Simone
SIMONE
S imone was always happy to return home.
She lived in a beautiful flat, with an open-plan kitchen, double doors leading to a small but pristine garden, a circular dining table with four emerald-green velvet chairs, which she would alternate sitting in so one cushion wouldn’t deflate well before the others.
A darker forest-green L-shaped sofa was positioned in front of the TV, and her TV was set in the center of her wall of books.
These integrated shelves hadn’t come with the flat and had to be expertly assembled, for a fee.
Simone had tried to install them on her own, but it wasn’t a one-person job.
There weren’t any acquaintances she could ask for help, either; anyway, it would have been difficult to explain how she afforded such a place on a primary school teacher’s salary.
So, while Simone had no one to show her flat off to, she preferred it that way. Her home was a safe space, a haven, and she was grateful to exist within it.
However, that evening, Simone had an engagement.
Inside her bedroom, Simone pulled back her hair and secured it with a clip; she slipped out of her clothes and into her walk-in wardrobe.
She ignored the left side, reserved for her school attire, modest and filled with high-street labels, and focused on the shelves to the right side of the full-length mirror, which housed ornate bottles of perfume, expensive bags, heels with red soles, and designer dresses tailored to fit.
From a drawer with a key lock, she retrieved a small black notebook. She’d been seeing Michael for years now and knew everything about him by heart, but Simone always made a habit of rereading her notes before seeing a client.
MICHAEL SATO
Hair preference: loose curls and pinned
Outfit preference: full-skirt dresses
Weight preference: 63–67kg
Heel height: none that tower over his 5’11”
Scent preference: fruity, floral, sweet, subtle
Current job project: hotel extension
Kevin = boss; Matthew = colleague; Sandra = possible crush (keep an eye on this); Greg = assistant (possibly after his job)
Does not like his hair pulled
An hour and a half later, inside Michael’s flat, Simone removed her shoes at the door.
Exposed brick covered one wall, and the center of the living room was taken over by a large walnut-brown couch, a coffee table, and shelves, with a mounted TV hanging on the opposite wall.
The space always gave Simone the feeling of a converted music studio.
Michael Sato, one of her three consistent clients, was a forty-one-year-old divorced architect with brown hair and eyes, and a stomach that slightly strained against his belt so that small gaps formed between his shirt’s buttons.
They’d met when Simone worked exclusively for an escort agency but had continued to see each other once she’d decided self-employment suited her better.
In his vague personal introduction two years ago, Simone had gathered that he’d lost more than he expected to in his divorce, and now he refused to “settle” for anyone that wasn’t Simone—even though she assumed he was aware that, when in this flat, Simone was not herself.
His deal was fantasy work—he liked to make believe.
Michael enjoyed pretending that he and Simone were married and that she had the values and beliefs of a 1950s housewife.
Whenever he booked time with Simone, typically once a month, he left a spare key for her under the mat so that she could be ready and waiting when he arrived home from work.
Simone would let herself in and change into a vintage swing dress and kitten heels that made delicate clipping sounds on the floor, like rain droplets comfortingly hitting tarpaulin.
Tonight, she had only to fluff up her hair (styled into the coiffed curls he preferred) before she tied a bow into the back of her pink-checked apron.
She assessed herself in the hallway mirror, smiled at her devised reflection, then moved away to begin cooking dinner.
Tonight, he’d requested steak, potatoes, and green beans, followed by trifle for dessert.
Soft music played and moonlight streamed in through the window while Simone removed warmed plates from the oven. She turned to the door when she heard a key in the lock. Michael entered, depositing his briefcase by the door and removing his shoes to line up against hers.
“Darling,” he said at the sight of Simone.
“Sweetheart,” she returned as he pressed his lips to her cheek. “Dinner’s almost ready.”
When he kissed her neck, she inhaled the cologne freshly dampening his skin, and Simone wondered if he’d chosen this one because it was her favorite. She leaned in to taste its mineral notes, then further in until she could taste white foam on crashing waves and salty specks of sea dew.
Simone opened her eyes, took his coat, and while his back was turned, buried her nose in the collar before hanging it up.
“Kevin refuses to acknowledge the environmental impact on this one…”
The light breeze from the open windows lifted the corners of the linen tablecloth and Simone watched them float in the air as Michael spoke, the food in his mouth moving in circular motions.
“Now they want to renegotiate the budget we agreed on last year, which Greg agreed to without my go-ahead…”
Simone could afford to relax her attention because Michael was one of those men who didn’t really care if you listened or even understood the context of his monologue.
“Instead, we’re all going to the site now…”
But Simone, with her chin dipped into her palm and eyes on him, nodded and would tsk at appropriate times, slowly nibbling at the food on her plate, a third of his portion size.
“Not with the cladding material we’d paid for…”
She always left food on her plate while he wiped his clean—that had also been included in his list of requests. Simone had not asked for further explanation.
“We, and I mean I , spent weeks on the latest sketch…”
But Simone did often wonder what Michael’s mother was like.
After dessert, Simone lay on his lap while they watched a film. Once the credits had rolled their final names, they both got ready for bed in separate bathrooms.
Michael Sato did not enjoy sex. He enjoyed being held, the hair on the back of his head played with until he fell asleep.
Simone did what she was paid for and reminded herself that there was a reason her work was not for everyone; Michael was not for everyone.
Those quick to judge would point out the softness of his body, the thin lines of his lips, and the limpness of his hair.
But whenever they saw each other, Simone took in the largeness of his hands, the bulge against his trousers, the creases that exploded from the corners of his eyes, and the aforementioned scent of his skin.
Even though in bed Simone was restricted to stroking his hair, she’d silently melt underneath the weight of his arm hooked around her waist and repeatedly swallow her arousal.
When she woke up the next morning, Michael was gone, and the rest of the outstanding money deposited into her bank account.
Like always, he had paid her more in those few hours than her monthly salary at school.