by Luiza Sauma
‘It’s going to be extremely challenging – emotionally, mentally and physically. Is this really something you want to do with your life?’
‘Yes. Can I ask a question, though?’
‘Of course.’
‘Why won’t they be able to contact Earth? I mean, it must be possible, since the show will be streamed on the internet – right?’
‘Again, this is explained in the terms and conditions.’
‘I know, but –’
‘Cast members will not be able to contact friends and family on Earth due to technical and financial limitations.’
‘Right.’
Tara went on, reading from the terms, word for word: ‘The only contact cast members will have with Earth is for regular psychological evaluations, which will be carried out by Earth-based mental health professionals.’
Only the terms and conditions referred to the Nyxians in this way – as ‘cast members’.
‘Above all,’ she continued, ‘after consulting several specialists, Nyx Inc has come to the conclusion that this is the best way to maintain cast members’ emotional and mental well-being, which is our primary concern.’
It didn’t make sense to Iris, but she said, ‘OK.’
‘Thank you, Iris. We’ve now come to the end of our first interview.’
‘Thanks. Did I pass?’
‘We’re interviewing thousands of people around the world, so it will take a while to assess the results. We’ll send you an email to let you know whether you’ve progressed to the next round.’
‘I just want to say that I really want this.’
‘Thank you. Goodbye, Iris. I hope you have a great weekend.’
‘You too. I mean, thanks. Bye.’
4.
Cygnets
Later that day, Iris was standing at the head of the IdeasLab, giving a presentation about hashtags, holding a clicker in her sweaty right hand. The long bank holiday weekend was within reach. She remembers that day perfectly, from beginning to end: toast for breakfast, the interview in the black box, the presentation, cocktails at East of Eden.
‘So, in conclusion,’ she said, ‘hashtags are, of course, an integral part of any social media strategy – a fun, simple way to increase engagement, spark debate and tell the story of your brand to potential customers, beyond your core community. But remember: always think before you tag. Any questions?’
Fifteen faces looked back at her, expectantly. It was almost over, but first they had to go through the song and dance of pretending they had questions. Most people didn’t give a shit about anything on Friday afternoons, which took the pressure off, but still, the attention was unbearable. As a child, Iris had loved attention. Plays, assemblies, music: she involved herself in everything. It was hard to pinpoint when everything changed, when she became this other person, this wreck. A scarecrow made of hay and rags, passing as human.
‘No questions at all?’ said Alison, narrowing her eyes.
Iris felt a single drop of sweat fall from her armpit, trailing down the right side of her body to her waist, under her silk blouse. She sniffed the air. Yeah, she thought, I definitely smell bad. Shouldn’t have worn silk – it would stain. Eddie looked at Jenny, Jenny looked at Rich. They cocked their heads, hoping someone else would ask a question. Finally, Eddie raised his hand, offering himself up for sacrifice.
‘Really interesting presentation, Iris. Some great insights there.’
‘Thanks, Eddie.’ She smiled modestly.
Eddie was slumped low in his chair, leaning backwards. He ran a hand through his messy blond hair. His T-shirt was old and bluish grey, threadbare under the arms. There was no dress code at work, but he took it too far. He barely tried to hide how little he cared.
Another drop of sweat fell from the same armpit, underneath Iris’s blouse.
‘But don’t you think it’s important to sometimes not use hashtags,’ he said, ‘just so that brands appear a bit more human and approachable?’
Iris nodded. Eddie had no interest in this question. He was just helping her out. She opened her mouth, not knowing what she was going to say, but hoping that if she randomly strung a few of Alison’s favourite words together – learnings, stakeholders, narrative, synergy, analytics, strategy, conversion – then she’d be OK.
But Alison got there first. ‘Wait a sec,’ she said, her voice quick and shaky with anger. ‘Did you listen to anything that Iris just said?’
Eddie sat up straight. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Good, well, she already said – half an hour ago – that it’s important to maintain a balance between marketing, curation and humanization.’
He shrugged, but he wasn’t nervous – he wasn’t scared of her.
