by Rachael Eyre
“I don't know.” For once he efficiently stubbed out a cig and crushed it under foot. “I just don't know.”
Elle: Audra
It sounds crazy, but working as a human’s pleasure bot isn't all that different from being a pet. You spend your life in a couple of rooms, waiting for them to return. You make a fuss when they arrive - they expect it. You lavish them with affection for the next few hours, then you go to bed.
That's my life in a nutshell. It may mean I'm safe, with a roof over my head, but oh Goddess, is it boring!
I read the back numbers of newspapers he tosses under the bed. Sometimes I do the puzzles. Other times I lie in the bath, trying to remember what sexual arousal feels like. I can do more with my fingers or the showerhead than Robert with hours of slamming his penis into me, the hammer on my anvil.
When we do it, I think of other things. Crossword clues, the birdsong outside, jingles on the network. Juno floats before me but I banish her - I don't want to lose control. Plus he seems to prefer a passionless partner. “You're like a lovely sponge,” he says as he runs his hands over me. He monologues how he's never been attracted to bigger women before - perhaps that's where he's gone wrong. I tune him out.
Oh, did I mention he's renamed me? Now I'm called Giselle, which I always hear as Jizz-elle. Well, he makes me swallow enough of it.
I've never had to resort to Zena’s old trick. However mundane and long winded the sex, it fulfils his needs. He orgasms like a mouse dying in a trap, rolling over to snore. Often - but not always - he sleeps till morning. I feared peccadilloes, but so far his tastes are tame.
Other times he's talkative. He claims he doesn't “relate to” other people, that they're “jealous” of him. There's one friend he feels a vague affection for: “I've known him since university, but he's married. It's not like it used to be.” Open and shut closet case, you might think, but I saw plenty of those staggering out of Rio’s room. He hasn’t a whiff of that about him.
It's a funny room. Everything about it is expensive but badly treated: snagged curtains, musty bedding, cracks in the walls. Nothing matches and it has a damp, mushroomish smell. There are hardly any personal touches, only whatever book he's reading and a picture on his bedside table.
I examine it when he's out of the house. A little Robert in the foreground, instantly recognisable. A couple smile down at him indulgently. The man can only be Robert’s father, tall with a bald patch and a miserable moustache. The woman is stunning: golden haired and skinned, a sense of humour playing around her mouth. If she's his mother, not a trace of her can be found in the son.
I wonder why this picture is here, in such a position. It seems a strange thing for a grown man to keep in his bedroom. It's noticeably cleaner than everything else, as though he dusts it every day. One day I'll ask, but I don't think we’re there yet.
***
Since I had the above thoughts, I've realised something unsettling. There's a woman in the house. Not only that, Robert doesn't want me to know.
When I first grew wise to her existence, I thought she was the help. She goes about the building as light footed as a fairy, carrying out domestic chores. Sometimes she sings, but that's mainly when Robert’s out. She takes a furtive break in the middle of the day, when she watches veebox and goes out into the garden. All I know is that she's tall and slim, with beautiful white gold hair.
I must have been with Robert a week when I realised the truth. We'd reached the end of another unsatisfying session; he dozed at my side. I waited until I was sure I wouldn't disturb him, then I went to use the bathroom. Old habits die hard: though he would probably have me again before the night was out, I didn't want his spunk inside me.
I rinsed myself out, thinking of nothing, when something thumped overhead. Immediately on my guard, I seized a can of spray and stepped onto the landing.
“Hello?” I called.
There's a stepladder going up into the roof; I'd always assumed it led to the attic. Now that I stared up it, there was a blurry movement at the door crack. Gilt hair, aquamarine eyes, a sharp little nose. Though I only caught the briefest glimpse, it was enough. It was the woman who cleaned for Robert.
I went back to the bedroom, thunderstruck. There was only one explanation for her presence; I dismissed any ideas he might be holding women prisoner in his loft. It wasn't one of Juno’s fairy tales. He had a girlfriend - a wife, I corrected myself. Only a wife would be treated with such indifference. The poor cow had been exiled to the attic while he got his end away below.
It's changed the way I feel about him. Of course it has. Though I would never say I liked him, I thought I understood him. Now I've accepted that I don't know him at all.
I try to get him to slip up, to give himself away. He's too clever. Or, rather, he doesn't think he's doing anything wrong so his conscience is clear.
Perhaps he has reasons. Our clients used to think they were justified, sneaking away from their wives and families. “The love has gone.” “She doesn't listen to me any more.” “She doesn't need me.
They were men who had lost their role, their purpose. If women could find fulfilment elsewhere, what were they for? A lot of the time they just wanted to unburden themselves. The sex was an optional extra.
It could be she's withdrawn of her own accord. Separate lives, separate beds, not even pretending to have a headache. He could be doing it to punish her, letting her hear every creak and pant. “Just because you're frigid doesn't mean I can't get it elsewhere.”
