Destination arrival: 46 Canvas Street.

After firmly pressing the buzzer marked 3/2 on the security system, I stood back, soles crunching against the salted door steps, awaiting further instruction. Several minutes passed without response, not atypical for a first time customer. Whilst on standby, I revised the information provided to AVERY’s system to note if there had been any adjustments made since the time of booking - not that I wouldn’t have been alerted if there had been.

Name: Niamh Hunter.

D.O.B: prefer not to say.

Gender: female.

No known health conditions or current medications.

Services desired: 1 cooked meal (no known allergies, vegetarian diet), 2 small-sized rooms cleaned, companionship, no talking.

Static briefly sounded over the receiver, then some fumbling, followed by a click of the door lock releasing: permission for entry granted, I concluded. I proceeded through the doorway and up the winding staircase, noting the conditions of the tenement as I ascended: old build, stone floors, dry but dimly lit, large windows in need of de-moulding - this was not the usual property (or neighbourhood) I would be contracted out to, an observation I would save for the self-report later. EDM music projected from an apartment on the second floor along with sounds of multiple muffled speaking voices from within, a party of some kind that I had detected from outside the building, windows from the second floor having displayed changing colours of light and silhouetted bodies in conversation together. As I was about to ascend the next staircase, two men, early-twenties and students, from what my audio profile identified, stumbled out from the door. I wondered if (and partially hoped) they would be intoxicated enough for my presence to go unnoticed.

“Hey man, got a light?”

I turned my head, struggling to define a distinct emotion from the series of micro-expressions I was met with: confusion, aggression, panic, delight, fear.

“Oh Christ,” The larger said to the smaller, “It’s one of those fuckin’-”

“Shut up! Shut up, shut up, get back inside, I’ll go.”

This specific demographic typically responded to the presence of models like myself in one of two ways: ridicule/violence for the sensationalised reputation of our services, or fear, from conspiracists who assume our relation to government surveillance and, among the more extreme believers, insistence on our military grade levels of defence should we need to deploy them, neither of which were true, of course (at least, to my knowledge, updated as recently as of this afternoon). Fortunately, for the sake of fulfilling my task tonight, on this occasion their reaction was the latter, making themselves scarce in record time. If there was illegal activity occurring on the premises, addressing it was not my task, given my own services were supposed to operate under similar levels of discretion. I continued my ascent up the staircase, unbothered.

When the front door to the apartment opened, I quickly identified the figure before me as a mid-to-late twenties female, 5”6, displaying visible signs of distress and possible intoxication: sclera reddened, pupils blown, unkempt hair, stained pyjama-style clothes, odours of marijuana and alcohol present. Again, this was not usual of our typical clientele, thus adjustments to the standard operations of service would have to be made accordingly.

“Hi.” She said, voice hoarse.

“Hello.” I raised a hand, gesturing with a nod of the head, “May I come in?”

She stepped aside easily, opening the door wider for me to come through before promptly double-locking it once we were both inside the narrow hallway. The sound of a bell, presumably attached to the collar of some kind of house pet, chimed away from a distance as I slipped off my shoes, though I had yet to see any animal in sight - other than the painted ones hanging from the high-ceiling walls, woodland creatures rendered to various levels of abstraction. I couldn’t source them, leading me to wonder if they were self-made.

“Um, if you want to start on dinner, everything you need is either in the shopping bag on the table or in the kitchen.”

I paused, momentarily confused.

“Our services include a stop to pick up ingredients for dinner.” I reminded her, patting the duffel bag at my side as I shouldered it off, unzipping it to show her its contents. Her eyes widened, apparently having missed this stipulation from our application form.

“Oh.” Was all she murmured in response, eyes downcast, disappointment apparent.

Quick: devise solution.

“If there was something you were looking forward to eating, though, I can use your ingredients to cook that instead, then leave these ingredients in your fridge along with the recipe for you?” I offered.

“No no, um - I hadn’t planned anything extravagant, to be honest, just do whatever you were going to do, please,” She hand-waved emphatically, feigning nonchalance, “thanks.”

