I want to tell you about something that happened last summer, the end of a period of significant change for me. About three years ago, on the advice of my wife and friends, I had quit my job and set myself up running a business consultancy specializing in optimizing distance working for companies and their staff. I like to say it was a prescient move on my part, but the truth is no one could have predicted how a global pandemic would change the way we all work. But, honestly, by May 2020, the phone was ringing off the hook, and I couldn't hire good people fast enough. I suppose this was the high-class problem, but it wasn't the only change.
During this period, my wife of 18 years and I concluded that our relationship had run its course as far as marriage goes. We still loved each other: indeed, we remain good friends now, but it became clear we were no longer in love with each other. Our physical relationship had all but dried up, and we both agreed it would be only a matter of time before either one of us ended up having an affair. I think we'd both separately come to the same conclusion some time ago, but neither of us mentioned anything for fear of hurting the other. Thus, when my ex finally told me she was thinking about a divorce, I laughed out of relief more than anything else. That night we discussed an open relationship, but sex wasn't the only issue, so I decided to move into the guest bedroom until we could sell the house.
One of the people I turned to was the only person I knew who had already gotten divorced, a friend from when I first moved to London some 20 years ago, Jen. She had split with her ex after he turned out to be a jealous, controlling arsehole. Hers was a bad breakup, so when my marriage ended Jenny was worried for me. Fortunately in our case however, the paperwork was the biggest thing I had to complain about.
Jen was lovely. I'd known her since my Camden days. My mates and I would hang out bumming a drink off anyone who would pay and skate the local spots badly. Jen had the dubious qualifications of being both interested in skaters and rich, as her dad ran a bunch of bars across London. He'd split up with her mum so lavished attention and a bank account on his only daughter, who in turn shared the love with her 'cool skater' mates. In truth, she wasn't the only rich kid slumming it with us. Back then, Camden was full of them, children of media types who made coin in the 90s. They had the money, and we were part of the alternative scene that made Camden cool. Unlike most rich kids however, the glamour of spending time with a bunch of dirty skate punks, never wore off for Jen. She stuck around long after most of those slumming it had gone off to something newer and cooler than us.
When we met, I was with the woman I would go on to marry. That cut out a lot of the flirting faff Jenny felt she should have to do with her male friends, and as a result, we developed a close and lasting friendship. She was one of a kind, and while no one could say she was stupid, she had a well-earned reputation for endearing ditziness. Jen could also be quite a flake at times, not turning up to things or disappearing early without warning or even saying goodbye, etc. Turns out underneath all the heart and caring, she had one hell of a social anxiety issue masked by drinking in her 20s. For a while, falling in love with her husband had helped replace that booze-fuelled confidence, but the anxiety came back with a bang after her divorce. She lost all self-confidence and was consistently dating some useless bloke as a crutch, eventually ditching them all for being too controlling.
The Irony of course was that she had nothing to be worried about. Standing a good 5'5 in trainers with long lithe legs and an athletic body that she simply didn't deserve given the amount of junk food she could put away and fact she never seemed to exercise. She was always complimented about her beaming smile that would light up a room and the brunette hair that had a ridiculous amount of body and bouncy curls. Even when I was married, I always thought of her as an absolute stunner, a storm in a D-cup if you will.
We had a joke between us that she was leaping from titanic to titanic, hoping one wouldn't sink. She was very much unlucky in love but, by her own admission, posed an easy target, 30 something daughter of a multi-millionaire with a taste for a bad boy. Probably not a great combination. Eventually, she was persuaded that perhaps what she needed was to be single for a while. Her dad was lovely as ever and offered to let her stay in one of his many flats, so naturally, she chose the penthouse with stunning views over North London. I didn't blame her. To be honest, who wouldn't if it was an option.
On the other hand, I did not have a benevolent millionaire dad with an excess of penthouses available, so I had decided that I should buy a reasonably sized two-bedroom flat in Clapham. Unfortunately, as much as the business had taken off, London housing prices are insane, and if I wanted to live anywhere reasonable, I would need to spend time fixing it up. But, of course, it wasn't an option for the first six months, so it wasn't until August that I managed to take a month away from the company and start work in my own place.
I was midway through putting up the second coat of paint on the living room walls, now that the plaster finally cured when the phone rang. It was only 9:30 am on an otherwise ordinary Wednesday. Still, London was sweltering already and forecast to reach 30c. U.K. houses don't usually come with air conditioning, so I was more than a little sweaty already, even with the windows wide open.
"Hiya chump!" Jen opened with our traditional greeting to each other "What are you up to? I need you to come round and help me with something."
It genuinely didn't occur to her that I would likely be working or let alone with a client did it. She'd been accused in the past of trying to be some manic pixie dream girl by an ex of hers, but the truth was more mundane. Jen was an artist who had not been burdened the usual 9 to 5 routine since she left school. That and not being comfortable leaving the house half the time meant that such things as the regular weekday schedule didn't cross her mind.
"Hey, chump. I was busy painting, but yeah, sure, I could do with a break."
"Anything good? I'd love to see what you're working on."
"My living room Jen, I'm painting my living room, nothing glam."
"Oh yeah." There was a pause, and I could tell something was up. Her bubbles were less bubbly somehow.
"What is it hon, something up?"
"Hmm, do you mind coming round? I need help, but I don't want to say on the phone."
I tried to get the details out of her, but all she would say was she'd lost a bet. Intrigued, I jumped in the shower before grabbing what was left clean in the wardrobe and catching a tube across town to see what was up. When I got there around 11, Jen was already dressed to leave the flat. Like me, she's typically found kicking around in a pair of jeans, t-shirt, and trainers, so I forget she can scrub up. Jen was wearing a loose black silk camisole over an expensive but straightforward bra judging by the straps and a pair of loose culottes that came to her mid-calf. Gone were the usual vans; they too were replaced by a pair of strappy heeled sandals.
"Damn, girl!." I said when she greeted me at the door, "You've scrubbed up well. What's the occasion?"
She looked down at her outfit. "What this? Well, we're going shopping and not at the usual places you go."
"Shopping? Where? Wait, I get my suits from Tom Baker. They're nice suits."
"Yeah, but that's for work. You're normally a right scruffy bastard," she giggled, not being entirely serious. "How come you're better dressed than normal?"
"Combination of luck and social pressure."
We walked inside the spacious north London penthouse she 'looked after' for her dad. Jen looked at me, a little confused. I was in a smart-casual pair of chino shorts and a light blue linen shirt. Better dressed than usual, but as I said, it's what was left clean.
"What do you mean social pressure? Of all my friends, you give the least amount of fucks about anything when you're not at work and luck? I don't get it."
"Luck, I ran out of normal shorts because they're all covered in paint. Besides, I always feel underdressed when I come here. You live in a booji fucking penthouse overlooking London. I feel like I'm bringing down the property prices just by standing here."
"Ha, you got a point." Jen opened the fridge and poured me a glass of chilled fruit juice. "Still, this place is my dad's, not mine. I wouldn't be able to live here normally, but he loves me, you know?"
We looked out over central London, sipping our drinks and enjoying the view. I love having rich mates.
"So, what do you need me for? If you're going shopping, surely I can't be all that much help, and how does this involve losing a bet?"
