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"Don't call me," Emily had told him. "I've got a crazy week coming up. Just drop by my apartment Friday night–" and she'd reached up on tiptoe to kiss him. "We'll pick this up then."
So here he is, standing in the hallway of what he has to admit is not by any means the classiest apartment building he's ever seen. He's breathless and shaking, heart thudding, in part because he'd been too impatient to wait for the elevator and had taken the stairs two at a time, partly because he's been waiting all week for this moment, and he's looking down into the face of …
… a total stranger. He's never seen this woman before in his life. Where Emily was small and blonde and curvy, this woman is all straight lines, formal clothes, long dark hair caught back in a twist. She's older than Emily, too – a little older than he himself, he'd guess, though not by much. And, judging by the way she's looking back at him, she's a heartbeat away from siccing the dogs on him, even if she has to go out and rent a dog to do it.
He paints on his most endearing and innocent smile, the one his mom had always known meant he'd been up to no good but which might convince anybody else that he's entirely safe, polite and harmless. "Hi," he says. "I was looking for Emily."
Neither polite nor harmless enough, evidently. Her eyes freeze. "I'm afraid you're mistaken." Her voice is clear, lacerating, with a precise British accent. "There's no Emily here."
It's pointless, he knows, but he scrabbles the envelope from his jeans pocket, holds it out to her. "This is the right address - ?"
She waves it away without looking. "It may be the address that Emily gave you, but it isn't her address. It is, as you see, mine. At a guess I would have to conclude that your 'Emily' has a rather novel manner of giving an unwanted admirer the brush-off. How," she adds irritably, "or why she came up with my apartment is a puzzle that I daresay shall never be solved."
He steps back from the door, shoulders slumped. She's right, of course, and he should have known it from the start. It was a weird set-up and, now he looks back at it, it's obvious Emily was just trying to let him down easy. But … a simple 'don't call me' would have been enough. He may not have the best track record where women are concerned – truthfully, he barely has a track record at all – but he's always known when to back off.
"I'm sorry," he says, as sincerely as he can, because he genuinely is. Mostly for himself, to be honest, but, besides that, it was a lousy trick of Emily's to drag a perfect stranger into her little game, and there's another reason too, which he'll be keeping to himself.
Does her expression soften a fraction? Maybe that's just wishful thinking. He looks down at his hands, remembers with some surprise that they're full. Flowers, wine; he'd been going to do this right.
Man, how could he have been so totally stupid?
He says again, "I'm sorry. I – I hope I didn't scare you?" He turns it into a question.
She says, dry as desert dust, "I assure you, I don't scare easily," but he barely registers the tone, let alone the words; he's fumbling the bouquet free whilst trying not to drop the bottle, holding it out toward her like a peace offering. Which, in a way, it is.
"I know I have a nerve asking you for any kind of favour, but would you accept these?" He forces a smile. "Since the person I bought them for clearly doesn't want them."
Her mouth curves just ever-so-slightly at that. The air's still a little frosty but at least there are hints of a thaw. Thank god for that. He's going to feel lousy enough about all this without sealing the deal by ruining some innocent bystander's peace of mind. At least he can contain the collateral damage.
Although, really, he knows he should be grateful she hasn't screamed, or run inside and dialled 911, or just shot first and asked questions afterward. He's having a little trouble processing all of this. It's not exactly what you'd call an everyday situation. The chances are she's every bit as thrown as he is, probably more. That may be what's saved his neck.
"I don't know whether to be flattered or insulted," she says thoughtfully, but reaches out and takes the bouquet nonetheless. "In general, when I'm brought flowers, I prefer them to have been intended for me from the start. But since I assume that if I don't take them these poor things are destined for the nearest rubbish bin … well, I do dislike waste." She holds them across her arm; a spray of white blossom rests against her cheek. "Thank you."
"It's the least I can do," he says, then grins suddenly. "And I mean that literally." He steps back and nods in the general direction of the staircase. "I'll take myself out of your life now. I hate to keep saying 'I'm sorry', but–"
"Then don't," she tells him, and this time her smile seems real. "It's quite all right. All things considered, I'd say that, of the two of us, you're having the more disappointing evening."
