Simone
SIMONE
O n Sundays, Simone always started with the cupboards.
Her flat rarely entered a state of disarray, but regardless, at the end of every week, Simone would wake before seven, tie her hair in a scarf, change into old clothes, and deep clean with ferocity.
She removed glasses and cutlery from all cupboards and drawers before cleaning them out.
Then she did the same with the fridge. She sprayed the countertops before scrubbing the sink.
She vacuumed the sofa and dining chairs, dusted the visible edges of her shelves and the tops of her countless books.
She wiped her dining table down, and then hoovered and mopped the floor.
She moved into the bedroom and repeated, adapting the kitchen method and applying it to her en suite.
After a hot shower, Simone pulled on black leggings and a tank top before adding a large white linen shirt. Trainers and baseball cap on, she grabbed her car keys and left the flat to drive to Brixton.
Simone reversed into an empty parking space on the left side of the road. She turned off the engine and slid down her seat until she was both difficult to detect but still able to see out of her window. Here, with her knees pressed against the steering wheel and her neck strained, Simone waited.
She waited for the same sight every Sunday morning: her family leaving church.
The double doors to the building opened and Simone’s eyes darted through the loud and bustling crowd.
She saw her father first. A big purple badge pinned on his chest, the number fifty-three in bright yellow font.
He held the door open for Simone’s mother, and when he turned forward, he was smiling.
Simone looked down at her phone and the latest message delivered.
SIMONE
Happy birthday, Dad.
Her mother soon came into full view, filling Simone’s ears with her laughter, holding on to her husband’s waist as if connecting a carriage to his train. Again, Simone gave two precious seconds to her phone.
Mum
Will you be coming to church today, Simi?
SIMONE
I can’t do that, Mum.
Mum
Will you come and see us?
Simone
What will Dad say?
Mum
I will handle him.
Simone
Another time.
Simone hovered over Jenni’s number. Every week she considered writing something, anything, but Simone never knew where to start.
Dominic had meant so much to her sister, and so little to Simone, but she didn’t know how to articulate that without hurting her further.
Simone feared the possibility of typing out a message, pressing send, and receiving no reply.
Or worse, receiving a message she regretted having read.
Simone decided, once again, that the silence was better than the prospect of rejection.
Then, as if conjured by Simone’s thoughts, Jenni exited the building, holding multiple gift bags, presents for her father from the congregation.
Simone’s family were clearly very popular at their new church, and she wondered, not for the first time, how her parents explained their elder daughter’s absence, and that’s if they knew she existed in the first place.
Simone’s parents entered their car, her father at the wheel, and Jenni, after filling the trunk with the bags, climbed into the back.
But this Sunday, something caused Jenni to look over her shoulder, in the direction of the car she didn’t recognize parked on the other side of the street.
Simone clenched, lowered herself further, her back rigid and her nails dug deep into her palms as her brain attempted to grapple with this new addition to her otherwise undisturbed Sunday routine.
Had Jenni seen her? Was she still looking?
What would Simone do if the next thing she heard was someone tapping on the car window?
She’d dreamed of the day she and her family would be reunited, but the dream never involved her crouched in her car, cradling her knees to her chest, the sound of a heavy pulse in her ears.
Simone let out shallow puffs of air and waited until she heard an engine start.
She lifted her head to see them drive out of the parking lot, car after car following behind.
They would be having a celebration at home, of course, and everyone from church would be invited.
Simone wiped the tears from her cheeks and considered following the stream of traffic, walking through the front door, and taking a seat at the table.
Instead, Simone took a deep breath, cast her phone aside, reversed out of the parking space, and drove away.
Simone had a remarkable ability to successfully compartmentalize aspects of her life.
Being in Brixton reminded her of her orphan status; it made her into a woman without a family or any friends.
Returning to Highbury changed that. She never ran into anyone who’d once known her, and this awarded her the opportunity to be someone else.
Here, she was independent and self-sufficient; here she chose and celebrated solitude, and the freedom her well-earned money and lack of dependents (yes, friends included) provided her.
Today, however, was different. The thought of Jenni possibly having seen her clung to Simone’s skin, her brain, and her heart.
On the way to Fink’s Salt she couldn’t relate to stories about female friendship spanning years and the genuine love and connection that grew during it.
She didn’t read fantasy, after all. No, Simone preferred stories about broken families, female solitude, and personal facades—stories about the complex nature of both life and humanity.
She’d only picked up These Four Friends because the author, Remy Baidoo—who she’d met last night—had gone to the same school as her.
Simone hadn’t heard news of anyone else from her class doing anything remarkable, so this was incentive enough.
Remy’s name had struck a chord in the recesses of her mind when she’d picked up These Four Friends in paperback months ago, but only sung a familiar chorus when Simone flipped to the author photo and recognized her.
After last night’s event, Simone had gone home to pluck These Four Friends from her shelf.
Surprisingly, she was now 187 pages in. The depiction of the four women’s friendship, how solid and fragile it felt at the exact same moment, was an aching reminder of herself and Jenni.
Remy had a remarkable ability to write about a time when a person is most confident about the friends they have and how long they’ll have them, before exploring the exact moment reality lets a person know otherwise.
Simone was a rapacious reader. The number of books she got through each year meant she’d become adept at noticing certain moments others might not catch until later: when the murderer unknowingly reveals themselves; when a romantic interest says or does something to prove he isn’t The One; when the narrator is no longer reliable, etc.
In the case of These Four Friends , she’d spotted the catalyst that would shake the foundation of the four women’s friendship.
She knew many readers would think the impending relocation of one of the characters responsible, but the moment actually came two chapters earlier, at the mention of money.
The threat of not having enough money or the lure of getting more, the satisfaction of not having to make sacrifices, of not having that dread in your stomach when yet another necessity is hit by inflation, threatening the life you thought was guaranteed the harder you worked–—that, Simone knew, was what really sparked fundamental and often irreversible change.
Simone turned to take in her reflection in the bakery window.
She wasn’t surprised Remy hadn’t recognized her totally because Simone was completely different now.
In school, she made minimal effort with her appearance, while Jenni would often make them late because of how long it took her to get ready.
Now, Simone was more high-maintenance than Jenni had ever been.
She had a standing appointment for her hair and nails; her eyebrows were threaded into an arch, and her eyelashes looked natural even though they weren’t.
Her face was slimmer and her skin clearer.
The person Remy would remember may have come across as aloof and awkward, but firm in what she believed, how she saw the world and the people inhabiting it. She was the daughter of a well-respected preacher and a beloved nurse, and an older sister to someone she’d have done anything for.
All three of whom she’d not seen in almost a year.