Simone was so lucky with her neighbourhood, she told everyone she knew. How nice it was to have local shops and a real community. ‘I just don’t know why anyone would use Amazon when there are real, honest folk living next to you and ready to serve.’ And though the people who worked on her local high street didn’t actually live anywhere near Simone’s lovely five-storey neo-Gothic pile – they being in a distinctly separate socioeconomic bracket – they were ready to help. The butcher always made sure there were ham bones kept back for her brown labrador, Gussie. The clothing boutique two doors down always kept an eye on the designers Simone liked, ordering in items she’d be sure to snap up. The florist was always willing to go the extra mile when arranging a bouquet for such a valued customer. And the cheese shop? Well, the manager at La Cave Aux Fromages was such a doll, she was always ready to send off little hampers to Simone’s friends at the shortest of notice.
A high street as well-heeled as hers didn’t just have shops. Other neighbourhoods might be satisfied with a pub, a vape shop and a supermarket, but the rich need more. Boredom mustn’t slip in. When that happens to a rich person with too much time, questions about existentialism threaten to overwhelm and rash life decisions are made. Simone’s cousin moved to Costa Rica to teach surfing after having one Saturday with not a single appointment lined up.
In order to prevent this happening to other unfortunate souls, Simone’s neighbourhood was chock-a-block with experiences for sale. Spas where you could enjoy a glass of Champagne while you had yet another subtle tweakment, though just by the laws of accumulation these were getting less subtle by the week. Pilates classes where you could signal to other women that you were successful enough not to have any pesky daytime commitments like a job.
Breathwork studios where the wealthy could exhale their stress and inhale filtered oxygen guaranteed not to have been breathed in by anyone else. There was even a stretch clinic where handsome men with large muscles would pull and push a client’s body in different directions, as if doing your own stretching was a bit pedestrian. All in all, there were more than 20 different experiences for Simone to occupy her time within a five-minute walk of her home.
Simone was en route to her weekly acupuncture session when the local caterer called about the dinner party that evening. She answered with a warm hello, but her tone shifted the moment the voice at the end of the line told her there had been a slight problem with the fish. She paced a strip of pavement on Parkland Avenue as she was told that there was no salmon available, but what about a nice trout? Simone’s response to this was loud enough that a bichon frisé at number four kicked off, causing a chain reaction of howls from designer dogs behind smart doors. Trout would clearly not do. The caterer rang off, chastened and promising to do better.
Simone was a valued client to many, but it would be fair to say she wasn’t as beloved as she might’ve imagined. There was an air of entitlement about the woman, so well established it was almost charming. Almost. She expected that people would tie themselves in knots to help her and, as a result of this expectation, they often did. And she was very effusive in her gratitude, make no mistake. Simone was generous with her words, her overly gushing text messages, the occasional handwritten note and the rare floral bouquets she’d send to those she deemed worthy enough. ‘Thank you SO much, my darling one, I bow to your vision, I couldn’t survive without you’ – a text sent to her manicurist after she’d jumped a sizeable queue and he’d fixed a broken nail for her. ‘Your hands do magical things to my body and soul’ – to her masseur after a deep tissue rub-down. ‘You’re like family to Johnny & I, and we adore you xxx’ – a note left for the dog walker whose surname Simone didn’t know.
If, however, you displeased her in any way, an icy gaze would fix on your face and a chill would wrap itself around you. Sometimes, when she’d made her displeasure clear and departed, a beautician or cheese maker would feel a sudden spurt of rage – why didn’t I tell her where to go? – but nobody ever challenged Simone. She was a juggernaut and the only thing to do was comply and stew in silence after.
The acupuncturist always spent 10 minutes before Simone’s sessions smoking furiously. Three cigarettes were needed to fortify her before the onslaught, which generally began before Simone even entered the room. ‘Did I tell you about my friend Isabella? She would really benefit from some time with you actually, she has terrible death anxiety and I always tell her not to worry – she’ll probably die in her sleep!’ By the time Simone was on the table, the talk would’ve moved on to her teenage daughter refusing to attend school or complaints about her husband’s erectile dysfunction – ‘I keep telling him to come and see you, you’re such a lifesaver, but he’s so ashamed of it, poor man. Karma for shagging half his office back in the day.’
Lia would place the needles in the parts of Simone that she felt needed them the most, trying to resist the urge to push them in too deeply. Simone would prattle on, telling her things even a therapist might’ve baulked at, completely confident that Lia (and everyone else) would find it an honour to keep her secrets.
There is no Hippocratic Oath for acupuncturists. Simone should’ve considered that, really. She was a smart woman with a long and storied career in TV, an industry where gossip is the main currency, but she never saw oversharing with these people as dangerous. The acupuncturist, the cheese maker, the stretching muscle man – these were all staff in Simone’s eyes, and staff didn’t tell. Who would they tell?
This was a mistake, a big mistake. But Simone was too busy telling Lia about her dissatisfaction with the ring Johnny had recently bought her to notice the other woman’s expression had changed from one of grim fortitude to that of intense interest. A diamond too large; apparently there was such a thing. How he expected her to wear something so bulky in her everyday life, well, that was a mystery. Lia had made sympathetic noises and turned up the generic calming music a notch, but it did nothing to thwart Simone. ‘I haven’t worn it since he gave it to me, it’s just sitting in the bowl on top of the piano that I use for old coins. Isn’t that shameful?’ She’d laughed at this, pleased to show such keen self-awareness. Lia, who very much would’ve appreciated a diamond ring, a piano or even just a bowl full of old coins, told Simone she needed her ears bleeding and took no small delight in making sure the scratch was sharp.
