Sleepless

by Louise Mumford

  Using every last bit of willpower, she heaved herself up from her seat and shuffled past Lisa who tried to grab her hand and slur something incomprehensible. Then she was out of the door, the air hitting her like an open palm. She wasn’t sure if it was alcohol or exhaustion that made her steps wobble.

  Of course, back at home, after a bath and a ready meal, she was wide awake. This state continued until early the next morning, and, at some point during one of those red-eyed hours, she looked once more at the notifications on her phone, emboldened by the wine still fizzing in her blood.

  Morpheus. Dream your way to a better you – one sleep at a time.

  She clicked on it.

  Chapter 3

  ‘Well, it’s probably a cult, isn’t it, darling?’

  It was a week after Thea’s unsuccessful trip to the pub and her mother was eating haloumi salad, her silk scarf nearly trailing in the food. Luckily, you had to get really close to see that the scarf was printed with tiny little vaginas.

  ‘You’ll get there and then, give it a few weeks, you’ll be having orgies and giving blow jobs. Constantly. Mark my words. Cult.’

  Sometimes Thea wished she didn’t have a mother who said things like “orgies” and “blow jobs” in the middle of a crowded restaurant where the tables were so close you could practically breathe on someone else’s food.

  ‘A cult might be good for you.’ Vivian speared an asparagus tip thoughtfully. ‘More sex.’

  Thea could feel her face burning. She wasn’t sure how much more of this she could stand.

  Vivian lowered her voice to a dramatic stage whisper, but couldn’t hide the glint in her eyes: ‘I think I have more sex than you!’

  She probably did. Thea had to admit it.

  ‘Mum! I swear I will leave if you carry on!’ Thea tried to keep her voice stern as Vivian smiled at the few furtive glances she was getting, like a queen amongst her courtiers.

  ‘Sorry, teapot. Can’t help myself. Winding you up is too much fun. Will be good.’

  Thea hated being called “teapot” too. Her mother had started it when she was little because, ‘You had such a sweet little rounded tummy and these skinny arms and legs.’ Vivian thought it cute. Thea disagreed.

  ‘Right. It’s not a cult. It’s a trial for a new sleep app and they’ll pay for me to be a part of it. All I have to do is apply for an interview. Thing is, it’ll last for six weeks, and obviously the office won’t give me leave for that long so’ – Thea momentarily found her ham panini fascinating – ‘umm … if I’m accepted, I’ll just leave my job.’

  That was all it had ever been – a job. Not a career, not a vocation, not a calling. Hers was one desk among many in an office with strip lighting that buzzed. It paid the bills. Of course, those bills would still need to be paid, even if she left that desk …

  Unhinged, that’s how she felt. It was as if the car accident had snapped a vital part of her and it was now flapping wildly in the wind, loose from its fixings, hanging in there by not very much at all.

  Vivian stopped eating and reached across the table, laying her hand over Thea’s. She stared intensely into her daughter’s eyes and, when she spoke, it was with a deliberate solemnity. ‘That, my love, is the best news I’ve heard this year. I’m delighted! You’re wasted in … whatever it is that you do in that little office. Come help us out at HQ. We always need someone to paint the placards.’

  HQ was a living room. The Menopausal Army (‘Probably best to call us Post-Menopausal now, darling!’) had had many names over the years but always the same goal: change. Vivian Mackenzie had spent nearly thirty fervent, bright-eyed years protesting, marching, arguing and educating on anything and everything that needed it. A lot of things needed it. They still did, but Vivian had, over the last few years, taken a step back from leading it all. Thea was banned from calling this retirement.

  ‘You are a creative soul, anyway – I’ve always thought it,’ Vivian continued. ‘We can find you another job.’ She gripped Thea’s hand tighter. ‘I blame myself, you know, for this inability of yours to sleep properly. We moved around so much when you were little, there was no routine, no stability. You were so well behaved, but it’s left its mark. I see that now.’ She emphasized the next words. ‘I own it.’

