This story is not recommended for children.

Cheryl has lied. She’s watching. After promising Clara Jane and making personal assurances to Reuben Porter, she’s still there, watching the world through her assistant’s eyes and hearing the sounds through her ears. A ghost in her skull.

She promised to close down the link ages ago. She’d made it quite plain that she realised Clara would need some space occasionally. A few minutes after Reuben had arrived, Cheryl had cheerfully announced that they were both to enjoy themselves and that there would be no need for a re-establishment of the connection before seven the following morning.

“I know you’re probably not quite ready for a threesome just yet,” Cheryl had announced, “so I’m going to leave the two of you to it, okay? But I’ll want all the juicy details tomorrow, sister!”

Clara, whose plans hadn’t reached much beyond the end of the soup course, had reddened immediately, but she’d thanked the i-con anyway, in the same way a parent might thank a child waving a vibrator at a garden party.

And now dinner is over. And this is Reuben’s car. And Cheryl is still watching, glued to the unfolding scene.

Clara is anxious, she can tell. But then again so is Reuben. He’s licking his lips too often and his eyes are more active than usual. He stops the car and turns to his passenger.

“Well, this is home. Such as it is.”

Clara looks out. There is a glass-fronted entrance flanked by stone lions. Steps lead up to a red-carpeted foyer that is well lit, with potted aspidistras in large urns. A blue shirted security guard with formal looking gold epilates is already on his feet, getting ready to let them in.

“I could take you straight home, if you’re tired?” He’s wearing a jacket and a shirt with a neru collar. Crisp white linen buttoned high with no tie.

“No. I’m fine.” Clara replies, a little too hastily. Reuben removes his Tab from the dash board and the doors unlock, sliding back with a little sigh as the seatbelts discreetly spool away. The night air is cool and Clara absently notices that the tip of her nose is cold. She’d decided against a fur earlier, but now the little black number doesn’t seem such a wise choice compared with the warmth she’s sacrificed to show it off.

Cheryl doesn’t experience the cold from her vantage point in Clara’s head. As her assistant leaves the warmth of her seat and shivers slightly, Cheryl only notices a slight shakiness in the image and the cloud from Clara’s breath.

The security guard has the door open, and they both step inside.

“Evening, Mister Porter.” His smile and manner are genuinely warm. The two men hold out their Tabs to each other, as if they are shaking hands in some bizarre ritual. During this exchange, signified by a single bleep, the guard authorises Reuben to enter the estate, logging him in with the concierge computer, while Reuben grants the guard temporary access to his car so that it can be parked properly.

A list of messages appear in Reuben’s screen, letting him know the shopping service has stocked his fridge and cleared out the unused items, that the laundry service has completed and re-hung the items he left in the morning, and reminding him to pick his menu for the next couple of days. He ignores them all and guides Clara through the door to the courtyard.

Outside again, but his time the wind is held back by the fences and shrubbery on all sides. Clara and Reuben walk along a crunchy shingle path past low energy bulbs, which nestle amongst ferns and trickling water. Occasional trellises of flowers line their way, all of them in bloom and discreetly lit. Walking beneath them, Clara would have believed they had been growing there forever rather than hot-housed and wheeled in on a weekly basis.

“This is very nice.” Clara says. “I thought it was just a hotel at first.”

“No. It’s a company apartment system. A planned estate for Cougar employees. Perk of the job, I suppose. Sometimes I think it might be fun to find a place of my own, but the benefits are worth it. Especially since I’m too busy to worry about the small stuff most of the time. It’s good to know I can get a meal at three in the morning if I’m working late, you know? Or if I want to use the pool there’s no queue.”

“Those little training shoes add up, I guess.”

Reuben frowns for a moment, but his expression is more puzzlement than disapproval.

“Well, the per-unit profit margin isn’t actually that great. Lots of people think it is, but there’s not a lot of change left over from any given sale.”

Clara stops in her tracks, her face breaking into a wide grin. “Do be serious! I mean, I might not be the most politically aware person on the planet, but I still know how much the average shoe stitcher makes!”

Reuben shrugs and his face matches hers. “You think that’s what it’s about?” He laughs. “You think we only employ labour from bankrupt countries because we want to make huge profits?”

Clara’s grin turns into a frown. “well, don’t you?”

“Well, it would be nice, I suppose. But the real world isn’t like that. We employ cheap labour because it’s the only way to survive.”

“Convince me.” Clara challenges, playfully.

