The Assistant

by S. K. Tremayne

  She grabs a wineglass with the bottle, and chuckles.

  ‘I’ve always wondered if we’d make a good married lesbian couple.’

  ‘Maybe. But Arlo would insist on joining in.’

  She grins, sips the wine, and leans back against a granite counter.

  ‘Hah. That’s true. He’s so absurdly oversexed. OK, let’s eat.’

  Stepping into the living room and sitting at the table, I spoon out the thick, garlicky, tomatoey cioppino, rich with fish and herbs, and Tabitha devours it with suitably appreciative noises. We open a second bottle of red, and conversation ping-pongs briskly and agreeably enough: from friends, to other friends, to some gossip about Arlo, to the idea of wilderness, to whistling in pop songs, to the time she saw a bear in Colorado and was scared even though she was in a car.

  ‘I mean,’ she says, ‘what was the bear gonna do? Break into my car with a credit card? Anyhow, fuck it, Josepheeeen, darling Jo-Jo, shall we have another bottle? We’re nearly finished! And look, I have a present.’

  She leans to a shopping bag, one she dumped here as she came in. She takes out a box. I know by the branding and the shape of the box what’s inside. It is surely one of the latest screen Assistants, complete with cameras, that does everything the other Assistants do, but with a camera and a screen as well, so you can make instant face-calls, so you can drop by on friends, and see their face and homes, their bedrooms and kitchens, in real time. Tabs already has one of these in her bedroom. She chats with Arlo at night, face to face. Lens to lens.

  The idea creeps me out. That single, indefatigable eye, perpetually observing.

  Her voice mildly slurred from wine, Tabitha says,

  ‘I had coffee this morning with Fitz, told him you were …’ She smiles, warmly, sincerely. ‘Ahhh. Maybe a bit lonely here? Anyway, he suggested this. It means you can talk to me, see my face – talk to anyone who has the same. And it shows you reminders and calendars and everything!’

  I guess this explains why Fitz sent that message: he knows I am lonely. As I ponder this, Tabitha proudly unboxes the new Assistant, and plugs it in. The machine, which is mostly screen, does a deep bong and glows with a satisfied shimmer of linear blue light, trippling along the top.

  I blurt, rude, reflexive,

  ‘I’m not having that thing in my bedroom.’

  Tabitha eyes me over her wineglass. Meanwhile, the screen Assistant glows as it watches us.

  WHO or WHAT is watching us?

  ‘That’s fine,’ she shrugs, her tone a little sour. I am aware I am being ungrateful, but I can’t help it, given what I’m going through.

  Tabitha continues, ‘I thought it might be nice for you, darling? Some company. Working and writing here alone all day, must be isolating. And you don’t have to interact with it, visually, you can carry on asking Electra questions, on the shelf, like before.’

  ‘I’m not having it in my bedroom. It stays in here!’

  My voice is loud. It earns an angry grimace from Tabitha.

  ‘OK. OK. Like I said, that’s fine. For God’s sake, it’s a present, Jo-Jo. I bought it for you, and us. I can talk to Arlo in here when I am alone.’

  I glare at her. I glare at the machine with its screensaver of innocent blue sky: and this is where it all goes wrong. One bottle of red was surely enough, but we’ve had almost two. My fears and anxieties are surfacing into fury.

  How dare they frighten me, whoever they are. I can’t keep this in. It’s time to offload; my best friend needs to know. Some of it. And so, in a rush, I tell Tabs all about Liam, about him abruptly disappearing off the Net. His ghosting.

  I wait for her reaction: it doesn’t come. She merely shrugs: unconcerned. Too annoyed with me for being ungrateful, perhaps. Instead she fiddles with the new Assistant, adjusting the brightness, and as she does she speaks, so blithely,

  ‘Can’t blame him,’ she says, ‘I’d quite like to disappear sometimes, all this online shit, it uses up too much time. How clever of him to vanish.’

  ‘Clever?’

  ‘Yes, all that Facebook stuff, it’s so intrusive, yet useless. And Twitter is a ghastly pub where everyone fights. Yuk.’

  She shrugs, in her bored, yet drunken way. I bridle at her blasé hypocrisy.

