nonetheless.

I spent time in London, trying to get my clothes into boutique stores. I found one taker in Camden Market and one store on Portobello Road. Both were known for their slightly alternative clothing and given the Asian twist I put on most of my pieces, I thought the fit was perfect. I wrote a few articles and submitted them to magazines. Eventually, one fashion magazine offered me the role of writing semi-regular articles on alternative fashion and international clothing inspiration, for a small sum. Since I had a lot of photographs from traveling, it worked out well.

I had income, but I knew I could take either job anywhere with me. I could submit articles via email and I could have my clothes shipped from almost any place on earth. I had no idea where I would go next but I could flee if I wanted to. The thought of staying in one spot was something I didn’t think I could manage any more. It was all I knew, moving on. For so long, I had wanted to feel like I belonged somewhere, but I had traveled alone for so many years, my longest relationships lasting only weeks, I knew I would end up running at some point. I needed an out when things became too much.

My clothes slowly began to sell in the two stores, until I had them in four stores, and I needed to look for a studio space. I was also conscious that I needed to leave Mrs Ashley’s home, having probably overstayed my welcome.

The lady who owned the Camden Market boutique put me in touch with Jenni, who owned a studio in Camden. It was the third floor of a building, above one of Camden’s many sex shops. As you can imagine, I wasn’t feeling it initially, but I climbed the rickety staircase anyway and knocked on the white door of the studio.

‘Come in! Come in!’

I couldn’t place the source of the voice but figured the call was to me, so I pushed inside, surprised to find a huge, white, open space filled with canvasses on easels, paints, materials. A radio was playing Sheryl Crow’s ‘All I Wanna Do.’

I took in the artsy space, thinking I could definitely work there. Then I was practically knocked off my feet by a girl with pixie hair wearing jean shorts and a polka-dot T-shirt. She bumped her hip into mine with such force, I rocked to the side and reached out to the wall to support myself.

‘You must be Jess.’

As I took in all her ear piercings, her nose ring and lip stud, and the tattoo sleeve inked on her left arm, I confirmed I was.

‘Well, take a look around. I lost the guy I shared with last week – he moved to a bigger space – and I could use someone straight in to split the cost.’

She moved around the space quickly as she spoke, disorienting me. She disappeared behind a door into another room, which I assumed was a toilet until she left the door open and kept talking, then I figured it couldn’t be. After I’d started working there, I realized Jenni had actually been talking to me from the toilet. She was quite a free spirit like that.

‘Have you eaten lunch?’ she asked.

I moved to a modern painting of a woman’s face on the wall, taking in the bright colors. ‘Erm, no, actually.’

Jenni reappeared. ‘Great. Let’s go to the market.’

It was a sunny day in Camden. We ate chickpea curry outside, sat on old whisky barrels as we shared one, then two, bottles of wine, the alcohol cementing our friendship.

‘So, you’ll take the space?’ Jenni asked, once the wine fog had already taken hold.

‘What would the arrangement be?’

‘Six months. Pay me two weekly. We’ll split the room down the middle. Simple.’

I took a gulp of wine, then set my glass down on the barrel. ‘Six months?’

‘O-oh, I’ve got you sussed. You’re one of those, aren’t you?’

‘One of those what?’ I asked.

She shrugged as she drained the last of the wine directly from the bottle. ‘A commitment-phobe.’

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