  There it was. There was the pause, which Thea was meant to fill with the reassurance that Vivian’s chaotic lifestyle when she was little had not irrevocably scarred her in any way. Old age was making her mother sentimental.

  ‘Mum, it’s not your fault—’

  ‘Is it dangerous? How does it work? You hear such stories these days. These big companies, they have no morals, no sense of responsibility …’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m being sent an introductory pack. I can back out if it doesn’t sound right. There are loads of these kinds of sleep apps around. It’ll probably turn out to be crap and I’ll be back at square one.’

  Vivian sighed, frowned and fiddled with the huge turquoise bangle on her wrist. Today she was dressed in a bright red tunic top and a necklace in the shape of bats joined together at the wing, even though Hallowe’en was weeks away. Thea wished she’d worn better-fitting jeans, and that maybe she hadn’t decided to cut her own fringe this month. But both jeans and hair were clean, and on some bleak mornings, after only an hour’s sleep, that was all she could manage.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ Vivian finally proclaimed. ‘But I raised you to know your own mind. So do it if you want to. But you call me the minute anything feels off and I will come and get you wherever you are. And, darling … remember the keys.’

  Ah yes, the old key trick: Vivian’s idea of teaching Thea self-defence when she turned thirteen. ‘When out late at night, teapot, hold your keys in your hand like this … yes, that’s it, with the points sticking out between your fingers, like a knuckleduster. Okay, then if any man makes a grab at you, just swipe … yes, like that … mind the cat, teapot … swipe up and nearly blind the bugger.’ She hadn’t yet had a chance to try it out.

  ‘Okay, Mum.’

  Vivian unwound her scarf, shaking it out so anyone left in the café who hadn’t yet seen its print got an eyeful. ‘I suppose you could make some new friends at least, and anyway – you might not even get accepted for this interview, hmm?’

  That was the thing, Thea thought as she avoided her mother’s eye. She already had been.

  Chapter 4

  The male voice was deep, rich and warm:

  ‘It suddenly seems like everyone is talking about sleep.

  ‘You already know how vital it is, otherwise you wouldn’t be listening to this. Experts are still not sure exactly what the sleeping brain does. They know it orders and organizes itself ready for the next day, much like a parent picking up after their children. The brain dreams and tries to make sense of the world.

  ‘You know the scare stories. People who consistently don’t get enough sleep have a higher risk of health issues from cancer to heart disease; they are more likely to suffer from dementia when they get older. They get angry more quickly, feel more stupid, react more slowly.

  ‘Modern society is caffeine-fuelled and overstimulated. You’ve probably tried all the sleep aids. Your bedroom is a lavender-scented, cool, dark, silk-sheeted, mood-music oasis, right?

  ‘And yet you still don’t sleep.

  ‘This is why you have reached out to us.

  ‘We are different. Brainchild of revered internet guru Moses Ing, this technology has been decades in research and development, combining the best of recent sleep theory to help you fall into a peaceful, restorative, long slumber.

  ‘But this technology promises even more. With continued use, you can use the app and the hardware to actually reprogramme your brain. Want to lose weight? Manage stress? Stop smoking? Have more confidence? The only limit is you.

  ‘Intrigued? We hope you are. Be the first to experience the new sleep technology that will change the world – one sleep at a time.

  ‘Morpheus.

&nbs
p; ‘Dream your way to a better you.’

  The envelope from Ing Enterprises held only two slim cards. On one was the link to the audio file she had just listened to with the words ‘One-time use only’ printed underneath.

  The other card simply said:

  Preliminary Meeting

  Your Sleep Guru is: Harriet Stowe

  Venue: Home address

  Time: Saturday 16th Sept, 11 a.m.

  Chapter 5

  Thea felt much the same about people visiting her house as she did about splinters – she wanted them out.

  Her house was tiny for a start: the stairs were in the living room and the living room was nearly in the kitchen, with the dining room as merely a cramped corner. She liked it like that. It was her small safe space where she could crawl and hide after an exhausting day spent trying to seem human.

  Two people in it seemed too much.