As the session came to an end, Simone suddenly sensed the acupuncturist’s bad mood. Not for a minute imagining it was because of her endless oversharing or boastful instincts, she decided it must be a hormonal issue and urged Lia to go and see her masseur. ‘Leo is a magician, honestly, his hands have healing powers. He’s such a wonderful guy, you’ll love him, everyone does. His only problem, poor man, is that he’s too handsome for a masseur. You’d think women would flock to him but they have one session and get too shy to book in again. No menopausal woman wants a young Adonis seeing them in their underwear, I suppose.’ At this, Simone stretched out, as if to show that her body wasn’t anything like those she was talking about. ‘Here’s his number, tell him I sent you, he’s a dear, dear friend. And he’s local – isn’t our neighbourhood just the best? Comes to the house every Monday morning and leaves me floating on a cloud for the rest of the week. Can’t ever risk Johnny seeing him, though, he’d be furious to know his wife was naked in front of such a god, especially with his little problem.’
Lia waited a day to send the masseur a text, unsure as to whether or not she could really do what she wanted to do. Ultimately, waking at 4am to a drunk man pissing into her front garden, she decided she could. Leo turned up at her flat the next day, as handsome as Simone had promised.
As he worked out a tension knot in her upper back, she gently steered the conversation towards their mutual client. As she expected, Leo also found Simone impossible and they quickly bonded in that exhilarating way that only happens when two people have a mutual dislike of a third#.
After he’d finished her massage, she poured him a glass of wine and the two shared a roll-up, perched on her kitchen windowsill. Alcohol gave her the courage to tell him about the ring and, while he wasn’t appalled or shocked at her idea, he did pour cold water on her original plan. ‘She’ll know if I take it; it’ll be obvious if it’s just me and her in the house.’ Lia had pushed back, telling him about the other part of her plan, to have him threaten to tell Johnny that they’d been having an affair. ‘I bet you’ve got hundreds of gushing messages from her saying your touch is orgasmic or something.’ He did, he admitted, but wasn’t willing to go down that route.
‘Blackmail doesn’t sit right with me, not even if it’s Simone.’ Lia was aboutto give it all up as a silly idea when Leo poured himself another glass of wine and grinned in a way that made her stomach flip.
Two weeks later, Leo knocked on the door of Simone’s house. She buzzed him in and he set up in her bedroom as usual. ‘I’m in dire need of you today, darling, these birthday plans have me as tense as a spring – everyone RSVPed yes, what a nightmare. I guess I should’ve known I’m famous for my parties by now.’
As Leo started his massage, the doorbell buzzed. ‘Oh, that’ll be more flowers.’ Simone fumbled about to her left and handed him what looked like a remote control. ‘Press this button and it’ll let them in. Hold on to it, I need to focus on zoning out. LEAVE THEM IN THE DINING ROOM,’ she screeched loudly. Seconds later, there was a more subdued ‘Okay’ from the florist. Ten minutes later, the doorbell went again, and Leo let the caterers in. ‘IN THE KITCHEN,’ Simone moaned loudly.
The cheesemonger was next, then the wine merchant, the boutique owner, the manicurist and the hairdresser. These last three visitors were ordered upstairs and, even given Simone’s palatial bedroom, they made it feel immediately cramped and chaotic. ‘No no no, this won’t work. Wait in my dressing room, I need to relax.’ The visitors exchanged awkward looks but complied. Leo finished up his massage, murmuring small sympathetic sounds as Simone chatted away about how disappointing she found her son, and made his escape before she got a chance to hug him in the lingering way she usually did. Lia was waiting in the pub around the corner with a few of their new friends.
It took longer than they thought for Simone to figure out that she’d been robbed. She’d learned to be a careless person, because what did she have to be careful about? The ring wasn’t even the first thing she realised had gone. That was a necklace she’d left in the cutlery drawer one day when she’d decided last minute it didn’t go with her outfit. She’d mentioned that to the florist, imagining it made her sound charming. Then she realised a watch was gone, a nice vintage Rolex she’d meant to get fixed but never bothered, and as a result had gathered dust atop a bathroom cabinet.
That she’d mentioned to the local cobbler, asking the bemused man if he could mend watches. A bracelet she’d bought at auction on a whim after a boozy lunch had been lying next to the toaster for weeks; she’d showed that off to the caterer a few days before. And finally the ring. Well, everyone knew about the gaudy ring she’d never wear. She phoned her husband at work, wailing. Call the police, he replied. Simone did one better, marching into the station and name-dropping the local MP as a close personal friend.
An investigation was launched but the officers had little to work with. Twenty-one different people had been inside the house within the past two weeks. There were fingerprints of 75 different people in the sitting room alone. ‘We have a lot of parties,’ Simone had said, as if this should be obvious.
The police interviewed several people who’d delivered various items on the day of Simone’s birthday, but each of them alibied the others. Eventually it became obvious that the case was as cold as the cryogenic freezing chamber that Simone forced herself to sit in every Thursday. Johnny moved on, getting the locks changed and telling his wife to be more careful with her things in future.
Simone decided it must’ve been a chancer sneaking in behind an important guest. ‘There are always people from the local estates hanging around, I’ve told the council so many times.’ The memory faded away. Three months later, and four days before Christmas, Simone was passing the local pub and stopped to admire the tree through the window.
Inside, she saw Lia sitting on a handsome man’s knee. Leo! Simone congratulated herself on the introduction. And who were they with? Only her florist, her caterer, her local cheese maker. Even the boutique owner was there, raising a glass to the smiling couple. What a fantastic thing it was to have such a tight-knit local community!
Claws Out! by Bella Mackie is out now