I wish I could talk to her, ask what she thinks. Is it torture? Is it a relief? What kind of woman would choose Robert willingly and skulk in a draughty attic?
***
At long last something has happened to me. Even now I'm not sure what to make of it.
Robert told me he was holding a soirée. I wish he'd picked a different word; it conjures images of Juno in sequins and lipstick, entertaining dignitaries. We'd diss them in bed later on. She knew all the gossip.
“I might be late up.”
Which meant: stay put. Keep quiet. Be invisible. Though I couldn't think of a thing to say to these crocks, it would be nice to be asked. I tried not to let my disappointment show.
He was in such a state getting ready - dressing himself in his motheaten suit, organising the menu - he forgot to lock the bedroom door. So I hid behind the balustrade, not wanting to miss the action.
The first thing I saw was her.
Somewhere below, he called, “Audra, fetch the slides, it'll give them something to talk about.” I'd've told him to stuff it, but they must have made a truce in honour of the occasion. She said something over her shoulder, I didn't catch it, and cantered upstairs. I tucked myself out of the way just in time.
Pale hair falling to her waist, a golden dainty face, silky legs in jewelled slippers. She wasn't wearing makeup, but frankly she didn't need it. She had the most delicate features I've seen: dark lashes, tender mouth, pretty ears.
This was Robert’s wife? This was who he shoved upstairs like a naughty child? Who he begrudged spending time with? He was a fucking idiot.
I was astounded. I clung to the banister, gaping as she found the slides and hurried back down the landing. I was so close, I could have reached out and touched her.
I'd meant to spy the guests, make them into characters the way Juno had. But I was drawn to her, like a compass to the north. How she greeted each guest in her clear, gentle voice: “My name is Audra. I live with Robert. It's lovely to meet you.” How she returned to the kitchen, prepared dishes, sang. If I laid my hand to the landing carpet I swore I could sense her in the rooms below, doing her rounds. If I was lucky I would see her swaying down the hall, the beads on her dress chiming as she walked.
Robert seemed oblivious to the miracle. He stood there basking in her glow, as though this beautiful woman was his right. He didn't look at her, touch her, speak to her. I think it was then I started to hate him.
They moved into another room, out of ears
hot. I wished I could creep downstairs and peer around the door, but I couldn't risk discovery. I liked the smily Hadan man - Robert’s friend - but the randy old goat and toxic snob couldn't be trusted. They'd been startled enough when they met Audra; how would they react if they bumped into a half naked black woman? More importantly, what would she do?
Seeing her made the betrayal real. I was stealing from her every time Robert and I were together. The fact I didn't want it or enjoy it didn't matter. She'd see me as cheap, used, a slut. Worse than that. A toy, a thing. I couldn't bear that. I wanted her to think well of me. In different circumstances, different lives, we might have been friends.
I was leaning against the banister, wishing I could be somebody else, when there was an agonised roar. A scuffle broke out, followed by a scream. The sound horrified me. It had to be her, there were no other women present. Before I could recover she had raced past me. I've never seen anyone move as swiftly: she seemed to take a flying leap, then slammed the attic door behind her.
Drunken male voices bawled. I couldn't care less what they were saying; I only thought of her. I tightened my dressing gown around me and climbed the stepladder. I tapped on her door, confident they wouldn't hear below.
“Audra? Are you okay?”
I'd shocked her into silence. I sensed her on the other side, wondering if this was a trick. “Audra?” I tried again.
“Not you,” she whispered. “Of all people.”
I should have expected that. The wife and the other woman, never a happy combination. “I swear when I first came here, I had no idea. I thought you were the help.”
“What are you talking about?” She seemed genuinely mystified.
“I'll go away tomorrow,” I went on. “You need never worry about me again. You can be with Robert, like you deserve.”
“Be with Robert?” To my astonishment she started to giggle. “Why would I want that? I can't stand him.”
“I'm sorry, I don't -”
She opened the door. Slowly at first, then wider as she saw me properly. I was standing there hugging the robe to myself, feet bare and hair on end. I must've looked a fright.
“You're not how I thought you'd be,” she said.
She stood on the steps, framed by the beams and the skylight - a girl in a painting. Gazing at the slender throat, the vivid eyes and carmine lips, something clicked. She was too perfect to be real. She was an artie, just like me.
“Are you coming in?” she asked. “Looks like we both need someone right now.”
I followed her through, joined her on the wooden slats. She had put down cushions, set candles in bottles. She must have squirrelled them away while she was working. She was even growing a window box.
“Tell me everything,” she said.
Once I'd started, I couldn't stop.
Summer: The Other Woman
When I ran away from the party, my mind was in turmoil. Or whatever passed for my mind. Hadn't I just been exposed as a fraud in front of a room full of people? And Vivaan, the one person I'd considered a friend, had known the whole time.