  ‘Let me get this right, Tabs. You say you hate the internet, and yet’ – I gesture at the new screen thing, then Electra on the shelf – ‘you have all this tech. The Assistants. Your flat is basically run by the internet. How the hell does that add up?’

  We are close to full-on bickering.

  ‘That’s different,’ she says, her pout turning into a scowl. ‘I said I hate social media, not the internet itself.’

  ‘Right.’

  Another scowl.

  ‘Yes. Right. And what is it to you anyway, Jo? I like all the technology. It’s brilliant, and it’s fun. You need to …’ She looks like she is poised to say something truly insulting, ‘Sharpen up, Jo. Get on trend. I’ll teach you. A frigging five-year-old could work Electra! God knows what you did the other night.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything—’ I so want to snap back, to insult her. Rich and privileged, Tabs can be a total bitch. Unaware of her luck. That bloody coat which would cost me a month’s wages. But I can’t be rude. She is my best friend. And I simply can’t afford to fall out with her badly, because then I’d have to move, and I can’t afford to move, and I don’t want to move, I love this location.

  Or at least I did.

  The anger prickles. ‘Look, I’m sorry, Tabs, but why do you need all this Electra crap? A bloody butler in a box. A camera always watching. Why not turn the heating up like a normal person? With a thermostat. You don’t need these electric servants—’

  Tabitha sullenly pours wine into her glass, then slams the bottle back on the table.

  ‘You do realize you are insulting not just me, but Arlo too? He bought all of this other tech, as an engagement present. And you waltz in and unplug it all, like some total madwoman!’ Our eyes meet, hers are glittering and narrowed, I’m sure my eyes are the same; we are close to a blazing row, she knows all about my much-loved, much-missed father, she knows what calling me mad must do to me. ‘Why don’t you grow up and get with the world, Jo. I love having you here but you can’t go round changing my flat the way you want. Besides. The Assistants. They’re a security system, linked to Arlo. Please don’t turn them off.’

  I finish my own wine. Shocked.

  ‘What?’

  She gestures. A pale hand pointing from a cashmere sleeve.

  ‘I used to live here alone, and Arlo got worried – you know he thinks Camden is positively lawless – so he ensured that my home tech is all linked to his. He got Simon to do it: he can make sure I am safe, listen in, watch over me from my bedroom. Now he can watch over you, too. But that’s why it’s so important it stays on, to keep us safe.’

  I am not sure I quite get this. The implications are so grotesque.

  ‘You mean,’ I try to control the tremor in my voice. ‘You mean Arlo can listen to this flat through the Assistants, all the time. He can actually spy on me from these cameras. Does he watch me take a fucking pee?’

  ‘Oh puh-lease. Don’t be ridiculous. He hasn’t got a massive linked camera system in here like some voyeur, Jo, it simply means that, yes, he can sometimes check who is in the flat, by seeing what HomeHelp and Electra and the rest are doing, security breaches and such.’ Another airy gesture, as if designed to annoy me. ‘He rang me today to ask why they were all turned off last night. You see, that’s how it works, he can make sure we’re safe. He knows what is going on, but he can only watch, live, if you give him permission.’

  I throw my napkin to the floor.

  ‘And you’re OK with that? You don’t find that controlling? He’s observing us, from a distance, all the time. Jesus. It’s Too Fucking Weird.’

  ‘Calm down—’

  ‘No! Tabitha. Think about it!’

  We stare at each other. She wipes her lips,
looks down at the table, looks up at me – and pauses. For a moment it feels like our entire friendship hangs in the balance. Then her expression changes.

  ‘OK. Look. Please … I’m sorry.’ She tries a weak, apologetic smile. ‘I am sorry. I was snippy.’

  I can see, from her face, despite my drunken state, that she is genuinely trying to make peace. We have been the best of friends for years. Sometimes when she’s drunk she’s told me she loves me, and I’ve told her right back. We both hate our occasional rows. And this is – or was – potentially a very bad one.

  ‘Jo. I’m sorry! I get it. And I guess it does sound a bit … Orwellian, if you’re not used to this technology, and obviously you’re not.’

  She reaches a hand across the table. Squeezes mine.

  ‘I’m truly sorry.’