“Not now. It’s complicated, and you look so delicious tonight that I’ll lose track of what I’m saying as soon as I look at you. Remind me some other time and I’ll tell you the real reason why those guys work for bobbins.”

Clara feels herself tingle. His off hand complement has caught her off balance and she suddenly finds herself unable to meet his gaze. She focuses on a small pond, which has been landscaped to resemble a tiny woodland glade. Spotlights under the rippling water’s surface light a silver birch tree and bluebells.

“I love bluebells.” She finds herself saying. “I used to pick them for my…” The memory escapes her, as many do. After another moment of fruitless concentration she gives up, turning back to Reuben. “Anyway. I like them. They smell wonderful. You were going to tell me about why sweatshops don’t make you any money, or something like that?”

Reuben raises his eyebrows. “Actually, I said I’d tell you later. I don’t want to bore you.”

She reaches out for him and takes his arm, quietly congratulating herself for being so brave.. “Come on. I’m interested. Tell me all about it while we walk.”

Reuben allows her to lead, wondering how best to simplify the complex marketing strategies that have taken him years to get the better of. “The main problem is that nobody actually needs new training shoes.”

Clara can feel the warmth of his skin through the material of his jacket. “I don’t follow you. That should mean prices drop, not go up.” She has her hands wrapped around his forearm and for the first time she’s aware of his physical presence, as he rocks gently in step with her.

“They would do, but what we need to do is make sure people decide they need new gear. We have to create a market for them and keep demand up to a point where people are convinced that they really do need what we offer. We have to make sure people believe that they really can’t manage without this year’s latest model.”

“And I take it they can manage without it?”

“Exactly. How many professional athletes are there in the country? How many people actually need high performance gear? How many people out there actually benefit from the little extras we put into the new lines? Oxygen rich padding, sensor responsive magnetic fields, variable tension systems. It’s all bollocks. It doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to how fast somebody can run. We always talk about the billions we sink into product research, but it’s not about scientists developing ways to enhance athletic performance. It’s about marketing teams inventing new ways of selling the myth of enhanced athletic performance to people whose idea of a workout is a stroll around a shopping mall.”

Claras fingertips are testing the surface of his sleeve. If she squeezes very gently she can feel the density of his flesh without making it obvious. She’s listening, but she’s also observing him. The motion of the stiff collar against his neck. The way his jaw muscles flex as he speaks.

“Training shoes don’t make you run fast. Years of dedication and training make you run fast. But we sell the dream. That’s what matters. Match level performance doesn’t make the slightest bit of difference to the average punters, because they’re never going to time themselves running with different sorts of footwear, are they? Anyone who’s professional enough to need the performance difference will probably be being paid to wear the damned things anyway, so they certainly won’t be complaining.”

The hairs on the back of his neck are very short. Clara imagines the feel of them. If she ran the back of her finger against the grain it would tingle like static. “So why would the fact that nobody needs your trainers make them more expensive?”

Reuben struggles with the words, wondering how else to explain it. “We need to create a brand that people can’t get enough of. We don’t just want to inspire brand loyalty. What we need is more akin to hero worship. People on the street get killed for our apparel. It costs real money to market something so pointless to the masses. To make something so utterly unnecessary become indispensable. Maybe it’s true that the amount we spend on advertising and marketing every year could eradicate malaria, but if we did that instead then we’d disappear along with it. We need to spend this much just to stay afloat, and the very minute we stop swimming we’ll sink.”

Clara’s mouth is drying. She’s wondering whether to kiss him. All she’d have to do is stop walking and lean towards him. But how to time such a move? Surely not during a lecture on economics.

“And that’s the funny thing about campaigners who go crazy about the rates of pay overseas. Sweatshops are a thing of the past -mostly- and I’m sure nobody thinks that’s a bad thing. But the fact remains that someone who makes our equipment earns less than a tenth as much as somebody over here might be paid to do a similar task. It’s not fair, but it’s the only way we can afford to keep up the marketing. That’s where the real money goes, you see? You yourself negotiated with me on behalf of Cheryl and Pop Sickle. The label demanded an eight-figure sum for a year’s promotion. Eight figures, Clara! Now you tell me how much change is left over to pay the workers after that?”

“Fair enough. Marketing costs. But you still haven’t said why the workers get paid so little. I realise that there’s not much left over, but surely the “punters” as you call them would be happy to pay a little more if it meant everybody got a fair deal. Isn’t there a feel good factor to consider here?”

