I try to sleep. I fail. I take a Xanax. It doesn’t work. I lie here feeling as fearful as before, but heavier. Slothfully horrified. Yet furious too. Is it Simon and Polly? I have to rule them out – or rule them in – once and for all.
Eventually I give up on sleep, get up, dose myself with Nespresso – and as soon as it is remotely civilized, when my ex would have settled into work, I invite Simon out for dinner. Today. This evening. He seems surprised at the short notice, he seems seriously reluctant – mumbling about Polly – but as I press him, nearly begging, he relents.
‘All right, OK,’ he says. ‘Seven p.m.? Where?’
‘Vinoteca,’ I reply. It’s the big, modern, airy wine place near Google and St Martin’s, in buzzingly renewed King’s Cross. We’ve been there many times.
He agrees, and rings off. I go to the living room and distract myself with coffee and news and work and Twitter. And staring out at the cold.
And now the morning has passed, likewise the dimming and dying afternoon, and at 6.50 p.m. I get an Uber to the restaurant, where I am escorted to a nice corner table. The glass-walled restaurant is busy and noisy, full of happy young Londoners – guzzling wine under the sleek, vertical, modernist lights. Surveying the tables, I think about last night. How I rang myself and terrified myself: or someone very clever terrified me, by pretending to be me.
How could they do that? The laughter was so authentic, the voice tones, the natural conversation.
A waiter hovers, a querying expression on his young face; there’s a tinge of an Eastern European accent as he asks would I like to order. I shake my head. I tell him I am waiting for a friend. I almost add: an ex-husband who might be trying to send me mad.
The waiter disappears.
A glance at my phone tells me: five minutes to seven. I look out at the darkened plaza – at the criss-cross pattern of the Vinoteca steel pillars, and the gleaming redbrick on the floodlit frontage of the German Gymnasium. Everything here is either made of steel and glass, or repointed Victorian brick.
A man is staring back at me. Sitting on a bench, out there in the killing breeze, under the frosty streetlights, wrapped in several coats. He is motionless as a corpse, as commuters hurry around him, escaping a knife-crime mugging by the wind.
This man who stares at me is evidently homeless. Why is he staring? I fiddle with a fork as I think about the Skype call and the sound of my own laughter and I shudder. The fork is gripped in my perspiring hand. I hold it so hard, thumb over the tines – it hurts. When I drop the fork, with a clatter, I see that a woman is looking at me from the bar. She quickly looks away. Embarrassed on my behalf.
A sip of wine. Then a gulp of wine. I check the time once more. One minute to seven. Simon is punctual. My bet is he’ll be here bang on the money: 7.00 p.m.
7.03.
7.06.
7.09?
I’m sure he will turn up. It’s hardly the first time we’ve had a meal since we divorced. We have stayed real friends. Kept things amicable. And he seems to want a good, post-marital friendship. Yet I also know that Polly detests our lingering attachment, because.
In her world, when a relationship is over it is over, and you don’t acknowledge that the ex ever existed. You get rid of every trace of your attachment, right down to the holiday snaps, and the nail parings. As if the relationship was a murder, and you don’t want to get caught with the evidence.
Seven twenty p.m.? This is unexpected. Maybe Polly has got to him; probably this is a bad idea anyway and Polly is right: Simon and I should have severed connections. But we didn’t. And tonight I need his presence, because I want to find out if he and Polly are doing this shit to me.
Alternatively, my childhood friend Simon will see the other possibility, that I am going mad like my dad.
A waving hand catches my eye.
My ex is wearing one of those puffy rain-jackets, and sober scarf. He gives them to a waiter, and walks over in jeans and long plaid shirt, a black vest underneath. They all wear these slouchy clothes, the software people. The more important they are the more they dress down – because they can. Simon isn’t that important though. He doesn’t earn big money like his friends. I think he slightly resents me for this. Like I was holding him back somehow.
He pulls a chair – and pulls a face.
‘Jesus. You look terrible.’
I shrug, and swallow wine.
‘Thanks. I haven’t been sleeping well.’
‘You look like you haven’t slept since D-Day. What’s up, Jo?’
‘Nothing,’ I say, as he sits, and pours water. I look at him tipping the glass. I am not quite sure how to broach it, how to make the terrible accusation, not yet; I want to mention Liam, yet I don’t know how: because I feel too guilty about Liam, and the way I destroyed our marriage.
My mind is a smashed avocado. I cough up a sentence.
