Simone
SIMONE
S imone couldn’t help but break into a giant smile when she parked her car at Heathrow airport.
She stood at Arrivals, fiddling with her homemade signs.
As an advocate for platonic romance, Simone knew Remy would appreciate her homage to Love Actually , but now Simone wondered if she’d simply look ridiculous.
Holding up one sign at the airport was more than acceptable, but dropping one at her feet to allow Remy to read the next, to then drop that one so Remy could read the third would surely draw attention.
Simone also didn’t know how fast a reader Remy was; what if she dropped the second card before Remy had a chance to read it all, and Remy was forced to interject, “Wait! What did that one say?” Simone would be mortified…
but then she would laugh because Remy would laugh.
Then Simone saw her. Remy emerged from the crowd with a rucksack on her back and a hot-pink carry-on trailing behind her.
Even from a distance, Simone could see Remy had changed in ways detailed in her epistolary tales.
She filled her clothes a little more evenly than she had when she’d left; she was tanned and glowing as if the sun that had warmed her skin had deposited specks of gold in its wake; and she walked with such a jovial spring in her step that one could be forgiven for thinking she was moving in time to a song no one else could hear.
Remy’s smile widened when she caught sight of Simone, who was about to open her arms for an embrace, when she remembered her cards. She attempted to lift the first one and Remy stopped to read it, but the remaining cards slipped from Simone’s grasp and skidded across the airport floor.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Simone muttered, bending to pick them up. Not once had she considered practicing this routine until now.
“Need some help, Miss?”
Simone looked up to a beaming Remy. “Obviously,” she answered, but Simone left the cards on the floor to envelop her best friend. Granted, Remy smelled like the long-haul flight she’d just been on, but beneath that layer Simone smelled… comfort.
Once they’d released one another, Remy asked, “What do the cards even say?”
Simone wasn’t going to embarrass herself further by reading them aloud, so she held them out for Remy to read on her own.
“You get the idea, I’m sure,” Simone said.
Remy smiled once again. “I do.”
She held the cards under her arm while Simone took her luggage and they both made their way to the visitor’s parking lot.
“I still think you’re insane for having our publisher schedule our launch party for the night of your return,” Simone said, buckling her seat belt.
“Are you joking?” Remy threw her feet onto the dashboard until Simone pinched her.
“This is the ultimate remedy for jet lag,” she said, opening her seat’s armrest to pick from an assortment of snacks Simone kept in the car for her.
“If I go home, I’ll fall asleep and be up at midnight, and you don’t want that, do you? ”
“Let me remind you that you moving into my flat is temporary,” Simone said, easing into traffic. “ Temporary . You’re only staying with me until you find a place, which shouldn’t take long now you have the money.”
“I’m starting to think you don’t want me around,” Remy said, with a fake pout.
“Remy, I love you with a large portion of my heart,” Simone said seriously, “and I’m going to love having you around, but no, I don’t want a permanent roommate.”
“Understood,” Remy said unaffected, “even though Tara’s been telling me you’re not so much of a recluse as you used to be…”
“Thanks to you,” Simone said. “Since you decided to take off for three months, I’ve had to take the lead with our book promotion, which if you remember, was not part of the original plan.
Having my name on the cover but staying in the background was the plan.
” She turned to Remy while at a red light.
“I’ve had to talk to strangers , Remy. I’ve had to talk to them about our ‘writing process,’ make decisions for tonight’s party…
I agreed to do one interview in your absence, and in some kind of covert operation that I’ve no doubt the military would be proud of, Tara managed to get me involved in a full-on itinerary.
Hermits-in-training should not have to do such things.
Yes, I have taken my introversion too far in the past, but solitude is still my preferred way of spending my time.
Then you left, with little to no regard for me. ”
Remy laughed with her head back and the sound engulfed Simone until she laughed too. “Allow me to remind you that embarking on my own version of Eat, Pray, Love was your idea!” she said. “To find more of myself, right?”
Simone sighed. That was true—it had been her idea.
Once Remy had finally come to the realization that she’d spent too much of her life defining herself by what she did for others, Simone suggested she spend a significant period of time alone.
Once the first payment for their book came in, Remy booked her flights.
She would spend a month in Mexico City, eating her way through a cuisine relatively unfamiliar to her; a month in Thailand, praying, journaling, and meditating; and her final month on a secluded hill in Lake Como, dedicating another thirty days to one of her first ever loves: writing.
“And what did you find?” Simone asked.
“Many things,” Remy answered. “Most of which you’ve read about in my scintillating letters.
