The weather is ominous, the cold snap in the air chilling my skin despite the layers of scarves and jumpers I’ve piled on, but I got a few great shots out at Ruskin Park. My only company has been the nameless tune I hummed all the way home on Friday night. It’s like the repeat button has been pressed and forgotten. I catch myself lost in the notes half a dozen times. It’s a melodic tune that has seeped inside of me, bursting to break free when I give it half a chance.

On Tuesday, Jenny is at the studio before me. The hostility I felt from her last message has obviously been forgotten over the weekend. Or so I think.

“Good morning, Jenny.”

“Morning.” She’s at her desk with her laptop open, and although she’s in work, the pout on her face tells me she isn’t happy about it.

“Good weekend?” I offer.

“So-so.”

No reciprocal enquiry, but then, I should know what to expect. Her mood is as dull as the October rain outside.

I don’t have a client booked until later this week, so I start on the edits for Mrs Banks and the Wheeler family from last week. As the morning progresses, Jenny doesn’t come out from under her thunder cloud. She doesn’t get up to make a cup of tea or take my offer of conversation. Nothing seems to change her tune.

“Come on. I won’t apologise for Friday, Jenny. And I’ve just lent you a lot of money. You could at least try to be polite.” My hands have found my hips as I stand in front of her desk.

“Thank you for the money. I’m not trying to be a bitch, but you don’t understand what’s going on with me, so it’s best you just leave me alone.”

Her defeatist attitude shakes me. “Then talk to me. We’re friends, or so I thought. Best friends.”

“We are. But that doesn’t mean we share everything. We’re not twelve years old anymore.”

“Really? I thought we did share our troubles with each other? If you can’t even be bothered to tell me what’s going on then I give up.” I grab my bag and leave to go and fetch some lunch. I’m not going to be a pushover and pander to Jenny as I’ve already done.

When I return, Jenny hasn’t changed her manner. Her face is glum, and I ache to lessen her burden. Instead, I ignore her and concentrate on work.

Jenny’s mood swings aren’t anything new, but her attitude has been increasingly crap over the last few months. She’s never been visibly disrespectful to me before or refused to share her problems. I want to be there for her. But how can I if she doesn’t open up and tell me what’s bothering her?

I don’t believe her excuse for the money. The more I’ve thought about it, the more concerned I’ve become. The list of possibilities for what the money could be used for grows longer and longer. Gambling debts, drugs, a loan shark—all as bad as each other.

I try to put my worries for Jenny to the back of my mind, but having a limited number of close friends means it’s a hard thing to do.

The last boyfriend I had was over a year ago. Dating websites seem to work for some, but I have no luck. Awkward first dates with men who are after a quick date followed by sex aren’t what I was looking for then, or now.

It seems there’s a shortage of early-thirty-something-men who are interested in anything close to art or culture of any kind. Even socialising seems a step too far for most. It’s not like I’m asking for Jake Gyllenhaal on the criteria.

Jenny doesn’t say goodbye at 4:30 p.m. and just gets up and leaves. If I’d said no to lending her the money I might have accepted it, but I haven’t. It’s getting harder and harder to tolerate her behaviour, and I can’t hide the hurt it causes.

I lock up the studio and make the short walk to the tube and the Victoria line. Twenty minutes later, I’m walking the familiar path to Darlberg Road. It’s too expensive to rent and build the savings needed to buy in London, and the studio has taken all of my savings. It’s still my priority. My goal is to have a successful company. With that will come the means to buy my own house in time. Until then, I’m stuck in the rental market.

For now, I settle for my little slice of heaven in the shape of a one-bed flat in a Victorian terrace in Brixton. The garden clinched it for me. The space is mine to relax in. No judgements, no Jenny, no questions, customers or bills to worry about. I can be alone with my thoughts and pretend the real world isn’t still racing past outside.

The drawn-out squeak hasn’t magically vanished as I push the front door open and step into the cramped entryway.