  I pause. I look at her white hand, squeezing mine. I say,

  ‘Is Arlo listening now? Even watching? Perhaps he’d like to see us kissing, shall we pretend we’re copping off?’

  It’s a lame attempt at a joke, but it seems to work. She laughs, slurrily, and says,

  ‘No, he’s out with his Belgian pervert friend. And anyway it doesn’t work like that, he’s not actually sitting in some silent room with headphones and CCTV, he only sees the interactions, the behaviour of the Assistants, he can video-call me without pressing buttons, drop by, use the screen in my bedroom, that sort of thing. And check on security, keep us safe!’ She sighs, and looks at her wine. ‘We had too much, didn’t we? Sorry.’

  ‘We always have too much. It’s why we’re friends.’

  Our eyes meet, the anger has gone. I suspect we are both thinking about Jamie Trewin. Who definitely had too much.

  Whatever thought we are sharing, or not sharing, it has dispelled the anger.

  ‘Hey-la,’ says Tabitha, ‘it’s nearly midnight. Let me clear up the mess. You go to bed, you look tired.’

  I do not demur. I am tired.

  Thankful for the warmth, and the comforting presence of Tabitha – despite our little spat – I creep into bed, ask HomeHelp to turn out the lights. Then, in the darkness and quiet, with nothing but the faint sound of Tabitha filling the dishwasher and clearing the kitchen, I turn over and prepare for sleep.

  It does not come. I don’t want to take any sleeping pills. I feel genuinely tired. I haven’t done any coffee to mess with my sleep pattern. Nonetheless, sleep will not come. Perhaps it is anxiety. I’ve just realized the implication of what Tabitha has said. Even if I want to, I cannot turn off the technology, unplug the Assistants. Arlo will know, and he will tell Tabitha to throw me out, and after that row, I cannot be sure she will disobey him.

  Turning my pillow over, I gaze through the gloom at the 3D oval of HomeHelp. The egg which is now firmly implanted: in me.

  14

  Jo

  My mind churns, I try to stop it. I don’t want to think about the Assistants. Not tonight.

  Turning over, I stare at the dim ceiling and consider how many other people have lain flat on their backs in this two-hundred-year-old room. How many have lived and loved and laughed and died, right here.

  Dozens, maybe. And dozens will come after, perhaps. Perhaps my own children will sleep here – yet probably not. I don’t believe I will ever want kids, whether it is because of my dad’s heritable disease, or a genuine lack of maternal instinct: I do not know. I just don’t go gooey over tiny Converse boots like some friends of mine. They can melt like marshmallows at the mere sight of miniature clothes. Kids under four bore me. Why does this shock people?

  The thought of children, and my childlessness, reminds me of some of the personal yet peculiar phrases used by Electra and HomeHelp the other day.

  Cold as snow breath, it tamps the womb …

  Unloosing their moons, month after month, to no purpose …

  Perfection is terrible. IT CANNOT HAVE CHILDREN …

  The implication of these statements was and is clear. The machines were apparently commenting on, or taunting me about, my choice not to be a mother. To unloose my moons, to no purpose, for month after month. That choice which made Simon so unhappy.

  Yet these phrases are so odd, the syntax, vocabulary and grammar so distinct. Did the machines invent these lines, or steal them?

  In the dark I reach for my bedside smartphone, and lie back. A tap brings me a quicker answer. Most of these lines seem to come from a poem, ‘The Munich Mannequins’, by an American writer. Sylvia Plath. I have heard of her, but I don’t know much about her. I’ve never been interested in poetry. Always found it too depressing. Or boring. I preferred the drama and grandeur of art, hence History of Art at King’s. I only ended up a journalist because learning History of Art, it turns out, is utterly pointless unless you want to teach History of Art to people who will go on to teach History of Art.

  So who exactly was Sylvia Plath?

  I do a quick Wiki: Sylvia Plath (October 27, 1932 – February 11, 1963) was an American poet, novelist, and short-story writer …

  There’s lots more. She’s obviously quite famous – to some. She married an equally well-known British poet, Ted Hughes. I’ve heard of him, too, though I know little about him. In the gloom of my bedroom, I wonder if I saw a movie about the two of them years ago, with a tragic ending? Yes, I believe I did. But what was that ending?