He almost laughs. "You don't know how true that is," he murmurs, and he turns to walk away.
Because here's the thing: maybe this makes him a bad person, but the moment that door opened he almost forgot there'd ever been an Emily. He's a realist, he knows there's no such thing as love at first sight, but the moment he'd seen her face – 'her' face, god, he doesn't even know her name, never will know – it had hit him like a truckload of bricks: this is her: this is the one I've been waiting for all this time and never knew it.
But there was no way he could have told her that. He felt guilty enough admitting it to himself, and she? She would've brought down a restraining order on his ass before he'd had time to blink.
After those imaginary dogs were through with him, that is.
He hears the door snick shut and the latch click, and sighs. Clock up one more missed opportunity, one more wasted chance. It's the story of his life; what's another one among so many others? Face it, he's always been a failure, a disappointment. Is it any wonder women want nothing to do with him?
There's another sound then: the rattle of a chain, and a small, discreet cough.
"Excuse me?"
He turns back, not daring to hope; finds he's hoping nevertheless.
She gestures toward the bottle he's still clutching. "If I were to hazard a guess," she says, "it would be that your plans for the rest of the night involve going home and drowning your sorrows in that?"
He manages a wry smile. "I hadn't quite got that far," he admits. "But yes. Something along those lines, yes."
She steps out into the corridor, comes toward him, takes the bottle from his unresisting hand and reads the label, raises an eyebrow. "You really were serious about this Emily," she comments, dry as ever, and hands it back to him. "Listen. As I said before, I detest waste – and it just so happens that I've had a small disappointment of my own tonight. I'd been expecting a friend for dinner, but she had to cancel at the last moment." She stands back and looks at him consideringly, head tilted to one side as if trying to read him. He once again does his best to look as inoffensive and harmless as possible, and, apparently, for once it pays off. "I suggest," she eventually says, "that we join forces, cut our losses, and enjoy one another's company for the evening. Does that seem reasonable to you?"
Much as he hates to say it, no, no it doesn't. It sounds crazy. What sane woman would invite a complete stranger into her own home, still less one with as sketchy a cover story as his own? "You don't even know me!" he protests, trying not to sound half-hearted.
"I don't, no," she agrees, and puts out her hand in formal greeting. "So let's rectify that. Your name would be-?"
"D- " he begins, and then stutters into silence, wondering what the hell he's doing. Because his name isn't 'D-' anything, there isn't even a 'D' in it, for crying out loud, what in god's name is the matter with him?
She seems to be wondering the same thing. She's withdrawn a fraction and is watching him, the slightest hint of a frown creasing her brow. He fakes an unconvincing laugh.
"I have no idea what I'm saying," he confesses. When in doubt, honesty is, in general, the best way to go. "My name's Simon. Simon Myerson." He reaches for his wallet, flips it open, and shows her his ID. She gives a disdainful sniff – "Really, do you think I'm a cop?!" – but, he notices, makes sure to read it carefully, running her finger across the surface to check its validity. Sensible woman.
"Well," she finally decides, "that all appears to be in order." She gestures him toward her door. "Shall we?"
He hesitates. This is all fine and good, but he still has no idea who she may be. For all he knows this is the first step to waking up tomorrow in a bath full of ice cubes, missing a kidney. But … well, some chances are worth taking. And he has, against any sort of logic or reason whatsoever, the feeling that this may be one of them.
Her apartment is nothing like he would have imagined. She's immaculate, impeccable, stylish and classy, not a hair out of place. The apartment looks like a garage sale that's been hit by a hurricane: cluttered, dusty, dingy, filled with ugly furniture and tasteless knickknacks. Someone, he notes with some horror, is inexplicably fond of depicting fairy-tale scenarios in needlepoint, framing the resulting atrocities in gilt, and then displaying them on the walls. He blinks, and tries to focus on something else – anything else.
"You live here alone?" he manages. Maybe there's an absent roommate who can shoulder some of the blame.
"I'm sorry?" She's vanished behind – oh, god – a bamboo bead curtain. A moment later she reappears, wine bottle in one hand and corkscrew in the other, trying to draw the cork as she's walking. Gently he takes them both from her, sets the bottle down on the nearest hard surface, and repeats the question.