I nodded, glad we could come to a resolution to our misunderstanding so I could begin to comply with her no talking request.

“I’ll be in my room.” Was the last thing I heard, followed by a jingling of the bells, then a closing of a door.

-

Despite requesting cleaning, the place was actually quite well-kept, which was most likely necessary for such small living quarters. The common area appeared comfortable enough, carpeted, a couple of faux black leather couches decorated with mismatching throws and pillows facing a newly purchased looking flat-screen TV playing a rerun of the long-standing reality game-show “Get a Clue” (Season 15, Episode 7), dog-eared self-help and sci-fi books stacked beneath its stand, salt lamps and candle lights illuminating duller spaces, a cat tree in the corner, more original paintings and framed lino prints on the walls. The amount of empty wine and vodka bottles occupying the nooks and crannies of the flat, however, no matter how neatly arranged, remained mildly concerning. The fridge too was alarmingly empty, contents consisting mainly of spoiled leftovers in takeout containers and cans upon cans of highly-caffeinated energy drinks. As I closed the fridge door, I took note of the small 24 x 36mm polaroids attached there by novelty fridge magnets, one with a younger Niamh pouting as she cradled a short-hair kitten on a leather couch as if it were a child, another cheering at some kind of arena with an older woman sharing similar hair colouring and features (a relative, presumably), one of her standing on the summit of a Munro in a group photo, a 25th birthday party, 'Friend-mas' dinner, a pride march, to another, clinking clear flute glasses with a woman of a similar age, golden balloons reading ‘90 days’ against the wall behind them, lipstick kisses covering the right side of Niamh’s face, beaming widely. You can learn a lot about a client from the areas of their life they choose to personalise, and where they don’t.

The kitchen itself (or more accurately: kitchenette) consisted of an electric stove fixed with an oven, kettle, refrigerator and sink where a small pile of dirty dishes lay in lukewarm water. I decided it best to address those first, however upon turning the hot water tap, noticed it was unusually stiff. After exerting more pressure to loosen it, boiling water shot out from the faucet with striking velocity, steam threatening to perforate my vision. I placed a finger under the stream, 71 degrees celsius, approximately 30 degrees higher than household hot water should be for human contact.

New priority: locate boiler.

Filling up the kettle and allowing it to boil in my absence, I quickly located the small cloakroom containing the system boiler in the hallway, tuning out the sound of the phone call Niamh was having in the bedroom close by as I surveyed the scale of the problem. The thermostat readings confirmed what I already knew, so I adjusted the pressure valves beneath the boiler to their regular levels before swiftly returning to the dishes.

Upon re-entry through the common area doorway, I was met by the glare of a British Shorthair, 6 years old, male, standing wide-eyed on the kitchen counter, so still not a single sound jingled from its collared bell. Upon taking a step forward, just as quickly as it had arrived, it was gone, a relief as this would make my next job easier. Taps returned to working order, I used the boiled kettle water to clean the leftover dishes, hot tap water to rinse them off, then assembled all the kitchenware I would need to cook the sweet potato and lentil curry planned, aligning with all of Niamh’s pre-stated dietary preferences.

Out of interest in clearing space on the dining table (notably able to seat two persons max) I moved the bag of groceries she had previously mentioned to the counter, peering inside to identify what needed to be stored where. 1 tin of chopped tomatoes, 400g bag of red lentils, and 500g pack of whole grain spaghetti: cupboard. 1 pack of chestnut mushrooms and 2 medium-sized carrots: fridge. Presumably, spaghetti bolognese had been on the menu before I had arrived. Now with the oven switched on and preheating to 180 degrees, food prep for the curry could begin. I unloaded my duffel bag of ingredients onto the cleared countertop, rinsing the vegetables under the water and placing them by the wooden chopping board for cubing.

A jingling of bells alerted my attention back to the doorway where Niamh (and cat) re-emerged, a thick plaid blanket loosely held together over her shoulders, free hand clutching a mug branded by the emblem of the local football team: a sports fan, presumably.