“A long time ago there was a big campaign that set out to level the playing field. You remember? Cancel all the debt, write off all the poverty. Educate the masses and pay a fair price for everything. It was a great idea, but it fell at the last hurdle: Ultimately what held it back wasn’t the greed of governments or multi-global corporations. What really mattered was what the consumer was prepared to pay at the till. It didn’t take long before the Joe Citizen realised that a fairer world equated to a hell of a lot less spending power in his pocket. What began as a harvest for the world soon turned into a drought at the high street store. Ten years after the Great Global Handout, manufacturing was simply forced into other cheap areas that hadn’t been part of the plan. These days if we put so much as three percent on our shelf process in the name of fair trade and I guarantee you our like-for-like market share drops by a full third..”

“I get it.” Clara says. “But doesn’t it piss you off? I mean it all seems so pointless. What you’re saying is that you produce something that isn’t wanted. And that the only reason it costs so much is because of the sheer cost of persuading everyone to want it.”

Reuben stops, turning to face her. “Pointless? You’re working for a computer program that thinks she’s human, negotiating a contract to let her wear virtual training shoes while miming to pop records at soccer stadiums. What part of either of our lives could ever not be described as pointless?”

And suddenly she’s kissing him. She’s made the first move, which shocks her more than anything. She can feel her heart quickening, and she’s worried that he might back away.

But he doesn’t. He kisses her back and she feels the roughness of the tiny hairs on his top lip contrasting with the plush softness of his mouth. She can taste his breath, rich with the fine spices of the meal they’ve shared. And then the fingertips of his right hand are gently pressing at the nape of her neck as the sensation takes her own breath away.

“This.” She thinks. “This isn’t pointless.”

* * *

I’d spoken to Ray for all of ten seconds before hanging up. Since then I’ve wandered like a wraith. I’m a wrapper the day after the concert, blowing wherever the wind pushes me. I’m still walking, but only because to stop would require a decision to stay put. It would need some sort of conclusion from me that I’d arrived at a place where I might want to be. And where would I find a place like that in a world without Ray?

It’s really over. I mean fucking over. I’m never going to see his face again. I’m never going to feel the warmth of his skin.

I should be screaming. But I’m not. All those days in the future that are waiting for me; they just seem like a long procession of grey. I’m not hurting now. I’m just fucking hollow. Pain is for people who still remember how to feel.

I’d stood there in the café, trying not to shake, listening to the dial tone and waiting for Ray to pick up. When he did, I must have had the biggest grin on the block. “Hey, you!” I had said. “You miss me yet?”

He didn’t answer at first. And then, after the longest of pauses, “Billy? What the fuck? How’s this possible? You’re supposed to be - Billy, is Fasbuck there? Put him on for me, will you?”

And that was that.

Ray hadn’t missed me because he already thought I’d been wiped. As far as he was concerned, Billy was dead.

And so, I was.

I think the woman had been kind to me. I remember she sat me down with a cup of tea. I remember dipping some bread into an egg yolk.

A world without Ray. My ears are covered with cotton wool. Everything’s muffled like a bad master, nothing’s sharp any more. And so now I let the city push me where it wants. Why should I worry? It’s not as if any one place is better than another, and shit rolls down hill.

Of course, I’m only passing time. I’m just waiting for the right moment and then I’ll throw myself off a high building, or something.

But that’s an uncomfortable thought. I’m not afraid of dying. It’s just that I’d hate to kill myself and not have Ray know I’d done it. What would be the point? Some addled, half shorted-out logic circuit in my head decides it would probably be best to stay alive. Just for a little while longer.

The tide of the city takes hold of me and I’m swept up with commuters. I’m channelled by barriers that bar my way to Tab-pos and other controlled areas, being constantly funnelled down into the lower class regions of town. I simply wander until I’m stopped, or until I’m swept up with some other mass movement of bodies. I couldn’t tell you how long it goes on for, but by the time I finally come to rest I’m in a place where no light shines. Above me is a series of concrete roadways. Eight of them, heading out in all directions, blocking out the sky with twists of beige so anonymous that even the taggers haven’t bothered claiming them.

At my feet, brown earth and an abundance of debris. Crisp packets. Empty cans. Abandoned trolleys.

Junk. Waste materials. Empty boxes.

Me.

