This time I do hit him. In the face. Full on.
Lerato
I get to work to discover that Mpho has turned stalker boy. There is an outrageous bouquet of flowers on my desk, complete with miniature butterflies, the kind gen-modded to stay within a hand’s-length radius of the scent of the assigned homing flower and guaranteed to live seventy-two hours, if you believe the advertising. Until now, I’ve never met anyone cheesy enough to fall for it.
Seed has paired us on the MetroBabe Stroller audio job, designing an interface that works for both toddlers and parents. At the touch of a button, it has to be able to play back rockabyes, current hits packaged as instrumental lullabies for baby, or MetroBabe’s private info station, simply jam-packed with useful information to help guide new parents through the very special hell they’ve signed up for. The things already come with two cup-holders, one for baby’s bottle, one for mom’s moccachino or, more realistically, mom’s whisky flask.
I wave away the butterflies that are hovering near my screen, attracted to the light, and shove the bouquet to the edge of my desk, which will hopefully limit the little bastards’ range. There’s no sign of Mpho, which is savagely annoying.
There is a MetroBabe audio file in my jobs folder, so I can get some idea of the content we’re dealing with. I ignore it and kill time waiting for Mpho by checking my mail, updating my dating profile on Seed and prowling the responses. There’re three pre-approved potential matches, all within Communique or affiliated companies (which means no lengthy mutual non disclosure contracts to sign before you can move on to the sex), one civilian, which I delete without even looking at (at least I admit I’m biased), and a man of real interest from a rival corp, which Seed has tagged as questionable, meaning a potential headhunter.
Considering how I got here, to this twentythird floor office, to this desk with its views of the seaboard, you’d think the system might trust me to spot one all on my own. Or maybe they’re letting me know that they know. Heads up, girl, we’re paying attention. Hopefully not too closely.
The guy’s profile looks sony, as Toby might say. Stefan Thuys. Forty-one, which is ten years older than my ideal, but hey, I’m open to trying new things. He’s a development exec on gamesoft, reasonably attractive apart from the craggy nose that looks as though it may have been broken at some stage, which is unreasonably hot. He claims an interesting selection of media, although his choices are suspiciously hip. But who doesn’t paint themselves in a prettier light? And I’ve always been interested in development. I msg him. He msgs back, and we hook up a date for later in the week.
At last I’m prepared to get round to the MetroBabe audio file. I drag it into my player and crank up the volume. I’ll be damned if I have to suffer through the incessant infant-stuff alone.
‘…surrogate breast milk is a risk, Noeleen, but it’s a qualified risk if you go through the correct channels, and get a certified provider who can provide you with a full medical history. You can get cocktails specially made to order, get your provider to take vitamins and nutrients tailored to the very specific needs of your baby’s gene map.’
Across the office, a couple of people raise their heads. Genevieve mouths at me, ‘Can you privacy that?’ but I ignore her.
And finally Mpho materialises at my desk, pushing a stroller, the dull grey of the plastic marking it as a prototype fresh off the printer. ‘Hey, L. Hope you haven’t been waiting too long. I thought I’d get a demo model from product development so we can really nail this thing. Oops, nearly forgot!’ He produces two lattes with a flourish from the cup-holders. ‘Mamzelle.’ In four days of getting room service together, you’d think he would have picked up that I take my coffee black.
‘But couldn’t you just add those to the content afterwards? Or, I don’t know, give your baby supplements, Dr. Redelinghuys?’
‘Thanks, babe.’ I deliberately let the coffee slip through my fingers so it drops into the bin, spilling its contents en route. Someone else will clean it up. I probably should have done the same with the flowers, just swept them off the desk into the rubbish. Mpho looks shocked.
‘So, M,’ I emphasise the consonant, how it’s really not a name. ‘You ready to tackle this baby thing?’
‘I’m sorry. Was there something wrong—?’
‘I’m lactose-intolerant, Mpho. Thanks for asking.’
‘Shit. I’m sorry. Let me get you another one.’
‘Can we just do this?’
Mpho is insistent. ‘Seriously, let me get you another one. I’ll be right back.’
‘No, honestly—’ but he’s already dashed off.
‘That’s a good question, Noeleen, but really I think we have to look at the way the body system processes nutrients, and how that’s passed on to your baby. She really needs all this goodness in a way that’s palatable to her still-developing immune system, that she can readily absorb, especially when it comes to HIV antibodies–’
I click it off. As if actually having a drooling, mewling, puking little troll weren’t enough. If I had to listen to this shit all day, I’d kill myself.
There’s a good reason I need to get this out of the way asap. I’m expecting a tech support callout any minute to deal with a damaged adboard. I stayed up all night coding upgrades with some neat little added features of my own for the security software they’re going to have to install today, and then covering my tracks to ensure it looks like they’ve always been there.
When the maintenance team head out, I need to monitor them remotely to ensure there aren’t any unexpected surprises that might betray me when the software update goes live. But of course, I’m not supposed to know that an adboard has been hit. Not yet. So I wait.
Mpho finally gets back, balancing a filter ultra and a selection of every variety of sweetener and cinnamon/chocolate/mint additive possible, just in case. I drink it black just to spite him, not that he notices.
‘What did you do to your hair?’ he asks, in a little-boy-wounded way. He should have seen it before I had the Communique inhouse stylist tidy it up this morning. ‘I liked it long.’
‘I get bored easily.’
You’d think I would know better than to get involved with someone in my own department. But I’m really crap at resisting sexual tension. Oh, it’s entertaining for a few weeks, the fuzzy sting that rushes down your vertebra to your groin when the eyes meet, the banter spiked with innuendo – then it becomes irritating, and you need to get it out of your system. Neutralise it by indulging it, which is fine, assuming you can both keep it tidy.
‘You’ve had a listen, what do you reckon? The prototype isn’t functioning 100%, but you can see the way it’s structured is there’s one big tactile button for baby right where he can get at it, and here, on the pushbar, full audio controls and screen for mommy…’
‘I’m just the programmer,’ I snarl, cutting him off. ‘I’m only interested in the internal processes.’
‘Whooo! Someone is grumpy this morning.’
‘I was up most of the night,’ I snip, too defensive. He’s caught me off guard, and I’ve slipped up, which is a good indication that I haven’t in fact had enough rest, but please let him not try and get into the why. Fortunately, his brain defaults automatically to the same strand of primitive code every time.
‘You should have called me,’ he leers. ‘I could have come over. Helped you sleep.’
‘The job?’ I point at the screen, impatient.
‘You didn’t even say anything about the flowers.’
‘They’re stunning. Amazing. How did you ever think of such a meaningful and original gesture?’