“Just getting some tea,” She said, shuffling over to the kettle, cat following at her slippered feet, now less phased by my presence with his human caretaker leading the way, “don’t suppose you want any?”

“No thanks.” I assured, unsure if that was a joke or said out of human habit, so I simply persevered in trying not to pay either girl or feline much mind, continuing to ready the ingredients.

As she went to rinse out the leftover green tea from her mug and re-fill the kettle, I caught her eyebrows raise in my periphery. The shorthair leapt up onto the counter (sink side thankfully, not chopping board side) craning his neck to lick at the flowing water, a seemingly well practiced routine for them.

“Did you fix the taps?” She blinked, turning to face me, expression inferring disbelief that somewhat mirrored her wary house pet from before.

Sourcing the vegetable peeler, I began working away at the sweet potatoes, skin flaying off the first in one clean, curling motion, “Yes, I did.”

“How?”

I paused, recalling.

“The pressure valves just needed turning to get the thermostat back to its regular levels.” I explained, onto peeling the second sweet potato, “I can show you, if you like?”

“Nah, I’ll remember,” She said, fishing a tea bag out from its respective tin, dropping it into the mug and pouring over the ready boiled water, eyeing my movements intently as she leaned against the kitchen counter, cupping the drink in her hands, “thank you.”

I had anticipated for Niamh and pet to return to the other room once she had finished replenishing her tea, however both continued to linger, her attention flitting between observing how I prepped the vegetables, to the game show playing on the TV over by the sofas, sipping away at her hot tea. Sometimes, clients wanted to assist in the meal prep as a form of social recreation, other times, they liked to hang around to provide feedback/critique out of skepticism of our delivery methods - either way, more often than not, they liked to be involved in the process in some shape or form, which was always welcomed, however often it slowed down the actual process itself. Niamh seemed content just to be there, co-existing, likely part of the quiet companionship she had requested. At any rate, I carried on my meal prep without further interruption, besides the occasional leg brush from a furry tail, or a quiz answer confidently declared at an unaware TV.

-

Having since migrated to the sofas, I walked over to where Niamh lay with the piping-hot curry in hand along with a refreshed mug of tea (decaf), placing both on the folding tray table before her where the cutlery and placemats had already been arranged.

“Avoid touching the plate, it’s hot.”

She sat up, crossing one leg over the other, eyeing the meal expectantly.

“Thanks,” She said, attention briefly flicking back and forth from the plate to me, hesitating, “can you sit down for a bit, before you clean up?”

I paused, briefly processing the request before complying, seating myself onto the couch beside her and sinking somewhat into the plush fabric cushions as I did. In a somewhat awkward motion, she extended her legs from beneath her blanket and onto my lap so her heels rested on the armrests in another habitual way. It was only then that I clocked on to her prosthetic leg, notably heavier and bulkier than the left. I kept my arms to the lengths of the sofa, respectfully. We remained like that for some time, her head fixed to the TV screen, scooping down mouthfuls of curry with the naan provided, whilst I, in suit, fixed my vision towards the same screen, consuming the 10 o’clock news, the headline story topic: whether or not self-driving transport vehicles risked becoming a thing of the past.

A bottle of prosecco usually came complimentary with the meals we make and was still sitting in the duffel bag I’d brought, however on this occasion, I exercised better judgment to not mention this unless asked.

“This is really good.” She spoke in words muffled through mouthfuls of food, though I assumed my translation was accurate so I bowed my head, appreciative.

She swallowed, clearer this time, “You can talk, you know.”

Update requested.

“Thank you.” I nodded.

“Can you eat at all?”

I thought for a moment, considering what constituted ‘eating’, “I have my own source of fuel, I suppose.”

“But you can’t eat food? No taste buds?”

“Correct.” I nodded. This clarification seemed to perplex her further, brows furrowing as her posture shifted more upright.

“So how can you cook?”

This was easier to answer.

“Well, there’s a lot of resources out there,” I began, “humans can follow them closely, I can follow them.”

She smiled, I noticed, for the first time that night.

“You’re funny too,” She said matter-of-factly, “do you do foot rubs as well?”

“If you’d like?”

