Love and Robotics

by Eyre, Rachael

  “There’s more to relationships than that.”

  “You must think I’m so stupid.”

  “Misguided, perhaps.”

  “Like being in love with an artie?” A tight smile at his surprise. “You called me Josh, and said - other things. He’s hardly going to look at you.”

  That’s what you think. But the situation was crazy enough; he should never have agreed to see him. Alfred went to his desk and rummaged through its compartments. “How did you get here?”

  “Keli. I quit yesterday.”

  “Sure of yourself, weren’t you?” Alfred located his cashtot book and flipped it open. “Did you have a backup?”

  “I didn’t plan that far ahead.”

  “Thought as much.” He wrote on the bronze strip and held the tot out.

  “Is this a trick?”

  “I’m giving it on two conditions. First, don’t come here again. Second, you’re not going back to renting. You’ve a decent brain. Use it.”

  “Really?”

  “Really. Now do one, as Lulu would say.”

  The boy stood on tip toe, lips puckered. “May I?”

  “A handshake’s more in order.”

  Alfred waited for Christopher’s footsteps to disappear down the passage and let Puss in. She settled sleepily around his feet, gorging on a ham bone.

  This was the rest of his life. He couldn’t be angry; he was an idiot to suppose Josh could want him. Claire and Josh looked so natural together, like bride and groom cake toppers. He and Josh were a monstrous, mismatched joke. Youth and age, beauty and the beast.

  He’d stay here and sort through his papers. The first thing he found was his notes on Josh. He chucked them on the fire. He swept two drawers clean and tipped a pile of unanswered letters into the basket. His hand brushed a small bottle of cognac -

  He downed it in one. It quickly became another, and another. He didn’t have anything to stay dry for.

  The rest of Josh’s honeymoon passed in this fashion. The one light in the wilderness was a newspaper column, a week after Christopher’s visit. Alfred nearly missed it. It was only as he went to shove it on the fire that the words ‘SINISTER MINISTER’ came into focus. Smoothing the creases, he read:

  “Cedric Donnelly, 70, was discovered dead by his cleaner yesterday morning. A powerbook on his desk was loaded with thousands of indecent images of children.

  The cause of death is unknown, though a jocasta spider was found on the premises. This highly poisonous spider is not indigenous to Lila. The only recorded specimen on our shores was imported as part of the controversial House of Curiosities scheme.”

  For the first time since Josh went away, Alfred smiled.

  Trouble in Paradise

  While Alfred looked into the abyss and lived to tell the tale, Josh floundered.

  It wasn’t anybody’s fault. He’d been drilled in matters of Companionship, Conversation and Romance. He could take someone to dinner, ask about their day, give them a skilful foot rub. If the interface’s reactions were anything to go by, he had nothing to worry about in the sex department.

  So what the hell was it? (He lapsed into Alfred’s vocabulary when he was exasperated). He’d read enough literature to know this was a dream honeymoon. Other people lapped up fawning waiters, sandy beaches and sociable marine life. The islanders had been tipped to treat him like anybody else. Not everyone had received the memo. A boatman had allowed Claire aboard, then, catching sight of him, refused to go. Claire cried but the man was intractable.

  Poor Claire. She was trying so hard. He had to remind himself that six months ago she was an ordinary girl from Whey. No one had told her she didn’t have to fill silences with chatter. Other men envied her beauty but as soon as she spoke, the illusion evaporated. She tired too easily, flopping down with a stitch after two miles. She didn’t want to visit museums or go sightseeing. As far as he could tell, she wanted to lie on the beach all day, toasting her skin. She’d ask silly questions like, “Would you take a bullet for me?” and sulked when she didn’t like the answers. She was proud of the fact she had only read four books, yet read dreadful magazines cover to cover.

  He tried reading them to see what the fuss was about. Girls’ Love. It sounded like it should be girls in love with girls, like Pip with Gwyn, but instead there were mushy stories where strident women and fluffy men fell in love, serenading each other through gates. Love didn’t thump you like a boxing glove. It grew with time.