"Oh – yes – " she says, and looks vaguely around herself, wrinkling her nose. No wonder. There's no cat in sight, but there is no doubt in his mind that there has, at one time or another, been a cat – perhaps many cats. "I'm afraid the place is a bit of a mess. I don't spend much time here, you see." She accepts the full glass he passes to her, and smiles. "I just need to finish up a few things in the kitchen. I imagine there's some sort of ball game on, if you'd like to watch TV while you're waiting."
That makes him laugh. She looks a question at him.
True confessions time. "If you really must know," he confides, "You're looking at possibly the one red-blooded heterosexual male in the United States who has absolutely no interest in sport whatsoever."
"Really?" She seems surprisingly interested in this rather dull fact. "I rather thought that was illegal. However did it come about?"
He shrugs. "I was kind of a shrimp when I was a kid, plus I was sick a lot. I got off to a bad start, and I never really caught up." He sips at his own wine. "And, truthfully, I never really wanted to. I liked playing video games. More thrills, less mud. I still do," he admits. "The only thing that gets me into the gym is peer pressure, and even then I have to drag myself in there."
"I sympathise entirely," she tells him, sounding wholly sincere. "Il faut souffrir pour être belle, or so I try to tell myself." She's looking him over thoughtfully. "Still, I have to admit, you're looking very good for it."
He raises his glass to her. "You too!" he says, and watches the slight blush that spreads across her face. Step one, he thinks; maybe by the time he leaves tonight she'll have started to like him. "Do you need any help in the kitchen?" If that isn't the way to a woman's heart, he'd like to know what is.
The kitchen, he's glad to see, is far cleaner and tidier than the rest of the place. She sets him to making salad while she stirs rice, and he makes a show of slicing peppers and cubing zucchini swiftly and efficiently to try to impress her. He slices his finger instead, and ends up shaking blood into the sink and swearing under his breath while she laughs at him and roots about in drawers to find a usable Band-Aid. Finally, "Here," she says, takes him by the wrist, turning his hand to lay it in her own.
And then they stop whatever it is that they're doing, and simply look at one another for a very long moment. Because, as they touched, sparks flew: actual, literal sparks, bright and blinding even under fluorescent lamplight; they both heard the crack of electricity.
"Well," she says softly, "that seems to settle that." She reaches up her free arm, loops it around his neck, draws his head down and, as simply as that, as crazily, as unexpectedly, the two of them are kissing, kissing as though they'll never stop, as though they can breathe the air from one another's lungs, clutching, clinging, each trying to pull the other closer until there's no space between them at all, until there is nothing between them at all.
Dinner is forgotten. Everything is forgotten – decorum, decency, logic; none of it matters. They tear at one another, greedy, voracious, biting and scratching, desperate for the feel of each other's skin, the taste of their sweat, for whatever part of the other will fill them, make them complete. When they fall to the floor together he tries to pull back, afraid of hurting her, tries to take things slowly, but she's having none of it and drags him down again, fierce and compelling, and he lets himself succumb to the unreality of it all – like a doll, he thinks, like a puppet, like a character in a movie, real life isn't like this, real people don't act this way – except that they do, they did, they are, and they do it again and again, over and over, until all their strength is gone and they fall exhausted across her tumbled bed, still entwined so closely that an observer could not have told where one ended and the other began.
She wakes first, as she had intended, and raises herself on one elbow to look down at the sleeping man nestled close against her side. The whole long stretch of his back is exposed, and she lets her hand slide across his skin, considering. The bruising has faded now, paling to dull yellows and muddy browns, but the scars still stand out, livid and brutal. They can be fixed, of course – it's a simple enough matter to imprint an Active with a cosmetic surgeon's skills – but there was no point in doing so until they knew for sure that Delta himself was still viable and not, as she had for a few terrible days been certain, a candidate for the Attic.
This experiment seems to have put those fears to rest. There'd been a battery of stringent tests over the past two weeks, but the last and most important – whether Delta could still function as an Active, could still fulfil a client's fantasy – well, there was only one way to test that, and that was by practical application. It could have gone badly wrong in so many different ways but, other than that worrying moment early on when he'd glitched on his own name, the imprint had taken perfectly; he'd handled all the curve balls they'd thrown his way, and come home with flying colours, or some such mixed metaphor.