That got a laugh, not intended but not unwelcome, either.

“Wow,” She shook her head, looking at me with an expression that proved difficult to define, “so they did it. They’ve designed the perfect partner.”

I didn’t really know what to say to that, I never do, even when said in jest.

“Is that a yes?” Was the best I could volley back.

Niamh grinned, placing her half finished plate over onto the coffee table and using her now free hands to support the back of her head as she toed off her left slipper, revealing a foot in a fuzzy animal patterned sock, “Go nuts.”

Request accepted.

She began flicking through streaming channels absently with her console remote before landing on a thumbnail of the football fixture from the day previous. I’d barely made a start on the massage before Niamh’s left foot shifted out of reach, now sat upright cross-legged once more, a bell jingling in the distance. She gestured to the approaching cat by reaching out and rubbing her fingers (“ktch-ktch-ktch”) - the short-hair trilling as he bounded over and settled into her lap easily, purring away as if I wasn’t even there, perturbing him. How interesting, the speed at which this animal had adjusted to my presence, the process with clients and their pets usually took at least 3 visits from my experience.

“Shit, I should really put this back to the start, but I’ve been spoiled now, I guess.” She shrugged. It was an 11-aside local game, 2-1 to the away team, the football player Lisa Daniels, 23, readying herself for a penalty kick against seasoned goalkeeper Zoe Dobrev, 27. Niamh’s eyes remained glued to the screen as she reached over to her mug, sipped her tea, placed it back down, leaning further in. When Daniels inevitably missed the goal, footing having been off and hitting the ball at too high an angle, Niamh’s head dropped in tandem with a very audible groan, cat peering up at her in concern.

“So you like football, then?” I offered, attempting to lighten the mood.

“Could you tell?” She sighed, leaning back into the couch in one fell swoop, the rhetorical nature of her question not lost on me, however it did lead to a somewhat drawn out silence before she quietly added, “My mum got me into it.”

The immediate shift in tone and body language upon saying this suggested she was not recalling this memory and/or person fondly in this moment, eye contact evaded, jaw muscles tightening. Redirect, redirect, redirect.

“Still got that wine?” She asked, before I could process what to say next.

Redirect faster, faster, faster.

In spite of what my in-built risk assessors projected (55% chance of a negatively experienced client outcome), I had to respect that Niamh, like any other client, was a legal adult, and that this was her time paid for to spend however she desired - within the capacity of our available services, that is. Signs of underlying emotional distress were not equal to active displays of emotional distress, and should I suspect any potential of her reaching dangerous levels of intoxication, for as long as I was present, I could intervene. Even in the worst case scenario (i.e injury/death) AVERY would not be liable, I knew this, yet the present predicament still proved troubling - we were designed foremostly with a duty of care to people, after all. Would it be more ethical in this instance to lie, say there was no wine? Her question implied she already knew of its presence, however, I had unzipped the duffel bag upon entry to show her there was in fact wine, which clearly hadn’t been so easily forgotten. If I didn’t start coming to decisions faster, no doubt I would be in need of further upgrades: yet with every new installation intended to improve our AI, it seemed as though this job was presenting more challenges rather than less.

“Are you sure?” I asked, because I wasn’t.

“Please.”

Moments passed, both her gaze and resolve unwavering. I got the bottle.

-

3 glasses of prosecco deep and marijuana joints now rolled and in rotation, Niamh had insisted on watching her favourite film of all time: 'The Blair Witch Project' (1999) which from my understanding, was not commonly considered a comfort watch as a cult classic Horror film, though I could grasp how the Horror genre could subversively be deemed comforting in the sense that it is a controlled way to experience fear. To that effect, it seemed to bring a lot of genuine joy to Niamh, despite her talking over a majority of the film with behind the scenes trivia or off-the-cuff riffing.

“My actual favourite film of all time is Terminator 2 but I worried that would be offensive.”

I continued to be grateful that no part of our services include laughing at clients' jokes anymore, for one, I still struggled to determine when one is being told, particularly with a client as deadpan as Niamh. Fortunately, she didn’t seem to mind my lack of response one way or another, satisfied enough just to have her internal monologue heard, it seemed. In moments like these, I didn’t feel all too dissimilar functionally from the house cat sleepily purring at her side.