  What had they talked about when they got together? He couldn’t remember. All he knew was they never laughed at the same time or at the same things. When she saw him taking a picture of graffiti, she wanted to know why. “It’s so ugly! They should clean it up.” He tried to explain he collected interesting graffiti, but she looked at him blankly. The same went for the scrapbook with funny statues - “So?”

  She said that all the time, generally about things she didn’t understand. She gaped when she saw him speaking other languages; her tactic was to speak Lilan very slowly and clearly, raising her voice when they didn’t follow. She went off in a huff because a shopkeeper wouldn’t prepare ice cream the way she liked it.

  And, of course, there was sex. He’d been told it was a vital component of marriage, it bonded couples more closely together, but did there have to be so much of it? She’d dawdle and yawn if they were out walking but, the instant their bedroom door locked, launched herself at him and said she’d been such a naughty girl. He’d lie above her and watch astonished as she writhed and shoved her tongue into his mouth.

  “I love you so much,” she murmured afterwards. He felt nothing.

  The third week a tropical storm swept across the coast. They were stuck in their hotel room. Claire paced the floor, sulky and unwashed. “I’m bored!”

  “We could always talk,” he said.

  She joined him on the couch, her head in his lap. He stroked her hair for something to do.

  “You know everything about me,” she said. “What about you?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Lord Langton, f’rinstance. What’s he like? Mum used to fancy the pants off him.”

  “Fancy?”

  “You know, think he’s sexy. Okay, scars, but he’s well buff. I bet he’s got a big dick.”

  Fancy, sexy, pants, dick. Alfred would roar with laughter but it made him feel ill.

  “Come on, don’t be mysterious. How’d you meet?”

  His friendship with Alfred was sacred. He didn’t want to show it off like a party trick. How could he describe their relationship, with its intensity and love?

  That word ‘love’ electrified him. No, that’s not right. But now memories came out of hiding, sidled into the light, he realised that’s exactly what he meant.

  He couldn’t speak. Anything would be perjuring himself. He remembered resting his head on Alfred’s chest, whispering, “How fast your heart beats!” He’d gone half way around the world to be with him. If he was honest, it was the quiet times between them he remembered, not landmarks or escapades. He had been blind.

  He pretended to be asleep. Claire draped a blanket over him and carried on trying for a veebox signal.

  The storm was relentless. Peevish with cabin fever, Claire resorted to the old standby of sex. He cursed her timing. How could she expect him to go through that rigmarole, knowing -

  But she didn’t, did she? He remembered Fisk in his earliest days, impressing him with the most important fact: “All minds are separate. Yours might work differently from mine because you’re an artificial and I’m human, but it doesn’t stop there. Human brains work differently from each other’s. Some are clever, some are stupid. Some are rational, some insane. We’re all different.”

  Yet they insisted humans were all the same. Was that part of the human condition, holding two contradictory opinions and accepting them both as truth?

  He pulled his mind away from Claire sighing and soared. Think of something innocuous: jet spraying the cliffs,
anything. Anything but the plaza, maple trees, tearful kisses.

  I mean it. I always have. I don’t care what the world thinks. I only want you.

  Anything but that.

  The storm broke. “Good,” Claire murmured, “we can go for a swim.”

  Lying with his head heavy on somebody’s shoulder. He wrapped his arms around them tightly. “Alfred,” he murmured.

  The light snapped on. Claire’s hands had flown to her mouth.“What did you say?”

  “I was dreaming -”

  “Stay on your side.”

  She wriggled as far as she could away from him. When he woke later in the night he heard her crying.

  The next morning she behaved as though nothing had happened. Was she trying to catch him out? Put a brave face on it? It didn’t help he barely understood what he’d done wrong.

  She was cooking breakfast. Rashers of bacon crackling, eggs sizzling - thank goodness he had a sense of smell. Now he thought about it, the sausages were beginning to smell burned.

  “Here, let me.” He kissed her, taking the pan.

  “I can manage.” She hadn’t forgotten. She was carrying on because it was the only thing she could do.