  ‘So,’ Harriet Stowe said, sat at Thea’s dining table and glancing at an open folder in front of her. ‘I hope you understand the slightly clandestine route we have had to take. Our competitors are ruthless, and we cannot let any significant information out into the public domain, certainly not until we have launched.’

  Harriet had put her voluminous, purple-lined coat on the newel post of the stairs. Thea’s fingers itched to move it to the coat hook, where coats were expected to be.

  She had no other choice but to be strict about the house. It had to have the right lighting and temperature, it had to have candles and a scent diffuser constantly puffing out clouds of lavender mist. It had to be quiet and clean and peaceful, because that’s what every article about sleep had impressed upon her: you had to create the right environment for it to come, blinking into sight, like a shy, rare animal.

  ‘I always find, in circumstances such as these, it’s best to be led by the client,’ Harriet continued, pushing her cat’s-eye reading glasses down her nose so she could peer at her paperwork. ‘Please feel free to ask me any questions about the trial that may be on your mind.’

  Moving into her kitchen, which was the size of a postage stamp, Thea attempted to remember how much instant coffee a normal person put in their mug. Two tablespoons of it was definitely too much.

  ‘Thea?’ Harriet steepled her fingers together and rested her little pointed chin on them.

  Thea came out of the kitchen, carrying the coffees, which were definitely not the right colour. Her mind, rather unhelpfully, went as blank as a badly loaded webpage.

  ‘Umm … My mother thinks you’re a cult.’

  Harriet raised a carefully shaded eyebrow.

  Thea put the coffees down. ‘That wasn’t my question! Umm … what risks are there?’

  Harriet considered her coffee with a distinct air of trepidation. ‘Ah, good question.’

  Thea suspected that was what she always said, regardless of the actual first question offered. Harriet’s stiletto heels sank into the carpet, jabbing deep holes into the pile. She had already left a trail of little woodworm pocks from the front door to the chair.

  ‘Shall I tell you a bit more about the process first? So you understand, yes?’

  Thea nodded and Harriet’s hand hovered near the cup. She was in her forties – older than Thea who was twenty-seven – and dressed in the kind of well-made pencil skirt and blouse that could not be picked up in the supermarket as part of a weekly shop.

  ‘The six-week trial is made up of three phases and each phase lasts two weeks. Phase One is orientation, where we get to know you. Phase Two is where we start with the tech, fine-tuning it as appropriate, with sleep as our goal. Phase Three is where we then use the tech to help you become the best that you can be.’

  Best? Thea would gladly have settled for merely better. Even a bit.

  Harriet’s delivery was smooth and expressive, and Thea got the distinct impression that this was a script she had gone through many times before. She still hadn’t picked up the mug.

  ‘The tech itself comprises two parts, the part you download onto your phone as an app, and the incredibly small discs that fix, completely harmlessly and without pain, to your temples. They work in tandem using a variety of technologies, some well-known, some new, to help you drift into the best sleep of your life.’

  A diffuser puffed wheezily.

  ‘I am assuming you have exhausted all other possible options – therapy? Medication?’ Harriet picked up a pen as sleek and shiny as a bullet.

  ‘Yes,’ Thea said.

  It wasn’t a complete lie – she had at least attended the therapy sessions a few times. And she’d tried medication, which, despite her misgivings, had worked. During the day. The office hadn’t been keen on her napping her working hours away.

  ‘And how do you think a lack of sleep is affecting you? Relationships and so on? Would you say you’ve got to a critical point?’ Harriet’s eyes ranged around the room, taking in the distinct lack of any happy couple or girl squad photos amongst the candles.

  Thea rubbed at her eyes. It would have been a relief every so often if she could have just taken out her eyeballs and dunked them in cold water. The gunk and grit of sleeplessness would float off down the plughole and she could then pop the eyeballs back in, totally refreshed.

  ‘Critical point?’ Thea went over and hung up Harriet’s coat. ‘Yeah, I think it’s been reached.’

  People as twisted and shattered as that lump of metal and glass.