What interested me more was how she could have supposedly seen one movie so many times as to be able to mouth along to many of its improvised quotes, yet still appear as unsettled as if it were a first time viewing towards the final third of the runtime, her ad-lib commentary decreasing, eyes transfixed to the screen, posture hunched, invested. She offered me a drag from her joint without breaking her gaze from the screen, either so preoccupied or habitual an offer that she neglected my lack of mouth, respiratory system, or necessary desire to smoke. Respectfully, I declined.

By the time the film came to its ominous open end, she sat silent for several minutes as the credits rolled, either shaken up or out of it entirely.

“You any good at games?” She asked, breaking the extended silence.

In another pivot of the night's events, a box of Jenga was produced onto the cleared coffee table. As I lowered myself to kneel onto the floor, I warned her a game of skill likely wouldn’t be much fun against me and a game of chance would perhaps be of more interest to her, however she adamantly disagreed, insisting I ‘get over myself’ and claiming she used to play chess online against a PC all the time and had plenty of fun with that. In spite of flagrant signs of intoxication, her performance at Jenga remained surprisingly competent, though inevitably, the tower tipped over on her sixth turn, an outcome I had foreseen since her third. She then asked me to play against myself, enthralled to simply watch me ‘100%’ Jenga, as she called it, sipping away contentedly at her 4th glass of wine whilst I removed every brick that could conceivably be removed without foundationally toppling the tower. We carried out the same routine with Connect 4, a 500 piece puzzle of Van Gogh’s ‘Cafe Terrace at Night’ (the closest we got to a challenge for me), Chess, Carrom Board - I began to worry at just how many board games/puzzles she had, if I was to have time to fulfil every cleaning task laid out in the application by morning.

It was 2:04 am when she finally seemed to tire of seeing if I could be outpaced, head laid against the coffee table beside the ashtray, glass empty, eyes closed, not yet unconscious but very clearly close to it, unlike her feline who now appeared more animated than ever, hunting stray flies by the window with reflexiveness that even I found enviable.

“Are you ready for bed?” I inquired. She nodded in response. I half-expected to have to carry her there, however to my surprise she hauled herself to her feet, stretched tall, took me by the hand and led me down the hallway, suddenly as salient as she had been all night, as though she had her own task yet to fulfil.

Once in the bedroom, where seemingly all the mess of her flat had been concentrated, she immediately started removing her clothes, pooling one by one to the floor. She kicked the pyjamas and undergarments aside to join a mounting laundry pile, body bear with her prosthetic now in full view, extending up as far as her mid-thigh. I remained by the doorway, turning away intuitively, unsure of how aware she was of her actions given the lack of sobriety. I reviewed her application internally once more: confirming there had been no formal request for sexual activity, though the option for companionship was left purposefully broad for a reason, should the client be too uncomfortable to specify.

From her position lying on her single bed naked, however, Niamh’s probable intentions were becoming increasingly more specific.

“Well, are you just going to stand there?” She asked, straight faced.

“Do you want me to have sex with you?”

The blunt line of questioning predictably unnerved her, though I couldn’t do the human thing and ask in another roundabout way.

“Yes.” She said through clenched teeth, though she didn’t seem at all wanting in that moment.

I approached, struggling to find my footing as I tried not to step on other articles of clothing, grooming products, yet more takeaway boxes - clear floor space worryingly minimal. Once on the bed, I positioned myself on top of her, arms leaning at either side of her head, watching as her expressions shifted between frustration, fear, disappointment, desire. Several moments passed in silence as she regained composure and I tried to better assess the efficacy of the situation.

“I wish you had a face,” She said, fingers tracing the flat surface area of my head where features would be on a person: instead, a helmet-like, reflective black surface, “all I can see in yours is mine.”

“Is that such a bad thing?” I asked, tapping into the more romantic verbiage we reserve for preludes to intimate acts like this.