Everything I knew - everything I thought I knew - was a lie. Ms Adelaide, the finishing school - it was all part of a monstrous conspiracy. Girls raised to be wealthy misfits’ playthings! I saw it now.
I'd jibbed at him calling me Audra, because it wasn't my name. What was my name? How can you insist upon an identity when your own heartbeat isn't real?
I tore into the attic, banging the door behind me. I couldn't keep still. I wondered if I could jump off the roof, make my escape that way. Only Robert would find me, wipe my memories, and it would start over again. I even thought about dismantling myself with a screwdriver, but came up with another impediment: Vivaan. He could put me back together.
I was making excuses. The truth is that I love life too much, or what I call life. I could never deliberately end my consciousness, destroy my body. Robotics Charter or no, it's one taboo I will not cross.
Pacing, muttering, clawing at my hair - I must have looked and sounded mad. I dreaded what would happen after the guests had gone. I had seen enough of Robert’s anger to know it would be terrible.
Robert. I must call him that now. I can't protect myself with fairy tale motifs. He is the man who owns me; he can dispose of me accordingly.
These are the thoughts I had, walking around the chalk circle. I rubbed it out with my bare feet, curled up under the bed. It was a feeble hiding place, the first place anyone would look. By that stage I don't think I cared.
“Audra? Are you okay?”
I thought he was mocking me with fake concern. Or trying to fool me - how stupid did he think I was? It was only the second time, as they knocked, I realised that knocking and asking politely weren’t his style. He would barge straight in, and why not? He owned the attic, and me. Privacy was an illusion.
I lay in the narrow gap between floorboards and bed, counting dust balls. “Audra?” the voice said again.
Now I recognised it. It was warm, rough around the edges, sincere. His lover. I couldn't think what she might want.
“Not you, of all people.”
I forget what I said. Gradually I was won over, saw that she didn't mean me harm. I had an overwhelming curiosity to see this woman who accepted favours I would find repulsive. I eased the door open.
The voice belonged to a small plump woman, youthful and round faced. Her hair was amazing - hundreds of springy ringlets - and her skin rich umber. Most striking were her eyes: the colour of malt whisky, intelligent and bold.
I could see why Robert wanted her, sank into her. She had more sensuality in her little toe than I had in my entire body. She wore her body languidly, not caring if you saw a hint of nipple or flash of thigh.
The longer I looked, the more I realised I wasn't looking at a human but a simulacrum. She didn't blink, she spoke too quickly, she gave off a scent of hot metal. “You too?” I gasped.
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you coming in?” I heard myself ask. I hadn't known I was going to say it, but it seemed inevitable. “Looks like we both need someone right now.”
It wasn't until she was in my room, exclaiming at everything I'd done, I saw how alone I was, had always been. I'd thought a comfortable bed and a magazine meant happiness, but that was only because I didn't know any better. Friendships weren't encouraged at Ms Adelaids’s. The other girls were rivals, to be kept at arm’s length.
“I like what you've done with it.” She touched the bottles, the flower boxes, the ornament I'd dared myself to steal on my fourth day. It's a small lion carved from volcanic rock; it used to sit above the hall mirror I hate cleaning. “I share with Robert.”
I winced. “Doesn't sound fun.” I'd always thought he slept in a coffin, or standing up like a cow in a field.
She pulled a melodramatic grimace. “He farts. And snores.” She did such an accurate impression of the din he made every night, it was like he was in the room.
“I can't believe I thought you were his wife.” She shook her head, beaming. “As if a woman like you would look at him twice.”
“Or that you were his girlfriend!” The thought occurred to me, horrible in every way. “He doesn't force you, does he?”
She snorted. “Wouldn't know how. It's a business arrangement.” As I raised a dubious eyebrow, “I've been sleeping with randoms for as long as I can remember.”
I must have looked shocked, or blushed like a prude. “Really,” she insisted, “it’s nothing. I forbid you to feel sorry for me.”
She was dashing, cavalier - the sort of woman I used to dream about. Vita in the flesh.
“Tell me everything,” I urged.
***
Of course she couldn't do it in one sitting. Neither could I. Since the night of the party we’ve been swapping our histories, calling ourselves into being with our words.
The morning after, I tried to go downstairs and resume my duties. Robert lay in wait with a newspaper, peeling a hard boiled egg. “No,�
�� he said abruptly. “You're not wanted.”
“I'm sorry?”
For a wild moment I thought it was over, that he was taking me back to Ms Adelaide’s. I was about to protest, but that in itself would be suspicious.
“You are going to go back upstairs -” this in the same peevish tone - “and think about what you’ve done. You humiliated me last night, Audra.”
“Is Sanjay alright?”
He ignored the question. As far as he was concerned, he was the injured party, not the young man who’d had hot soup tipped on his most sensitive area. “I have spent years building a reputation …”
He continued in this strain for a good few minutes. It occurred to me suddenly: I didn't care anymore. He could say or do whatever he pleased, but it wouldn't touch me.