‘There are a few things I want to ask you.’
‘Yeah? OK.’ He sets down his water-glass. Warily. ‘Sorry I’m late by the way – got some last-minute emails from America.’
The waiter reappears, handing out long menus on white card. We look at each other and attempt a mutual smile, kindling a hint of the old warmth. There’s a signature dish here, and we both always have it.
I speak for the two of us.
‘We’ll both have steak bavette. Rare. Thanks.’
The waiter nods. ‘And to drink?’
Simon is already scanning the wine list with his smartphone, but I know what will happen at the end. He will ask for a beer. He just likes using his wine app which rates wines and wine lists, down to the vintage and terroir. He loves new apps. He loves new tech. An early adopter. Perhaps that’s why he married me so calamitously young.
‘Actually, I’ll have a beer. Bottle of Leffe.’
‘And I’ll stick with my Rioja … maybe a half-bottle, can you do that?’
The waiter nods, pockets his notebook, and hurries away.
Simon looks at me. Flatly. And then he says, ‘Before we talk. The usual?’
He holds his phone up, and overtly turns it to mute, and then lays it on the table, screen down. Lots of his friends do this, at dinners and parties. The new Silicon Valley social etiquette. He and I do the same: ensuring we are ready to talk: ready to concentrate on real human interaction.
The ritual complete, he says,
‘OK. What things did you want to ask?’
No choice now. It’s best I do this quickly. Jump in, and see how he responds.
‘I’ve been having tech problems.’
‘Such as? Where?’
‘At Delancey Street. Problems with the heating and the lighting, the Home Assistants, I can’t control it all, sometimes it behaves strangely.’
I watch closely for a telling reaction: a wince of knowledge, a hint of guilt. But there is nothing; his frown persists. The drinks arrive, my Rioja, his Leffe, and Simon takes a hit of beer. Then he asks,
‘So you just get it all fixed, right? Or get Tabs to fix things, she’s kinda your landlady. Yeah?’
‘Yes,’ I say. ‘Of course I could do that. But the problems are so weird.’
His frown is properly sceptical.
‘Weird?’
How do I phrase this without talking about Jamie? Even though Simon knows the backstory, I always feel a mental block when it comes to that subject. I attempt an answer.
‘The Assistants say peculiar things, it’s like they … Know certain things about me. Like they are listening. Like they’ve heard, uh, things from the past.’
‘Well,’ Simon says, with a hint of geeky smirk, ‘they are listening, Jo. That’s the point. They are designed to listen to you, to get to know all your habits, needs, desires. They adapt to your personality, even adopt your personality. Imagine what they will do in the future – they will be friends for the friendless, children for the childless. This tech means no one has to endure isolation and loneliness any more. Old people, people in hospital, they will have real conscious voices, talking to them. Ready and waiting, on the shelf.’
‘Yes, but—’ I am flailing. ‘The way they listen, and watch, and all that? All the time?’
He shrugs. ‘And? It’s no different to computers reading your emails, or your Facebook posts, and sending you personally directed ads. That’s the way it works. And it’s all cool, yeah? It’s better than cool. We’re right on the cusp of full-on AI, where the machines can do everything; it’s exciting. Arlo Scudamore is all over it, clever bastard.’
I gaze at my ex-husband’s earnest young face. The anger and anxiety compete inside me.
‘Well it might be exciting but it’s also frightening, Simon. Too creepy, too intimate. I hate it.’
I am flushing, quite deeply. Can’t help it. The fear that has been simmering threatens to boil over. I don’t know which is worse: the possibility I am going mad, or the possibility that someone – possibly my ex-husband and his supposedly kindly new wife – wants to drive me mad. Or to suicide. Yet Simon is reacting so innocently, there is no trace of guilt in his conversation, or his body language. Which means?
I must not burst into sobs. In a trendy wine bar, in trendy new King’s Cross? No, that’s not me, that’s not Jo Ferguson. I did some of my big interviews here, in Vinoteca, for my Big Tech article. Back then, when I was the old me: confident, exuberant, forensic. I totally nailed that story – and some people in the world of Tech – from Apple to Facebook to the rest – clearly resent me for the nailing. Including Simon. Could he be persuaded by Polly?
I need to know. I am tempted to accuse him outright, this minute.
Yes?
No.
No!
I must, again, be smarter than that, get him to confess: if he is somehow involved. An outright, unevidenced accusation from me will only add to the perception I am going nuts. Especially if I lay most of the blame on Polly.