‘Sorry, Alison. I must’ve missed that.’ He hung his head like a schoolboy, and smiled.
‘Any other questions?’ said Alison, taking over. ‘Well, I’ll take that as a sign of how thorough Iris’s presentation was. It was really excellent, I. So many valuable learnings for us to take away and ponder.’
They filed back to their desks and immediately logged on to their group chat.
Eddie
Drinks tonight?
Jenny
Fuck yes
Iris
I definitely need one.
Rich
i need 20
Jenny
Let’s go crazy
They were mute, but typing furiously, desperate for the end of the day to come.
Eddie
Eden?
Rich
yeah
Jenny
Yes! Let’s leave one by one. Iris?
Iris
Yeah, I’m up for it.
Jenny
OK. Go team. I’ll go first. See you upstairs. By the pool xx
It was one of the first beautiful evenings of the year, with a soft, golden sky that, coupled with alcohol, made Iris forget her unhappiness, momentarily. She was sitting by the blue swimming pool on the roof of East of Eden with Eddie, Rich and Jenny. It wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold. Spring was her favourite season because it hinted at the summer, yet to come. The sun was fairly high, just creeping to the other side of the world, casting tall shadows and a hazy light as they drank delicious iced cocktails made with esoteric ingredients. They were laughing.
‘Look at that,’ said Jenny, pointing at the city, which glowed silver, blue and brown beneath them.
They all nodded and smiled. Jenny and Rich put on their sunglasses. All of them agreed, inwardly, that they were very lucky at that exact point in time. Everything was fine, more than fine. Everything was sparkling, ecstatic. Their veins were delivering alcohol to their fingers, legs and brains, making them feel warm and wonderful in the stiff spring air. They were talking shit about Alison, that awful bitch, and peering over their shoulders to check that no one from Freedom & Co was behind them, listening.
A young woman with blonde bobbed hair, wearing a retro, high-waisted white bikini, walked out of the changing rooms and stood at the deep end of the pool, preparing to dive. There was no one else swimming – it was still too cold. Her nails were painted red. She looked like a Golden Age film star. Everything goes around in cycles. It would be a relief, thought Iris, to be immune from that. The girl dived elegantly into the pool, barely making a splash. Iris zoned out of the conversation, as she often did, and watched the swimmer glide through the water. She’s much prettier than me, thought Iris, and younger, too. But one day we’ll both be old and ugly.
‘You OK?’ said Eddie, nudging her shoulder with his.
‘Oh, yes.’
‘Want another drink?’
‘Yes, please. Same again.’
Iris slurped the end of the cocktail and crunched the ice between her teeth, enjoying the brief snap of pain. She watched as the swimmer pulled herself out of the water unselfconsciously, even though she was surrounded by fully clothed people, and stood up straight, squeezing the water out of her hair. She was close enough for Ir
is to see the goosebumps on her arms and legs. She was magnificent, really. No older than twenty-five. Probably some sort of model or actress. Someone who didn’t think of death twenty times a day.
The moment passed; the sky darkened. What a terrible waste, to feel even mild sadness on the first Friday in May, sitting next to a swimming pool in one of Earth’s great cities, with a long weekend ahead of you. Iris had been so consumed by work and the Life on Nyx interview, which no one else knew about, that she had forgotten to make plans. The others were talking about parties, dinners, family get-togethers, trips to the countryside: a sure sign that the conversation had dried up, that they hadn’t drunk enough alcohol. On Earth that’s what you asked people when you didn’t know what else to say: ‘What are you doing this weekend?’
‘How about you, Iris?’ said Rich.
‘Not much – just chilling out.’
‘I wish that was my weekend,’ said Jenny. ‘I’m going to be so knackered by the end of it.’
She was just being kind. Jenny never stood still. Eddie came back with the drinks. It was coming, it was coming: the Smog, the gaping blackness. The weekend would be finished. Iris had lived with the ever-present threat of the Smog for sixteen years. She had her guards, her night watch; she was familiar with the signs. Kiran was going away with Ben, her married boyfriend, so Iris would be alone. She was almost relieved. She could revel in it, swim in it, lie in bed all day, allow it to sit on her chest, laughing at her. Nothing would stop her from succumbing. Wait – she had lunch with her family the next day. How could she get out of it?
