WE KNEW, BUT WE DIDN'T KNOW

 

     CHAPTER EIGHT—IN PRAISE OF REAL GIRLS

And so I wandered around my flat, not exactly bored but listless. Eleanor had awed me, truly. Yet how was it that I never became attached to her, never mourned her when she completed? I saw girls, human girls, strolling together, in cafes, window shopping. They were generally flushed, smiling, happy, clearly enjoying one another’s company. What was friendship like for them? More precisely, what feelings did they have that we lacked?

I awoke late the following morning, Sunday. My windows were so grimy that I could never get them thoroughly clean. They were always filmy and smudged. I had tried a number of various techniques, but nothing had worked properly. Perhaps I could speak with the custodian, Mrs. Dunlap, about hiring a proper window-washer. I would pay.

I dressed carefully. I wanted to pass for a real girl, and I hoped that if I paid enough attention to detail, I could. I knew it was more about the walk and the facial expressions and body language than it was about the clothes themselves. Nevertheless, I hoped to achieve a certain look before I left the flat.

I arranged my long hair in an updo of sorts, a kind of high, messy bun and then I carefully pulled out strands to create an even more casual effect. It looked good, negligently elegant. I then matched a putty-coloured wool skirt with a heather sweater, thick camel-coloured cable patterned tights whose darns were barely visible and tall polyurethane boots that could pass for tan leather. On top of this, I added a shabby pea-coat for warmth. The pea-coat was missing two buttons, so I snipped off the remaining three and pulled out the remaining threads.

My face looked all right, even pretty, if lacklustre. I mixed three shades of lipstick until I achieved a rosy-nude shade, and spent at least five minutes per eye lengthening, thickening and darkening my lashes with jet-black mascara.

As for jewelry, I had none except for the cheapest costume stuff, so I decided to eschew wearing any of it. I was confident that a real girl wouldn’t adorn herself with any of that crap, and I decided to visit the Golds that very same day. I wanted to tell them how much Kathy had appreciated her ring, but I also wanted to buy something for myself. Surely they would be able to guide me.

When I stepped out of my flat, I was buoyed by a new sense of self-esteem. I felt as though I were worth something. I was an excellent carer. My vocation had meaning. And I promised myself that I would do my utmost to locate Carla and, if possible, befriend her. I had other goals as well, but I decided not to write them down. “Don’t leave a paper trail,” I admonished myself and this conspiracy of one made me smile widely.

 

First, I would tell Kathy about the Golds and pay attention to her response. But something urged me to take a diagonal route to Windmere Heights, and I took a street that was unknown to me. Its name was St. Luke. I noticed straight-out that the apartment buildings here were different than most others in the district. Although they looked quite new, they weren’t shoddily constructed. True, they didn’t look posh, but neither did they look cheap. They were a pale red brick which looked almost pink. “Blushing brick,” I thought to myself. They were either three or four storeys tall, and the front doors were large, expansive and painted cherry red, canary yellow, pumpkin orange and many other eye-catching colours. Interestingly, one of them, the cherry one, had a hand-made sign lettered in bright green ink:

Flats To Let

Note: Carers or Seniors

2½, 3½, 4 ½

Apply To Flat # 11

Detailed References Required

 

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Surely there must have been some kind of mistake. I had never heard of a building that rented to both humans and clones. I was certain that was illegal and frankly, I considered it unthinkable. My curiosity was so strong that I approached two men in conversation in the middle of the walkway leading to the glossy red door.

“Excuse me, does either of you know anything about the flats for rent?”

The older man, a tall, lanky blond who looked to be about 45 answered, “Yes, Miss. We both do. We’re partners. We own several properties on this street.”

“Funny, this is the first time I’ve ever been on this street. Your building here is lovely, but the sign really shocked me. How can you rent to carers and seniors alike?”

The younger man, very well-dressed and handsome answered, “We have a permit. It’s a new by-law, a pilot project of sorts. If you rent one of our flats, you’ll be getting in on the ground floor, so to speak. Are you interested in having a look at a 2 ½ or a 3 ½? Unless you have a flatmate. Then, of course, you’d want to see a 4 ½.”

I stood there, arms crossed under my chest and explained, “I have two flat-mates now, and it’s not working out so well. How many months would I have to pay in advance, as a deposit?”

But the younger man turned to the older one and said, “Joe, I have to meet Nancy now. If I’m late, she’ll have my head. Can you take it from here?”

“Certainly, Conrad. Give Nancy my fond regards. Tell her I’m looking forward to seeing her as a ravishing bride.”

Conrad sprinted off. It occurred to me that he was likely younger than I was and that gave me a little jolt. I focused my full attention on Joe, who would have been a good-looking man had has eyes not been so small and closely set. He had a beautiful voice, though — deep and soft.