  She spent most of the day on the beach. He left her alone, reasoning it was for the best. He stared at the writing paper, wove a pen in and out of his fingers. He thought about writing to Fisk and demanding an explanation. Was this normal? Had his interface gone wrong?

  There was only one person he wanted to write to. He’d have to tip the hotel staff to get it out and away.

  Five drafts. A waste of paper for such a short letter.

  My dear,

  I’m in a terrible muddle. Please let me see you as soon as my honeymoon’s over. I wish I could explain but it’s too complicated.

  I am, as always, yours.

  Josh.

  Claire came home late, wilted flowers in her hair. She smelled as though she had been drinking. She crashed onto the couch, giggling. “Hey, treacle! Missed me?”

  “Of course I have.”

  “We should go dancin’. Real dancin’, not wanky society stuff. Done anything today?”

  “Not much.” He took her feet in his hands and massaged them. “We’re alright, aren’t we?”

  “We’ll do.”

  Alfred didn’t receive his letter until the newlyweds were back. Recognising the handwriting, he tore it open. He read the handful of lines and turned the sheet over, expecting a postscript. “What the devil does that mean?”

  Nanny had her suspicions. So did Gwyn.

  “Why not invite him and find out?”

  Claire’s Ultimatum

  Josh’s day had been a trial, unpacking and arranging furniture in the poky new flat. He didn’t understand why he couldn’t have kept his old one. Claire was besotted, filling it with flowers, crystal animals and scatter cushions.

  “You don’t need this horse,” he said, holding up one of the ornaments.

  “It’s not a horse, it’s a unicorn. And I do need it.”

  “You’ve hundreds of them.”

  “I like unicorns. They’re gorgeous and special -” She pursed her lips. During their courtship, any remark like that would end ‘like you’. It was sad to see how far they’d come in such a short space of time.

  The speakertube pealed. “Are you accepting calls?” it asked.

  Relieved for the distraction, he nodded. Within seconds Alfred’s voice filtered through the room. “Josh, it’s me. Would you like to come up sometime this week?”

  Claire’s lips were almost invisible.“Don’t say no ‘cause of me.”

  “Uh, yes. That would be lovely.” It was impossible to sound natural with Claire looking like a death’s head in the background.

  “Terrific. I’ll see you the day after tomorrow.”

  The tube clicked and he was gone. Josh resisted the urge to press the redial button.

  “I don’t know about you,” she said, patting her mouth in an exaggerated yawn, “but I have lots on. Laters.”

  It was the first he’d heard of it. He watched her teeter up the street in impossibly high heels, a spotted scarf over her head.

  He’d hoped they might be able to salvage something of this marriage. It looked increasingly as though that wasn’t going to happen.

  Her appointment turned out to be two intensive beauty days, ordered the instant she left the flat. The morning they went to Chimera the effects were obvious. Her hair hung to her waist, as still and shiny as plastic. Her eyes seemed wider, her lips fuller. If you hadn’t known you might have thought she was the artificial and he the human.

  “Is all that necessary?” Josh asked.

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said primly. Her wardrobe was calculated too: a pleated skirt, a silk blouse with an enormous collar, a natty fur jacket. She climbed into the passenger seat and flicked a critical eye over him. “You haven’t made an effort.”

  “Chimera’s an unusual household. They don’t care about that sort of thing.”

  “I’ll bet,” she snorted.

  He’d always associated the drive to Chimera with happiness. He could have identified each crook in the road, each field, each scruffy timbered inn. The sky seemed to lift, the country grow more expansive and lush. He loved how the villagers nodded as you went past. Now it was blighted by Claire, snuffing through her nose.

  “Shut the window, I’m allergic,” she said.

  “I hope you’re going to be nice.”

  “I won’t show you up if that’s what you mean.”

  This was as much of a promise as he was going to get.

  Gwyn was in the grounds, building the harvest bonfire. This was her favourite time of year. She loved the ritual, the feeling of camaraderie; she’d invite boys from the village and neighbouring farms. She’d known them since childhood, got on with them all. None of them thought she was strange, a rare currency in this life.