Thank goodness for that. One thing she'd said last night was true. She really does most cordially dislike waste.
Adelle allows herself a small smile at the shocking hypocrisy of her own thoughts. She's justified her actions in any number of ways, told herself how brave and selfless she is to expose herself to what could potentially be a major risk, but, all pretence aside, she has to admit: Delta – Dan, as he had been – is a most attractive man, and she would be less than human if she hadn't been … well … tempted. Perhaps she had been a little swift and over-eager in stepping forward to volunteer her services as a test subject. Not that this is open knowledge, nor will it ever be; she's taken care to cover her tracks, inventing a fictitious client, using a conveniently (and, it had transpired, unsurprisingly) vacant location. Topher knows, to be sure – that couldn't be helped – but she herself knows enough about Topher to ensure his permanent and perpetual silence and discretion.
Which may be the only time that 'Topher' and 'discretion' will ever be spoken in the same sentence.
She realises that she's still absent-mindedly stroking Delta's skin and, frowning, moves her hand away. Don't pretend this is more than what it is: a necessary job giving her a rare opportunity to indulge an innocent fantasy. It would have been abuse if she'd taken advantage of him in the Dollhouse itself, but out here, with a rational, adult, independent mind imprinted on his own: well, where's the harm?
As she thinks of harm her frown deepens. This isn't the first time, although it's by far the worst, that Delta has been returned to them damaged. She understands the nature of his special contract, she knows the motives behind it, but nonetheless, she doesn't have to approve of it, or like it. In future, she thinks, she'll impose stricter boundaries. If that raises complaints, well, that's too bad. She can justify it easily enough, after all: break your toys and then what will you have left to play with?
Part of it's down to a poor choice of handler. There is an unfortunate tendency among the male Actives' handlers to overestimate their charges' tolerance levels; Delta isn't the only case like this they've had. She's already taken action on that. His new handler, she has a feeling, will stand no nonsense. Adelle herself would be very wary of arousing Gabrielle Ellison's wrath.
Speaking of whom, she must surely be wondering by now where her charge has got to, although – Adelle sincerely hopes – his monitored stress levels won't have shown anything out of the ordinary. Reluctantly, she slides her hand up Delta's spine to his shoulder and shakes him gently awake.
He smiles sleepily up at her, delight and wonder in his eyes, and, in spite of her better instincts, Adelle wonders if they can't steal enough time for just one last … well, one last.
Better not, she decides, and sighs for all the things that never can be.
"Time to get up," she whispers, and pushes him in the direction of the bathroom.
Ten minutes later he's back, clean and damp and minty-fresh. She's collected herself by then, wrapped herself in a robe, and is sitting at the horrible frowsty dressing table of whatever dreadful slattern this flat once belonged to, brushing out her hair with her own clean hairbrush.
He comes up behind her and puts his hands on her shoulders, lays a kiss to the crown of her head. She twists to look up at him, reaches a hand to touch his cheek.
"It's time for your treatment," she tells him. She keeps her voice soft, trying her utmost to conceal her regret.
He nods, docile, unquestioning.
"I know." But his eyes are hopeful. "I'll see you again, afterward? You'll wait for me?"
She turns then, stands, takes him into her arms; holds him for a moment, very close.
"Oh, yes, my dear," she tells him. "Be sure of that. We'll see one another again. Many times."
He smiles. "That's good," he says. And he's gone.
She listens to his footsteps passing through the flat; hears the door open and shut. Rising, she goes to the window and draws back a corner of the grubby curtain, just enough so that she can see the black van on the opposite corner, see Delta come down the outside steps and cross the road to it, see the muscular tattooed arm that reaches out to help him inside.
It's been many years since Adelle DeWitt last shed a tear. She doesn't shed one now. But for a long, long time she stands, hands pressed flat against the wall, motionless and silent, staring into nothingness, until at last she shakes off her inertia and moves forward to brave the day.
No-one is waiting to take her home.