* * *

Reuben’s house stands a little way off the courtyard surrounded by its own manicured lawn and picket fence. Its lights had activated to provide a welcoming glow as soon as he had Tabbed in at the foyer

There’s something unnatural about the estate, its uniformity, its pristine tidiness, that gives Clara the creeps. This is less like a place to live and more like a film set. There isn’t even a road since all cars are left at the foyer building.

But it doesn’t matter. Clara dismisses it all and concludes she’ll make do for one night.

They barely get through the door.

Cheryl hears the sound of Clara’s pulse in her ears, but feels none of her excitement. She catches sight of her trembling fingers as she reaches to touch the side of Rueben’s face, but feels none of the adrenaline that causes them to be so unsteady.

Still, Cheryl has a perfect view of what’s taking place in a way that most spycam voyeurs would kill for. She should go. She should sign off. It’s not as if she doesn’t know about the mechanics of sex. She works in the entertainment industry, she’s been primed with the best porn stock that Caddy could find, and that man had a rather exceptional talent for finding it. There’s simply nothing that Clara could think of doing that she hasn’t witnessed a dozen times before.

But yet she still watches.

As Reuben’s hands find Clara’s breasts, as she fumbles with the buttons on his shirt and presses her cheekbones against the muscles on his chest. As she bites at his nipples and drags the shirt from his well-sculpted shoulders, Cheryl is simply unable to tear herself away.

They kiss urgently, hands grasping flesh, pulling each other closer. Clara lets a sigh escape as she feels the strap of her dress being untied at the back of her neck. Shit. I’m actually doing this. She thinks, as the material collapses around her hips to leave her bare breasted in his embrace.

And then his mouth has her, sucking at a nipple as his groin pushes against her opposite hip. She registers the firmness and reaches for him instinctively, feeling the size and pushing back against him as his chin bristles rasp against the sensitive skin of her cleavage and raise goose bumps down her back.

Moments later she feels his hands slipping between the loose folds of material that have gathered at her waist. His hand is cool against her bottom as it cups her firmly and pulls her closer again, but Clara backs off for a moment, just long enough to unhook his belt and allow her hand into the warm hard flesh there.

The dress falls as Reuben helps it on its way, and now the only thing she has left to offer is a small lacy string.

“You’re cheating.” Reuben murmurs between gasps. “I didn’t put underwear on.”

She kisses him again, and the kiss goes on for some time, giving Cheryl a perfect if rather tedious view of Clara’s eyelids with just the tiniest flashes of Reuben’s face in close up.

Her little pants don’t offer much resistance, and Clara feels his fingers tracing their edge and caressing between her thighs. Moments later she’s aware that those fingers have become slippery and then the overwhelming sensations make her knees buckle so that she has to cling on to his shoulders while swearing under her breath.

“Oh, you’re good.” She whispers. “You’re so very, very good.”

He smiles and pulls his hand away gently. “Do you think we should try and make it to the bed?”

Clara laughs and throws her arms around his neck. “I think we should give it a go!”

But then his face changes, just slightly. He suddenly looks awkward. “Look I’m sorry about this,” he says, “but I think we should protect ourselves. Do you mind?”

Clara smiles warmly. “Of course.” She says. “I hadn’t thought. I’m so sorry.”

Reuben is naked and fishing around in the pockets of his trousers that lay crumpled at his feet. A moment later he straightens again, the Tab in his hands. “You can record if you press star and circle together.” He tells her.

She takes the Tab a little uncertainly and fumbles with the buttons. “This is Clara Jane on… What is it? April the tenth?”

Reuben nods and grins.

“This is Clara Jane with Reuben Porter on April the tenth. I hereby certify that I am consenting to sexual activity and that I am an adult over sixteen years of age.” She smiles and hands him the device.

“This is Reuben Porter on the same date. I certify the consent for Clara at… twenty two twenty five hours.” He lets the Tab drop on the pile of clothes as Clara puts her hands round his waist.

“I’m sorry.” He says. “Rather kills the mood, doesn’t it?”

“You’re joking!” Clara laughs. “I love talking dirty. Didn’t you notice?”

* * *

By Cheryl’s estimation, Clara Jane had experienced two orgasms that night, although there was a possibility that a third may have sneaked by quietly. Each time she had waited to see if any sort of sensation would filter through the link, but each time she remained flatly unmoved.

Nothing. Not a tremor, not a tingle. Just plain old data. Vision. Sound. Nothing else.

What had she expected?

If Cheryl had lungs she would have sighed.

She’d hadn’t known what she’d really expected. Only that she’d expected something more than she’d ended up with.

* * *