  One of the boys had liberated a keg from the brewery. At first they couldn’t get it open and she had to shoot holes in it. Now the beer, and their tongues, ran freely.

  “Is that widget coming today?”

  “Yes,” she sighed. “He’s bringing the wife.”

  Appreciative whistles. “Wouldn’t mind that keepin’ me warm on a winter’s night.”

  “As if! Once you’ve had metal dick there’s no goin’ back.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “You hear things. Always stays up, they say.”

  “Lucky bastard.”

  “Yeah, we know about you and Sally. Playin’ doctors where everyone can see -”

  “Not in front of Miss Gwyn!”

  Nanny came out with a platter of sandwiches, nose in the air. It was her policy to feed anybody who came onto the estate but she disapproved of the local boys. “Any sign?” she asked.

  “None. Tom’s keeping watch.”

  “He’s like a man possessed. Up and down, holding that silly letter. I told him to call it off but he wouldn’t have any of it.”

  “Oi, Ms Sholto! Have you tried balancin’ it on your bosoms? It’d save time.”

  Nanny swept into the house with icy dignity. Gwyn shoved the culprit, a tough young lout called Seamus. “My uncle would have you whipped if he heard that,” she said.

  Seamus poked his tongue out. The boys closed in, expecting a brawl, but Tom waved from the tallest tree. “Guests comin’!”

  “Oh, hell,” Gwyn said. She ran into the house and pulled her butler’s jacket on over her braces. She had a distinct whiff of wood smoke but it couldn’t be helped. Alfred collided with her at the bottom of the stairs.

  “What are you wearing?”

  “Is it too much?”

  “You - in a suit.” And he’d combed his hair. Wonders would never cease.

  She opened the door on the second trill, meeting a frantic smile from Josh and a curious one from Claire. They were standing too far apart for newlyweds. Claire cocked her head on one side in an unnervingly f
amiliar way. Oh, goddess. She’s hitting on me.

  “Hello, old chap.”

  Alfred, blind to the inappropriate attentions going on underneath his nose, gravitated towards the only guest in whom he had any interest. He gesticulated wildly and his voice was too loud. Claire watched the hand that installed itself in the small of her husband’s back and ushered him indoors.

  She’s worked it out. Clever girl.

  Unsurprisingly the visit went downhill from there. Claire clung to Josh like a limpet and kept up a stream of bitchy remarks. It started when Alfred came down the front steps, gripping his stick when his bad leg hurt him.

  “That’s him? I thought he was fit?”

  Josh tuned her out. He didn’t know why he found Alfred so wonderful to look at. Yes, there were more grey hairs than he remembered, and a few new wrinkles, but he was watching for the glow in the blue eyes, that subtle smile.

  When the men’s eyes met a world of discomfort was exchanged. Claire prattled on, a manic grin fixed to her face. When he offered to take them on a tour of the grounds Josh called off, claiming fatigue. This was so unusual Alfred looked at him in concern, only to switch to a ribald chuckle. “You young people!” he said.

  Josh felt the first slice of pure embarrassment in his life. He waited for them to go before retreating into the library.

  He wished she hadn’t invited herself. He knew this was part of being married but there had to be limits. It felt wrong. Visiting Chimera had become ritualised: the walk up the driveway, Alfred meeting him, a quiet interlude in the library before getting down to the business of the day. Any change, however small, would destroy it. Yet here was Claire with her perfume and head tossing, invading. He couldn’t imagine the damage her heels must be doing to the floors.

  Chimera was safety, security. Pacing the library, he breathed its scents of beeswax, ageing paper and tobacco. The sense of Alfred was so strong, it was as though his friend was standing behind him, his hand on his shoulder.

  He was no nearer to telling him. Perhaps another letter would do the trick. He sat down at the writing desk, chose a pen and dipped it in the ink well. There was paper in the top drawer. A tug and it sprang open, upsetting magazines, memos and librettos over the floor. He picked up the clutter, stuffing it in anyhow.