The most important lesson being that I can do a lot on my own and so much good can come from having to.
I came up with two new book ideas because I took a notepad instead of my phone out to eat; I found it easy to have great conversations with strangers knowing that I might never see them again.
I can sit with myself knowing that I already am most of what I need.
But I also learned how important it is to know that even though I can do so much alone…
” She poked Simone. “I don’t always have to. It’s about finding a balance.”
“You’ve gotten soft,” Simone teased.
“I’ve always been soft,” Remy said.
They drove in silence for a few minutes. “How are you feeling about it, by the way?” Simone eventually asked. “You’ve not fallen victim to second-book dread?”
Remy shrugged and reclined her seat. “It’s officially too late to change anything and therefore pointless to worry about it.”
Simone kept her eyes on the road until they reached another red light. She used the pause to eye her friend, Remington Baidoo, the woman who invented anxiety. “I’m assuming the meditation retreat in Thailand went well then?” Simone asked.
“It was a waste of my time,” Remy replied, laughing.
“So much heavy breathing and I know how to do that already. Do they have any idea how many panic attacks I’ve had in my life?
They also kept telling me to empty my mind.
I’m a writer with an overactive imagination.
I haven’t had an empty mind since the day I was born.
However, an Italian nonna I met in Lake Como gave me some advice that changed my life. ”
“Is this the lemon story?”
Remy returned her feet to the dashboard. “It is indeed.”
The lemon story was the subject of one of Simone’s favorite letters from Remy during her travels.
On the way back from the closest supermarket—three miles from where she lived—a lemon escaped one of Remy’s bags and had irretrievably rolled down a hill and disappeared.
Remy, who was going through her final bout of homesickness, started to cry.
An elderly woman, hanging up her laundry, had watched it all happen.
She made eye contact with Remy, then threw a clothes peg she’d been holding down the hill where the lemon had gone.
She then shrugged and went back to hanging the laundry before retreating inside.
The T-shirt that peg had been assigned to flapped in the wind with only one of its shoulders pinched to the line.
The elderly woman left that T-shirt out for five days, even though all the other clothes were taken in days before.
Remy had ended that letter to Simone with: I think she left it out there for me.
“The point of the lemon story,” Remy said, “is that no matter what happens, whether it’s a minor or major inconvenience, it’s all going to be fine in the end.
The T-shirt will still dry, and I’ll survive without that lemon.
And you know something? I did survive without that lemon.
Mainly because I misread the recipe and I actually needed a lime, but also because shit happens, and the days still go on.
You and I have written the best book we could; some readers will love it and others won’t.
Regardless, I’m still going to write a third, and then a fourth, and then a fifth. ”
Simone smiled. “Somehow you make something so cheesy sound so inspiring.”
“Thank you,” Remy said sincerely. “What about you? How are you feeling about it, now?”
To be honest, Simone had experienced a few wobbles since they’d submitted the final draft and Remy had departed for Mexico.
She’d left sex work behind to focus on the book, but once that was handed in, Simone considered whether to return to it.
The thought of building that part of her life from scratch felt exhausting.
A few months ago, Simone had been curious about rejoining an escort agency and was not surprised to see that all agencies now had clauses disallowing escorts to take their clients with them should they leave.
As she’d scrolled the websites, Simone had an epiphany: She could no longer work for someone else in that capacity.
However, she did feel that no longer being a sex worker would in some way be “giving in” and to do so would be to throw away all that she’d gone through with her family. If she quit, would it have all been for nothing?
And then Simone had thought of Remy. Not all for nothing: She’d met her best friend, after all, and had sold a book.
If the TV show was ever commissioned, she might soon see her name on a TV screen when the credits rolled.
She’d brought this dichotomy of feeling up with Remy in one of her transatlantic letters—yes, actual handwritten letters, because “we have emails and mobile phones” was not a good enough answer to Remy’s question of “Why don’t people send handwritten letters anymore? ”
In her response, which Simone kept in a box in her wardrobe, Remy had written:
“Giving in” has nothing to do with it. People leave jobs for other jobs every day. The question is, at this current point in time, which job do you prefer?
The simplicity of Remy’s question had struck Simone.
The answer was that she’d like to continue her hand at writing.
She had found that she liked shaping a narrative.
For so long, Simone had kept pieces of her life segmented, locked away.
It had been liberating to bring them into the light, even if it were in fiction.
She might not involve herself too heavily with the marketing and publicity side of things, but she was ready to put her name on a story that truly belonged to her.
“How am I feeling about everything? Much better, now.” Simone turned to look at Remy. “I’m glad you’re home.”