  I find a webpage dedicated to her life, and her work, and that ending. And what I read brings a chill that stings like needles.

  In 1962 Sylvia Plath separated from Ted Hughes. She then moved back to London, with her children.

  As Christmas came and went, the snow began falling. Alone with her kids, Plath was facing the terrible winter of 1963. Insomniac, and isolated, she was diagnosed as depressed; her doctors also considered her a suicide risk. Daily visits were arranged.

  On the morning of 11 February, the nurse arrived, as usual, to help Plath with the care of her children. When she knocked, no one answered the door. Nor could she see any signs of life inside. Eventually the nurse broke in.

  In the downstairs kitchen she found Plath, lying on the floor with her head resting on a little towel, by the open gas oven. She was dead. Running upstairs, the nurse was at first unable to open the door to the children’s bedroom, because Plath had put tape and towels around the door, to prevent the gas reaching the children. The children were alive, but awake and confused. Plath, it turned out, had placed glasses of milk and plates of bread on bedside tables for her two kids – something to eat when they woke up. The nurse deduced that it must have been Plath’s final act, before she went downstairs to the kitchen. And opened the gas oven. And turned on the gas.

  Plath was thirty years old.

  I look away from the screen, feeling faintly sick, and horribly sad. I may have no maternal instinct, but I have a loving instinct. Children, little children. How could you simultaneously take such loving care, providing bread and milk for your son and daughter, then go downstairs and deprive them of a mother?

  And there is more. The webpage gives Plath’s final address. The house where she killed herself.

  It is 23 Fitzroy Road, Primrose Hill, NW3.

  It is about three streets, and three minutes’ walk, from where I am lying in my bed, tonight.

  15

  Jo

  Sleep is impossible now. Throwing off the duvet, I go to the cold window and open the curtain. A soft snow is falling, all over Camden. Therefore it is also falling on the roof of the house where Sylvia Plath killed herself. A few hundred metres away. During a long hard winter, just like this winter.

  I recall that woman with the little kids, the woman who was struggling with the snow. Her back to me. If Plath had ever walked to Camden High Street, from Primrose Hill, in that terrible winter, she would have walked past Delancey Street, past my house. Dragging her two little kids. Hunched with loneliness, thinking of suicide.

  What did I see that evening, just before Electra first spoke to me, in her special way?

  These thoughts edge close
to madness. I must sleep them away. Hauling myself across the bedroom I reach for my Xanax canister. Three, four, five, I don’t care. Give me sleep. Give me dreamless, endless sleep. Sleep to the end of the world.

  Back in bed, I wait for the Xanax to kick in. My mind is roiled.

  If I am mad, like my father, I am doomed. But if I am not mad, there is someone out there doing this. Someone real.

  But who resents me enough to scare me this much? Liam, perhaps, if he exists. Otherwise one of the tech people I might have affronted with my article: Arlo Scudamore, or Gul Foxton, or Jenny Lansman? Yet how many of them know about Jamie Trewin? What about Fitz? Advising Tabitha to get another Assistant, to freak me out even more? Why would Fitz want revenge? Yet he does own the flat below. Which will soon be filled, with people to Watch Over Me.

  The obvious candidate, I suppose, is Simon, who installed all this tech, and who probably has the knowledge to turn it against me – unlike Arlo, say, or Fitz. Yet I cannot believe it is entirely down to him: there is a deep friendship between us, still. And he’s not, I reckon, the kind of guy to turn on me so viciously.

  But what if he is being forced, or manipulated, by someone else? I think I know who it might be: I remember a lunch Simon and I once had, about a year after our divorce. At the end of the meal, Simon drunkenly admitted how much she resented me, how much she hated me: his supposedly pleasant, nice, sweet, maternal new wife, with her elfin bob, and her gorgeous new baby.

  16

  Polly

  ‘Doesn’t it ever freak you out, having a baby in a flat like this?’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Polly, turning to Anna.

  Anna dipped her chunk of carrot in the little pot of creamy tzatziki that Polly was offering, thus making an iridescent glob of fat at the end of her carrot stick. She ate it, crunching loudly, still talking, looking down on Old Street and Silicon Roundabout, a dizzying whorl of maddened car lights.

  ‘I mean, balconies, all the risks – not that I think anything would happen—’