I dump my laptop on the table in the living room before kicking my modest heels to the side and pouring myself a deserved glass of white wine. After taking a sip, I pad into the garden, despite the weather, and sit on the wooden bench looking out on my patch of solace.

The simple flower borders have died back now that autumn is growing cold. The colour has drained from the plants, leaving a mix of mossy greens and browns in their place. The two borders leave only a narrow, paved strip down the centre of the garden. No grass to stretch out on and bask in the sun when, and if, it decides to show itself. But I don’t mind. It’s my little escape.

As the cool wine hits my lips again, the tension of the day begins to fade into the background of my mind and the random notes of the tune from Friday evening replace it.

I fight the lonely pang that hits my chest at having no one close to share my down time with. I’ve always promised myself that I don’t need a man in my life and that if it were meant to be, then it will. But a small crevice of my heart longs for someone who will support and love me, and share their life with me.

I gulp a mouthful of wine, bringing a halt to my self-induced pity party.

Every few months the same thoughts and desires seep into my mind and take over like an infection. I think of Mrs Banks and her photos for her husband and laugh. If I were married tomorrow, I’d be pushing eighty before my forty-fifth wedding anniversary. There certainly isn’t a groom in sight. There will have to be a boyfriend first, and that’s proving hard enough.

I shake my head clear, sending my wavy blond hair scattering around my face. Picking myself up, I leave the garden and top up my wine before changing into a pair of slouchy pyjamas.

The song that has rooted itself in my brain begins to play in my mind, and I hum along to a few notes, unsure of where the melody will take me.

* * *

The drizzle isn’t what I want to walk through on my way to work, but the weather is perpetually bad in London. It makes it difficult to schedule any outside shoots, and of course, those are some of my best work.

I put the kettle on after opening up and take a seat on the sofa in the reception area. I’m distracted by a race of rain drops sliding down the window pane, a desperate battle to reach the window ledge first.

The jangle of the bell as Jenny breezes in spoils my concentration and I don’t see which droplet wins.

“Good morning,” she chirps. My eyes pop as I watch her tuck herself behind the desk and get set up.

“Good morning,” I reply, stunned that this is the same girl from yesterday.

“Before you say anything, I know. I’m sorry about the way I’ve been treating you. I’ve been a bitch, and you haven’t deserved any of my venom.”

“Well, thank you for saying that. Have you got everything… taken care of? You seem happier today.”

She pauses for a moment, and a ghost of something crosses her features. The creases around her eyes crinkle for a moment before she glosses them back smooth. “I think I have. But I sort of need another favour.” She smiles as she wrings her hands together.

“Excuse me? Aren’t we still in the middle of the last favour I did for you?” I shift back into the sofa and take a sip from my mug of tea.

“This time it’s different. You’ll like this one.” She comes to join me, all excited. “When was the last time you had a date?”

I roll my eyes, horrified she's so blunt. She knows it’s been months. “I can’t remember. A while,” I confirm, not happy about the turn of conversation.

“Well then, this is just what you need. I have a date on Friday evening.”

“Yes?” I follow along with her, wondering what plan she’s designed.

“And I’d love it if you could go in my place. He’s, well, he’s a business type, and there’s this other guy I’ve been seeing.”

“You’ve double booked?”

“Kind of. What do you say?”

“Why can’t you just cancel? It’s a blind date for goodness sake.”

“Yes, I could. But this way you get a date and so do I. We both win. This guy sounds more your type anyway. More sophisticated. He’s taking me to The Regal, so he’s not too shabby. What do you say?”

I stare at her for a moment, reading her face. She’s edgy about something, and dread pools in my stomach that she’s doing this because he’s a total loser.

“Have you met this man before?” I enquire.

“No. It’s through a dating app.”

“So, what’s the problem with cancelling?”

“Fine. I will. It doesn’t matter. I just thought you could do with a night off. You’ve not been with a guy in forever.” My defences shoot up, and Jenny’s warm demeanour from a few moments ago is now frosty

“Don’t be so mean about it, Jenny. Some of us have responsibilities. I’ll find a guy when I’m ready.”