Someone dive-bombed into the swimming pool, splashing them with water.
Jenny shouted, ‘For fuck’s sake!’
They stayed by the pool until 9 p.m., when the rooftop closed for the night, then they moved inside and drank several more overpriced drinks. Someone produced a wrap of coke, so they took their turns at creeping to the bathroom. Jenny insisted that she and Iris should go together. The bathroom walls were elegantly scrawled with lines from East of Eden, the John Steinbeck novel. Something about beauty and truth, something about freedom, about good and evil. She had never read the book. As Jenny bent over the toilet lid, Iris caught a whiff of her greasy hair, but it wasn’t so bad – earthy and rich, the kind of smell you’d enjoy on someone you love. As she squatted down, Iris tried not to think about how many particles of shit she was snorting, how many people had handled the banknote before she stuck it up her nose. As she inhaled, all of this was forgotten. Her blood seemed to vibrate; every cell in her body was singing a show tune. The Smog was filed away to the back of her brain for another time, probably the next day, but there wasn’t going to be a next day – there was just the bar, the drinks, her friends, the city, a never-ending night. At 2 a.m. they took a taxi to Iris’s flat, where they drank Kiran’s gin and tonic, and when that was finished they drank some dessert wine that Jenny found in the back of a cupboard.
They moved from the kitchen to Iris’s bedroom. Eddie and Iris sat on the bed, leaning on each other, and Rich and Jenny lay on the floor on piles of cushions. At 5 a.m., silence bounced around the room. Everyone looked rubbery and old. Rich ordered an Uber. Jenny went to the loo and didn’t come back. Eddie and Iris were alone, on her bed. He put his arm around her, smiling his Peter Pan smile. Neverland – was that somewhere near Nyx? Iris’s mind felt fluffy and soft. Her mouth tasted like shit, literally. This wasn’t how she had wanted it to happen, her mind jangling with chemicals. She was his boss. It wasn’t right. Who cares? Alison would care.
Eddie kissed her shitty-tasting mouth. The kiss sent disappointingly weak sparks through her body, not because she didn’t like him, but because she was wasted. She couldn’t keep her head up. They slid down to the fuzzy carpet and lay face to face, lips to lips, barely moving.
‘We’re fucked,’ he said into her mouth.
Iris woke up in bed, under the duvet, wearing only her knickers. Her clothes were in a pile on the floor. Her mouth was dry, her nostrils crusty and her head heavy, as if filled with gravel. She picked at the crusts and flicked them away, before remembering that she wasn’t alone. Eddie was asleep on his back, still on the floor, covered with a sarong Iris had bought on holiday a long time ago. She couldn’t remember which country it was from. It was red and yellow, printed with folkish drawings of the sun. How would it feel to look up and see another sun? She drank some water from an old plastic bottle. It tasted like dust.
‘Oh God,’ said Eddie, now awake, putting his hands over his face. He opened one blue eye, then the other and then shut them.
Iris laughed. ‘Good morning,’ she said. She raked her fingers through her long hair, which felt dirty and warm at the roots.
Eddie stretched his arms over his head, showing the worn-away, stained armpits of his T-shirt. ‘I feel like shiiiit!’
‘Same.’
He kicked the sarong off and stood up. He wasn’t wearing his jeans. His legs were sharply muscled, covered in blond hair – a runner’s legs. Iris moved under the duvet towards the wall and felt his warm body slide next to hers. He put his hand around her waist and leaned in for a kiss.
‘I’ve wanted to do that ever since you walked into the building,’ he said.
‘Really?’
‘Of course. Couldn’t you tell?’
‘No.’
Eddie’s stubble scratched against her skin. He breathed into her ear. Her body felt hot all over. Blood was rushing between her legs. What would his face look like when he came? Eddie pulled Iris towards him. This is joy, she thought, like a birdwatcher glimpsing a rare, lovely specimen. Remember this for later, when the Smog descends. Remember the joy.