The waiter returns. Our steaks sit on the table, with spinach and horseradish and appealing fat chips. Blood seeps from my hunk of beef. I think, momentarily, of that candy-suck dribble of pink froth from Jamie Trewin’s mouth. Jo, you are going to die. You will kill yourself.
‘Simon.’ I gaze his way as he eagerly chews the beef. ‘This is one reason why I wanted to talk. You mentioned Arlo.’
He eyes me.
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Well, apparently you installed the Assistants, the smart-home stuff, in Tabitha’s flat, specifically at Arlo’s request. Is that true? Did you do that?’
He chews as he answers, ‘Sure. Yep. And?’
‘And you didn’t think to tell me?’
He stops chewing, long enough to give me a deeply sarcastic expression.
‘Didn’t I? I can’t remember.’ He chases beef with beer. ‘Maybe I did it when you were messaging with Liam. Hmmm? Perhaps I wasn’t in a mood to talk with you, so much? Not then.’
This is going wrong. I wonder if I should mention Liam, the weird conversation, the ghosting; yet if Simon and Polly are responsible for all this, I shouldn’t show that I am on to them.
As I wrestle the dilemmas, Simon says, ‘What does it matter anyway, Jo? Yes, I helped out, I have a bit of expertise, I have mates who can do this code, Arlo wanted it all done in a certain way.’
I seize on this.
‘You mean Arlo wanted his smart-home linked to Tabitha’s, so he can watch her at all hours, and now he can watch me? He can see and listen to everything I say or do? And you don’t think that’s a tiny bit sinister?’
I wait for his reaction to my revelation. His reaction is laughter. He actually laughs. Like I am some conspiracy theorist and I have claimed the royal family are lizards.
‘Jesus, Jo, he’s not the secret police, and he’s not got the flat under CIA surveillance.’ Another forkful of bloody, chewy beef. ‘Get a grip. Why are you acting up? This isn’t normal – this isn’t Jo Ferguson.’
Perhaps he sees me wince at his words; his expression mellows.
‘Listen: Arlo likes looking after his fiancée, that’s all it is. He likes making sure she’s OK.’ His headshake is sad. ‘The same way I once wanted to look after my wife. Until you did what you did.’
I try not to be deflected by guilt. I’m not even eating my blood-streaming steak. The blood is mixing with the horseradish, like gore and vomit. Jamie Trewin. Me on Skype. Voices in my head. How did all this happen? Who did that to me? Is it me? Is it all in my failing brain?
‘No!’ I say. Half shouting. ‘You don’t understand! Knowing that Arlo can listen in, he’s like Big Brother, up in Highgate, and you helped him make it that way.’ My words rush on, faster than my thoughts, ‘I want to know, do you listen in too, Simon? Are you linked as well? Is it Polly forcing you, because she hates me? You said she hates me. Are you two making the Assistants torment me?’
‘Jesus!’ he says. ‘Enough.’ His fork drops onto an empty plate. Other diners are glancing over. The whole world watches us, through those lofty glass walls, scrawled with silver lyrics of winter rain.
‘Simon – please, be honest, did you do something to them, to the tech, to him, to get at me? I would kind of understand, I know Polly’s animosity, I won’t blame you, after Liam, I simply need to know—’
It hasn’t worked. He growls,
‘Need to know what? Sod this shit. I don’t want any revenge, for God’s sake. This is you getting paranoid, like you did after you finished that article, hacking everyone off. Saying Facebook was running our lives, Google can predict our thoughts, mad stupid bullshit: it was nuts, Jo. Flat earth shit. It may have made you as a journalist, may have got a zillion clicks, got you two million retweets or whatever, but it was still BOLLOCKS.’
He pushes his empty plate away. My hunk of uneaten meat will remain uneaten.
‘Jo, look, I’ve tried to stay friends with you, after what you did to me, texting those nudes, breaking us up, but now you accuse me of this – and you even accuse Polly, my baby’s mother – Jeezo, maybe we should say goodbye.’
‘Hello, you two?’
I turn at a familiar voice. And my heart descends further. Oh God. The timing. It’s Gul, and Jenny. Our friends. We have to be civil, offer them a drink, even as they have walked into an obvious argument. It’s hardly a coincidence that they are here, in Vinoteca: all the people from big tech come here. The HQs surround. Why did I choose here?
I am a fool. My judgement is marred. My only hope is that Jenny, or maybe even Gul, will tune into the mood, and flee.