“So, Miss. I can show you a 2 ½ and a 3 ½ if you’ve the time.”

“I do, thank you.” I could tell by the way that Joe was looking at me that he found me attractive. That kind of sexual recognition happened often enough. But was he the kind of man to let me get under his skin? I didn’t care whether he was married, separated, divorced or single. I had one compulsion only: to get him infatuated with me, to see if it could be done.

“Right, then. Follow me. The lobby was simple and small; it it smelled citrusy. We walked up a flight. Joe was talking affably the whole time. “It’s an interesting borough, really. Very community-oriented. And some of the restaurants are soon going to be dual-service. Once that happens, the shops will follow suit. It least that’s what I’ve heard through the grapevine. As Bob Dylan wrote, ‘The Times They Are A-Changin’. Now, I’m going to show you a 3 ½. It’s very bright and spacious.”

Joe opened the door of apartment 17. It was bright and clean with fresh coats of ivory paint and new parquet floors. On the left of the entrance was a coat closet and just beyond, a living room with three big, spotless windows. To the left of the living room was a bedroom with a tiny, but complete ensuite, which featured a pale blue wash basin and bathtub, and to the right, a kitchen large enough to accommodate a table with at least four chairs. It came equipped with a sparkling white stove and refrigerator, and the floor was sea-green linoleum. “I love it! Everything about it! It’s so new, so fresh, so elegant. How much is it?”

“350 £ a month, heating, electricity and hot water included.”

“And what about a 2 ½?”

“We have two of those, and they’ll both be renting for 280. In those units, the bedroom and living room are combined, but the bathroom is larger. If you can swing the extra 70 £, I recommend the 3 ½. It’s really much better value. That’s if you’re a homebody.”

“I am. A homebody. If I pay you a month in advance by the end of the week, can I move in December?”

“I don’t see why not. But we’ll require at least two references.”

“Not a problem. I have three supervisors, and I trust that they’ll all be willing to vouch for me. Tell me, do you really think you’ll have any seniors living here?”

“Absolutely. It’s really a natural combination of tenancy. Carers can help them in all kinds of practical ways, and they can give you attention and affection. Of course, your lease doesn’t include a clause to that effect, but I’m confident this will take off in a big, big way.”

“Can I come by on Thursday with my deposit? Can I sign the lease then? I can give you the names and telephone numbers of my supervisors right now.”

“Yes, and while you’re at it, you can give me a copy of your identification data.”

I handed Joe my ID card:

Sophie A

Classification: A

Buckinghamshire County

Inception:1965

Certified in 1985

Re-certified in 1990

Hair: Dark Brown

Eyes: Hazel

Donorship Programme Initiatiating Date: January, 1992

 

 

He looked a little shaken. “It says here that you begin to donate in one year.”

“Yes, but with any luck, this can be my last flat.”

“But aren’t you a little young to be ending your career in two years?”

“Not at all. I’m 25. I think I look older than my age, not younger.”

“Well, I’m a lot older than you, Sophie. Maybe that’s why you look like a kid to me. A green lass. A pretty slip of a girl. But what makes you think that you look older than 25?”

“The mirror makes me think that. I think it’s because I don’t eat enough fruits and vegetables, but they’re ever so costly.”

“When we meet on Thursday, let’s say I cook you a proper meal. Why don’t you come ‘round any time after 5 pm? Rap on door # 11. I’ll be there.”

I left the building in a fog of happy disbelief. Just a few doors to the left of 329 St. Luke, my soon-to-be civic address, a flea market was underway in a narrow lane. The items caught my attention because they appeared to be of excellent, vintage quality if not in the best condition. Two heavy-set women, who must have been sisters, were in charge. Their faces were very ruddy and their eyes a bloodshot pale blue. I rummaged through the belts, knick-knacks, down-at-heel leather boots, books, vinyl records and chipped porcelain. A delicate brass lamp had a place of its own perched atop a painted red table. The glass shade was so pretty: tulip-shaped and rosy pink. “Does it work?” I asked the sisters.

“I’m pretty sure it does,” one of them, the older one answered. “But if not, you can bring it back next Sunday. We’re open every Sunday, 52 weeks a year, from 10-1pm, that is. We live right there, you see.” She pointed to a squat ground-level door with descending concrete stairs. Her smile revealed many gaps and a few gold teeth. She had stepped close to me and she smelled like rotten private parts.

“How much?”

“Ten pounds.”

“I’ll give you seven.”

“Eight,” she countered. “Eight and it’s yours. I’ll wrap it up real nice. And the frosted chandelier bulb is included. It’s brand new, just out of the box.”

Surely finding the tulip lamp was a good omen. It was by leaps and bounds my most beautiful possession. And I would soon be living almost next door to the Flea Market sisters. I imagined decorating the entire flat with further gorgeous finds.