  Harriet paused in her writing, ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ she said as she considered her over the top of her glasses. It sounded genuine. All of a sudden, Thea’s eyes began to sting. Harriet pushed her glasses up a little and considered the papers in front of her. Instinctively, she reached out once more for the coffee mug, looked in it, paused, and set it back down again.

  Harriet picked up a framed photo. ‘But your mother, Vivian Mackenzie. You spend a lot of time with her?’

  Did Harriet mean “too much time”? Thea couldn’t tell.

  ‘Some. Not much. I have friends.’

  She was getting good at lying.

  ‘And your mother’s … activism? She founded … let me see, The Menopausal Army, no?’ Harriet couldn’t stop the flicker of a smile at the name. ‘At Ing Enterprises we are not so sure this would be such a good fit for us.’

  Thea’s coffee sloshed over the side of the mug as she put it down too heavily. Not a good fit. What did that mean? Would she be blacklisted from the trial because her mother had morals and an insane need to march every single weekend, no matter what the weather was like?

  ‘Oh – that? She’s retired now. Completely.’

  The lie came out so easily. But it wasn’t completely untrue – her mother had stopped doing the on-camera stuff and organizing campaigns. She’d definitely taken a step back … just not quite as far back as Thea would have Harriet believe.

  Harriet jotted down notes. Thea fiddled with a loose thread on her jumper, wanting the woman gone, and the skin of her safe little house to close back over after the splinter had been tweezered out.

  Safe little house.

  Thea realized with a cold, sick feeling in her stomach that, in about four months’ time, if she gave up her job and her savings ran out, she would no longer be able to afford this safe little house. That flapping, unhinged part of her mind creaked.

  ‘Anyhow. We are getting a little ahead of ourselves.’ Harriet smiled. ‘It’s not yet guaranteed that you are the type of candidate we are looking for. May we now move on to the second part of this little chat?’

  It was much like delicate dentistry. Harriet magnified and examined, jabbing and poking, blowing air on corners of Thea’s mind that Thea hadn’t really known existed, manoeuvring around any white-hot patches where a nerve throbbed. Questions and topics ranged from her childhood to what perfume she wore, the future of robotics to what type of tea she drank. Thea didn’t know what the “correct” answers were, so had no clue as to whether she was doing well – or not.

  She liked to do well.
/>   After about half an hour, Harriet sighed happily and stretched her shoulders.

  ‘Well, it’s been lovely meeting you. We’ll be in touch to let you know if you have been selected for preliminary testing.’

  Once again, she grasped the handle of her mug, a natural move to finish the drink before she left. Before she could stop herself, she had taken a large gulp and that was when Thea knew that Harriet’s foundation was worth the money: it hid the shade of puce she must have turned when she finally tasted the coffee.

  Only later, when she was vacuuming the stiletto pocks from the carpet, did Thea realize that she’d never told anyone from Ing Enterprises about The Menopausal Army, or even her mother’s name.

  Chapter 6

  A beard spoke to her.

  ‘My name is Rory. I’ll be looking after you tonight,’ it explained. There was a face amongst the hair but, mired in grogginess, Thea couldn’t focus on it.

  A door slid open with a sigh.

  ‘This is your preliminary sleep assessment. You passed the interview stage – well done. We have a few questions to get through first, just some routine paperwork, and then we can begin. You will spend the night here, and we’ll monitor your sleep. As you know, this is the final stage. If we approve you here, that’s it – you’re in. You have your overnight bag?’

  The building she’d arrived at was nothing special and, frankly, special was what Thea had been expecting. The clinic room had made up for that a little with its white surfaces like shiny icing on a cake. It was small but more expensively fitted out than the whole of her own house. The bed had a reassuringly plump mattress. At least she’d be comfortable whilst lying awake in the dark for the whole night.

  ‘I can watch TV?’ Thea asked.

  Rory smiled, but it was hard to see under the beard. His eyes were kind though. He was the only slightly scruffy thing about the room with his saggy trousers and a faded T-shirt that had once probably had a superhero reference on it.