That afternoon, Iris went to meet her family at a pizza place near Parliament Hill. She had an insatiable hangover. As she walked into the restaurant, her stomach growled. She found them at the back. Her mother looked too smart for the restaurant. Not just her shiny, highlighted bob and pearl earrings, but also her general haughty demeanour. She sat up straight, like a dancer, and enunciated every word. Mona, by contrast, was hunched down, looking at the table, wearing a baggy black hoodie and wire-rimmed glasses, her curly auburn hair half pulled back. There was a bowl of green olives on the table.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ said Iris, sitting down. ‘Where’s Jack?’
‘Oh, he couldn’t come,’ said her mother.
‘What’s he doing today?’ Iris took an olive from the bowl.
‘Just working at home. He had an emergency.’
Her stepfather was permanently attached to a gadget, replying to emails, huffing or tutting at something, head down. Iris hadn’t seen him in a few months, but she tried not to take it personally.
‘Oh well. How’s it going?’
‘Fine,’ said Mona, glancing up.
‘I’m very well,’ said Eleanor, ‘and you?’
‘Yeah, I’m OK. Are you looking forward to the summer holidays, Mona?’
‘It’s miles away,’ said Mona, frowning. ‘It’s only May.’
‘Oh yeah, I don’t know why I asked that.’ Focus, Iris, focus. A thought passed through her head: if only a sinkhole would open right here, right now, and swallow us up. Uh-oh, thinking of sinkholes was a giveaway. She looked up at her sister. There was a touch of unreality to the scene, a distance between Iris and her family. Am I actually here, am I alive? She blinked and said, ‘Any plans for the summer, though?’
‘We’re going to the south of Italy for two weeks,’ said Eleanor. ‘We’re renting a house.’
Iris felt a tug in her heart. She didn’t want to go, but she wanted to be invited.
Eleanor seemed to notice this. ‘Do you want to come?’
‘Yeah, maybe.’
‘Are you planning to go anywhere?’
‘No, just working.’
‘How is it at, uh, the office?’
Eleanor could never bring herself to say ‘Freedom & Co’. Iris knew it was a stupid name, but most agencies had wholesome, feel-good, incongruous n
ames. It was her life, what could she do? Her mother had wanted her to do something proper, like medicine or law.
‘It’s fine,’ said Iris.
‘What have you been working on lately?’
‘Mum, you’re not interested in my work. You don’t need to pretend.’
‘I am interested!’
‘OK, at the moment I’m working on a campaign for a new organic beauty brand called The Farm.’
‘Are the products any good?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t used them yet. I haven’t had time.’
Eleanor raised her eyebrows. ‘Hmm.’
Mona was silent, her eyes studying the menu intently, as if she were reading a newspaper.
‘How’s school?’ said Iris.
Her sister set the menu down. ‘It’s all right.’
‘She won an award recently,’ said Eleanor, ‘for maths. Didn’t you, darling?’
‘Mum, please.’
‘That’s great. Congratulations. What are you up to this weekend?’
‘Nothing. Sitting here with you.’ Mona kept her eyes on the table. She ate an olive.
Iris more or less remembered what it was like, being twelve, but at the same time it was like recalling the memories of another person. She had been doing well – making friends, studying hard – but underneath it all there was a low hum of white noise. She had started to feel like a rotting peach, no longer fresh and sweet. Her school reports described her as energetic, a leader, a doer, but inside, the Baby Smog was nourishing itself like a tapeworm. Mona was different. She didn’t hide it. Awkwardness radiated from her face. Iris wanted to shake it out of her. She wanted to tell her: Learn to hide it or the world will break you.
‘I’m going to the loo,’ said Mona, standing up.
Eleanor watched her walk away until she was out of earshot. ‘Stop foisting your ideas on her,’ she whispered.
‘What ideas? I was just asking what she’s up to. She doesn’t seem to have any friends.’
‘She’s one of the top girls in her year.’
Iris laughed – she couldn’t help it.