“I was trying to say sorry and get you to have some fun. That’s what friends do, isn't it? Come on, where’s the harm?”

I mull over Jenny’s offer. I have been grumbling about the men, or the lack thereof, in my life. Perhaps this is an opportunity I should take. Jenny’s eyes are wide with anticipation. She shifts, edging closer to me, and I feel the silent pressure from her. She’s more eager for me to go on this date than she is for her own.

“Fine,” I concede. “I’ll go, but if he’s a jerk, I want an escape plan. You call me after half an hour, and if I answer, you’re my excuse. Deal?”

“Okay, drama queen.” She smiles a genuine, happy smile, but relief flecks her eyes. Her arms are around my neck, and she pulls me against her in a quick hug. I reciprocate before she pulls away and stands abruptly.

“You’re going to have fun. I promise. Thank you,” she sings as she claps her hands together.

“It’s just a blind date. It’s not a problem.”

“You might need to pretend to be me. Is that okay?”

“So, I introduce myself as Jenny. Anything else I need to know?”

“No, no. Dress up. Let your hair down. We can sort the finer details during the week.” She bounces back to her desk and seats herself, looking content.

I let the plans percolate and find that despite the odd circumstances, a flutter of excitement wakes in my stomach. Jenny’s right. It has been too long, and I shouldn’t give up just because I’ve been on a losing streak.

Jenny delivers a cup of coffee to my desk mid-morning. The last few days of roller-coaster mood swings are back on an even keel. “Hey, Jenny, is there a profile pic of this guy? And what’s his name?” I’ve found myself imagining him in my mind—tall, ruggedly handsome with intense eyes.

“Sure. His name is Jonathan Hannover.”

“Jonathan. Right. And a picture?” I roll the name over in my mind picturing someone who is much older than me. Maybe he’s a silver fox, greying at the temples?

“Oh, I wouldn’t believe everything people put on their profiles.”

“If he’s a toad then I’ll be excusing myself and running to the bathroom to escape.”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, Emily. Looks aren’t everything,” she scolds.

“I know. I’ve had a few blind dates in my time. I can handle it.”

* * *

Thursday evening finally greets me, but instead of slumping into my chair and curling up with the latest edition of Practical Photographer as I normally would, I’m rifling through my wardrobe, ready for tomorrow.

My hands run along the rainbow of coloured garments hanging in front of me. I’ve never had the problem of what to wear before. Most of my dresses are modest and conceal much of my cleavage, or I team a skirt with a top, my attempt at making my figure look more hourglass than it is.

I pull a dress from the haven’t-worn-in-forever end and study it. A creamy lace material with embroidered flowers, it has a sweetheart neckline which will only draw attention. I don’t want to give the wrong impression on a first date, but the dress is pretty. Cinched in at the waist, it flows down to my knees. It’s a summer dress really, but if I wear a jacket, I could get away with it.

I try it on, wrestling my boobs into position, and take a look in the oval Cheval mirror in the corner of the room.

My mismatched eyes make a quick evaluation. The dress is lovely, and it clings to my silhouette beautifully. I shouldn’t be ashamed of my assets. Some women would be envious of my chest. I just always feel uncomfortable in my own skin. Being teased at school for having boobs didn’t help. And not just small, developing breasts, I had full on D cups by the time I was fourteen. Boys would stare, and girls would call me names behind my back. Until Jenny caught them. It was just another thing people would tease me about. The self-confidence they knocked from me won’t magically reappear anytime soon. I twirl in front of the mirror and take a breath.

This man, this Jonathan, is a complete stranger. It’s a blind date. It might go horribly wrong, and I’ll never have to see him again. Or, he might be gorgeous, and this could be the start of a whirlwind romance. I should wear something I like and feel good in. I can wear what I like. I’ve seen plenty of women flaunt their assets in public. And in a rare moment of courage, I hang the dress up, ready for tomorrow evening.