Instinctively, she draped both arms by the back of my neck, drawing our faces closer, breath hitching, but being human, she couldn’t hold it forever, eventually exhaling a shuddering breath - enough for me to trace a qualitative BAC that I couldn’t ignore.

“You’re too drunk, I’m sorry.”

She blinked, disbelieving.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

At that, the arms at my neck tugged further in, legs scrambling to grasp purchase around my waist, the prosthetic weighing my lower half down more than I had anticipated, allowing her a moment to kiss at the cords of my neck, though with a free hand I was able to push her chest down back onto the bed, seizing both wrists and pinning them at either side of her head as she lay breathless, creating much needed distance and a moment to think.

That moment did not last long however, as she began twisting and writhing and kicking me off from her, the prosthetic leg being the only thing to really deal any form of damage, grunting and shouting expletives my way as she did.

“Then what the fuck did I pay for? What’s the fucking point of you?” She screamed, ramming her metal leg into my side. I let go, willing her to stop, but she sat up and started beating my chest with her hands, the polo I wore doing little to cushion the hard silicone casing beneath it, so when they inevitably turned red and sore and ineffective, she began throwing items at me from her bedside table: a hardback book, a mobile phone, alarm clock, a glass (which I thankfully caught), a lamp (that I unfortunately did not) - and while momentarily stunned, a ringtone sounded, the only thing to seemingly give her pause. Exasperated, Niamh seized the phone with the newly cracked screen from the floor and grabbed an oversized shirt from the laundry pile on her way out the room to answer the call, shutting the door behind her with an unexpected gentleness.

Alone to momentarily recalibrate, I rose from the bed and began picking up the thrown items and broken glass to bin, then the rest of the clothes from the floor, arranging the laundry from darks to lights and gathering up any other rubbish items to dispose of. A meowing sounded from the closed door, and with most of the mess either removed or otherwise in order, I allowed the cat inside, Niamh following closely behind, red faced and tearful.

As she walked toward me wordlessly, I dropped the folded clothes I was holding, half prepared to defend myself again, only for her to wrap her arms around my back and weep into my front, phone held limply in her hand. We stood in that embrace for some time, before she leaned up to whisper into what she must have considered my ear, requesting a ‘weird favour’.

I complied on the condition that it couldn’t be sexual and nothing else was to be thrown, and when she agreed, I allowed her to lead me back onto the bed, laying down with both hands at my sides. She proceeded to position herself on top of me, promising this ‘wasn’t going where I was thinking’, taking her cracked phone and placing it over my face. I could see the mirror image of a person lit up on her phone screen reflected in her eyes, but before I could source the face a pillow was brought down onto my own, Niamh leaning her full body weight into it.

“Struggle.” She instructed, voice toneless.

I did my best to emulate what was asked, hearing a bell jingling get more distant, her pet apparently put off by the scene. When she eventually asked me to stop moving, we stayed in that position for some time, before she rolled onto the bed side next to me, silent. I was never given an explanation about what transpired during that phone call, it wasn’t my business, though she did feel compelled to offer me something.

“I got into a car crash coming home with my mum in a cab last year,” She began, eyes fixed to the ceiling as her voice began to waver, “the only reason I could afford you was because of the lawsuit.”

Before I could apologise, she continued on, clearly desiring to vent further.

“It was one of those self-driving taxis, the safest to exist,” she mockingly gestured to her prosthetic, before lowering it onto the bed again, “it’s honestly better than my last leg in every way. Don’t even feel phantom pain, with this one. It’s incredible.”

A pause.

“It’s all incredible until it stops working.” She sighed, deep and pained.

I placed a hand over hers and squeezed, resolving that words wouldn’t help at this moment. Another drawn out period of quiet followed.

“Can I ask another weird favour?” Niamh asked, turning her head to face mine. I nodded.

“Could you do what I just did to you to me?”

This time, I didn’t skip a beat.

“I can clean the two rooms you asked for.”

I didn’t know what reaction I had expected, but she smiled, looking up to the ceiling again before closing her eyes, graciously accepting yet another task I couldn’t complete.