Nona

I should have ignored the knock on the door.

I should have stayed there in my pyjamas and my old lady cardigan, my left eye throbbing. I should have stayed under my blanket, chain-eating snacks, and drowning my last emotion in whiskey.

But I dragged myself out of my pit to answer the door. Of course I did.

There she was on the doorstep. Rita. In that moment, I was brutally reminded of the first time I'd met her. Back before I upgraded her husband. Ian. God, he'd been a wanker.

Her hair had looked like straw then, her skin pink and cracked and flaky. She'd held her handbag like a shield, and her eyes and manner had put me in mind of a frightened rabbit.

Look at her now. Her hair is blonde silk. She has glutes that can crack a walnut, and rock hard confidence to match. Her voice has lost that questioning tremor. This contrasts with the haystack on my head, the crumbs down my front, and the confusion in my tone.

Rita smiles wide, showing all those veneers. She's having a little get together. Apparently. So she tells me.

This is different. New. I am the one who hosts these things. Either here, at my home, or at the property of whoever just moved in.

All the same, I tell her, sure, I'll be there.

I actually open my mouth to issue a stream of instruction to my AI partner. Jac, lay out an outfit for me while I shower. After that, put together a dish I can take with me...

I slam my lips closed like a tomb. My new AI partner is still twitching and gibbering in the corner.

It's this, surely, that has triggered this little bit of socialite flair from Rita. She wants to know whether the latest upgrade was a success. She wants details. I get it. In her position, I would too.

Maybe she wants to touch on other topics. Like, where is my husband? Where are the girls? Was that implant sterile? How stable is this latest asset?

Why not talk to me here? As a friend? Why raise these subjects in front of everyone?

This feels calculated. I want to tell her to go fuck herself, but instead I'm acting meek. Saying "give me half an hour to freshen up, would you?" Nodding like a bobble-head, already backing into the hallway, performing the part of someone grateful for the invitation. It fits me like a sickening glove.

In the bathroom, I catch my reflection and flinch. The bruising’s bloomed further overnight, a sickly halo around the socket. I dab concealer over it and layer make up over the rest of my face. I hope I look dashing and mysterious. The cardigan goes in the laundry basket.

The AI twitches again. I ignore it. It's valuable, as it goes, and it's also a liability. I decide to lock it in the spare room.

Once there, I dig out an old tie and those awful fluffy handcuffs. The sight of them, that nauseating pale purple, makes me want to be sick. They work well to fasten it to the chair, anyway.

"Is this a sex game?" It asks, looking at me with wide, almost innocent eyes. "Will anyone else be joining us?"

"Shut up."

I plate up olives and almonds myself, and set out for Rita's

*

Outside, the air is warm. Rita’s garden is already swelling gently with people who used to look up to me. I straighten my hair and my spine, and step forward like I've been summoned.

I don't like this feeling, Being a guest. In my own life. I arrange a smile on my face and swallow bile and resentment.

Rita’s at the centre of it all, laughing, pouring drinks, her posture perfect. She sparkles. Bitch.

She’s moving between guests, handing out nibbles, laughing at things that aren’t funny. Being gracious. She catches my eye and walks over, smooth as I would normally be. She's a quick study, I'll give her that.

When she looks at me, she smiles, peeling back her lips to show teeth like calculator keys. I'd been so worried about what she's might say. What she's might ask, or let slip. It turned out, what actually happened might be worse. Without a word, she turned back to the group, presenting her back to me. I fling daggers at it with my one good eye.

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