‘It’s you,’ he says finally, revelling in the reveal. ‘Evie, you’re Elektra.’
She holds the page closer, looking again at this girl in her lovely dress, with her flawless skin, her beautiful oval face and sleek shoulder-length hair.
‘It’s not me.’
‘No, not you, of course not. But it is your model range. This is the brochure. Your brochure. This is what they hand-delivered to rich clients to entice them – printing it on paper, going to that amount of trouble, was all part of the aura they wanted to create of tactile old-fashioned exclusivity. There should be a holo-disk too, but—’ he reaches across and opens the back ‘—the sleeve is empty. I bought it on the USweb from the widow of one of the designers in California. It’s very rare. If it had the disk, it would be priceless. But anyway, why do I need the disk now – I have you!’
‘You don’t have me,’ Evie says sharply, looking into his face. She has been someone’s property all her life – someone she was programmed to love unconditionally, to imprint upon like a hapless gosling. She accepted that and took from it the pleasure and joy that it would yield but she is not about to consign herself into this stranger’s possession.
‘No, no, I didn’t mean that. Of course not. But here you are. An actual Elektra – maybe the only one – at least in this country – in my home.’
She is still nervous of his continuing assumption of ownership but lets it pass, for despite her initial trepidation, this brochure – her brochure – has her captivated. She’d prefer to study it in private but for now flicks through, reading to herself snippets – Elektra’s eyes are literally the windows to her soul, a breathtaking combination of art and technology utilising the fifth generation of our award winning realiris™ optical solution enabling her to appreciate her world in JVC ultradepth™ and seven billion unique colours!… nanofibre filtering coupled with real time interpretation provide an ultra-spectrum sensory suite complete with… groundbreaking gradations of perception… ten times stronger than steel and a fifth of the mass… NASA crystal gyroscope for leading-edge balance guarantees unrivalled ballet-to-catwalk stability… absolutely natural to the touch, indistinguishable from…
‘See here in the appendix,’ Maplin says, lifting it from her hands, ‘it lists all your technical data. Listen to what they gave you – “Powerful one-thousand core GMX Industries processor suspended within our own patented neural gel delivers superior true intelligence while leading-edge analytics come courtesy of the latest incarnation of the Realhuman operating interface”.’
He is nearly drooling.
‘And there’re all the options packages listed at the back.’
Fully customisable patented core design, she reads. Unlimited personalisation, the only restraint is your imagination. Elektra is not only perfect but also unique.
‘It was the opportunities for customisation which set you apart and cost the real money.’ he says. ‘I tell you, your owner really got his chequebook out for you.’ He is gazing at her unrestrainedly – taking her in with all her perfected imperfections. So nearly human, but not.
Evie feels like an object – not a person but like the piece of machinery she is.
‘The basic model cost a fortune,’ Maplin continues. ‘The price of an ocean-going yacht. I just cannot start to imagine what he had to spend on you!’
20
Maplin replaces the brochure in its envelope and takes it back upstairs.
When he returns, before he can speak, Evie resets the subject away from this exploration of herself. She can’t absorb any more right now.
‘Timothy,’ she says, using his first name, not to be friendly but as a means to get her way. ‘Do you have any clothes I can have? These are no longer any good…’ She looks down at herself. Her dress is stained with rust and hay dust and her stockings are crusted with mud. It is likely he doesn’t have anything suitable but perhaps he can be persuaded to go out and buy some for her, as Daniels would have done.
He blinks at her, and for a moment she maybe appears merely human to him again. A woman in trouble who needs his help. ‘Yes, there are some things upstairs, stuff my sister left.’
She follows him to a bedroom on the first floor. As she enters, she notices the monkey spying, beady-eyed, from an adjacent doorway.
‘Her things are in here,’ Maplin says, turning on a light. ‘Take anything you see, she’ll not be back.’ He lingers in the doorway, watching, before realising that she is waiting for him to go. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’
Evie closes the door and slides the stiff bolt across before taking a look in the wardrobe. There are some skirts and dresses on hangers in garish shades and outlandish patterns, and jumpers with hoods with strange words printed across them. She finds amongst the collection a cream blouse, a little sweat-stained under the arms, and a grey jumper in a big knit, stretched from the shoulders with moth holes above the cuffs.
She unbuttons her dress and lets it pool around her feet and, stepping out of it, pulls down her filthy stockings. Straightening, she is caught by her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. She rarely gives her body much attention – it is just an instrument she was provided with – but now she touches her chest, lifting her small breasts together to form a cleavage and releasing them. She runs her hands down her sides, cinching the spare cotton of her slip tight in a knot around her waist, and spreads her fingers out over her narrow hips. Compared to the photographs of the gorgeous Elektra, she is insignificant – flat and forgettable. The body she shares with Evelyn is without flare or plenty.
Evie sits down and wriggles on a pair of narrow jeans. She saw women wear these in Cambridge and they will serve to aid her disguise. She has never had anything like them – the way they mould to her thighs is utterly un-Evelyn, and the little escape from her shadow gives her a tang of satisfaction.
She looks in the drawers and finds a bag of cosmetics. She takes out an old lipstick and applies the stub to her lips. There is also a tube of mascara. It is a bit dry but she coats her upper lashes, copying what she has seen women do in films. She examines herself in the mirror, removing a fleck of the mascara from her cheek and pressing her lips against her sleeve.
She searches again in the drawer and pulls from the back a blonde wig. It is surprisingly natural to the touch, the fibres liquid between her fingers. It compresses to almost nothing in her palm and she tucks it away in her pocket.
She opens the door and exits onto the landing. The monkey retreats before her. Has he been watching through the keyhole? Why would he do that – mere mischievousness or so that he can report back?
Evie steps around him and descends the stairs.
The monkey holds onto the banisters, pushing his face between them, as if behind bars. His head is level with hers. He stares, saliva glistening on his dark lips. If it hadn’t been for the nest of wiring behind his ears, she would have taken him to be real.
She stops and glares back. ‘What do you want?’ she demands, baring her teeth like David did at the museum. ‘Prying little beast!’ She suspects Evelyn would have been assertive despite her modest demeanour, but it is something she herself has rarely managed. Now it is as if the change of clothes has given her a new edge.
‘You should be careful,’ the monkey replies calmly. ‘You would do well not to trust him.’
Stunned, Evie backs against the wall, touching her chest. She and the monkey stare at one another. It is not just the shock of his talking, but that he has an educated upper-class voice not unlike Matthew’s.