‘Hey, you guys,’ Simon says, his voice blatantly strained. ‘We’re finishing dinner. Ah. Have a glass?’
‘… OK, well …’ Jenny says, glancing delicately between us. And I realize, with relief, that she already feels the bad vibe.
‘I can’t really linger, Gul and I have got a silly dinner, people waiting. But, Jo,’ she looks my way, ‘did I tell you I got a new phone, and new number?’
I lean for my facedown phone, but she stops me. ‘No, don’t! Let me write it down. I’ve got a real pen and everything. Have you noticed how people never write things any more? Well, I’ve decided to take a stand.’
As she takes a sheet of paper – today’s wine list – and briskly writes her name, and number, at the top, I think: Yes, she’s bang on. No one writes things any more. All we do is bloody type. Tap tap tap, into these phones, and screens, and tablets. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
The whole world taps, like a madman, and we forget the older, sweeter skills. The other day I had to sign an invoice and I found I could barely do it, barely write my own name, as if I was back to being four, and my dad was teaching me my letters.
He had such beautiful handwriting. He taught us all. He loved to write with a proper pen, with proper ink, and proper paper. Oh my daddy.
Tap tap tap.
‘Here,’ Jenny says, handing me the folded paper. ‘Give me a call some time and let’s have a drink. I’m away on biz for a while but when I’m back?’ She looks at both of us, she looks at me a little longer, perhaps with concern. Then she sighs anxiously, keen to escape the mood. ‘OK. OK. Better go!’
And she disappears.
Simon and I share a relieved glance – and then we look at Gul, expecting him to follow suit.
But he doesn’t. My heart sinks as he pulls up a chair, and grins, and sits down, and says, ‘Meh, those dudes can wait. Bunch of boring dicks from eBay. I’d love a glass of the Rioja.’ Without being offered, he reaches over and sloshes a glass from my half-bottle. Then he starts talking to Simon: tech stuff, obscure stuff, and I can sense Simon’s stiffness in his replies. He just wants Gul to go. Now Gul turns and looks at me, ‘And how are you, Jo?’
‘Oh, fine. Still writing, you know.’
He gives me an odd look.
‘You’re still all alone there in Camden?’
‘Well, uh, I live with Tabitha, but …’
‘It’s a bit bloody cold to be sleeping alone. Innit? Hah. Haha.’ His laughter is forced, anxious – or something else. Simon’s eyes are rolling. The awkward silence renews. At last Gul drains his wine, and pushes back his chair, and says,
‘Anyway ahhhhhh … I’d better go and talk crap with the coders. See ya. See ya.’ He leans over and gives me a sloppy kiss on the cheek. ‘Don’t be all alone in the snow, Jo!’
Simon and I watch as he disappears. Then Simon says drily, ‘He always fancied you.’
The thought startles me. I was genuinely unaware. ‘Really?’
‘He always talks about you. Asks stuff about you. Wants to know if you’re … doing OK. Always defending you. So. Yes. You really didn’t know? He’s your biggest fan. Apart from Liam.’
My ex drains his beer. And sighs, sardonically, as if all this was pointless. Then he adds, ‘Either way. Do we have anything left to debate?’
He reaches in his pocket, presumably for a wallet. I feel very tired all of a sudden. The broken sleep from last night, the horror of the Skype call. And then Jenny’s gaze, just now, as if maybe she knows something, and wanted to help. And Gul? Fancying me? Really? I had no idea. Gul.
Whatever it means, I have no energy to work it out.
‘No,’ I tell Simon. ‘Let me pay, it was me that asked you here.’ Too tired and confused, I decide to make peace. For now. ‘I’m sorry this all went wrong. I need to explain things better, when I’m not shattered. I’ll send you an email?’
His shrug is diffident. As he stands he throws me one brief, pitying smile. ‘Get some sleep, Jo. And stop being such a helmet.’
‘A what?’
‘Tinfoil hat. Paranoia. Stop acting crazy. Stop suspecting me of taking revenge! I loved you and you broke us up – and there’s an end to it. We’re over, you move on, and I have to get home. I have a baby to hold.’
I don’t think he does mean this maliciously. Though he is clearly irritated. Without saying goodbye, he sweeps out into the January wind, which whips litter into little swirls, and makes people leap into cabs. Escaping, escaping, escaping.
Yet I cannot escape. I have to go home to Delancey Street, where I have no baby to hold. Where I will be alone with the horror. Invented or real.