It  had been a long day. Work had been a struggle. Carla had a good job, with prospects, but she did get lonely. There were so many AIs at her monitoring station, and they weren’t at all chatty. She was relieved to be home. 

     She opened the door to her apartment and stepped into the white living area with its squashy sofas, Moroccan rugs and the lanky bronze sculpture she’d bought on a whim. She loved this space.  

     “Tired,” she said out loud. 

     Blue light suffused the room. The white walls dissolved into a forest, sunlight shafting through spring-green leaves. Birdsong mingled with the twanging of what Carla thought might be a harp. A scent of pine wafted through the air. 

     She kicked off her shoes and threw herself onto one of the sofas. It moulded to her shape.

     “Massage,” she said.

     The sofa rippled obediently. 

     It was all perfectly calculated to induce inner calm. 

     Carla clenched her teeth.

     She hated the smell of pine. The forest made her think of midges.

     “Stop.” The sofa stopped rippling. “Change.”

     The forest scene was replaced by a beach – smooth sand, lapping sea. The harp morphed into whale music, pine was replaced with the tang of sea spray.

     Carla thought of jellyfish, sunburn and gritty sandwiches.

     “Change.”

     The beach became a snow-covered mountain dotted with fir trees, smoke from a faraway chalet rising in the still air, the scent of log fires and oranges -

     All Carla could think of was slipping on the ice and cracking open her head, and actually the smell was now a bit of a stench.

     “Oh, for god’s sake.”

     What she wanted was a drink. 

     She got up and walked to the kitchen area. She opened the fridge, more in hope than expectation.

     “Good evening Carla,” it said.

     The fridge had been filled. There were bowls of radishes and chilies, a couple of lettuces, an aubergine, red peppers and tomatoes. There was a small paper twist of what Carla knew would be a spice, probably turmeric. There were packets of tofu, a big tub of coconut yoghurt, some oat milk. There was no alcohol.

     “This evening’s meal will be watermelon, spinach and quinoa salad with toasted pumpkin seeds, followed by mango sorbet,” said the fridge. “You have opted for self-assembly.”

     She liked quinoa salad, she really liked it. It had been one of her top choices when she’d filled out the brands-and-basics form when she’d bought the apartment. Room Service Premier was part of the deal. There was no opt out. 

        The trouble was that when she’d filled out her options she’d been on a self-improvement drive. She’d wanted to look impressive to the authorities. Even putting alcohol or chocolate in the ‘very occasional use/once every six months’ box counted as a double negative on your HR scoreboard. So she hadn’t. She’d wanted advancement and promotion at work, and to get that she needed purity and perfection at home. 

     But right now, she didn’t give a damn about advancement and promotion. What she wanted was a drink and she didn’t have one. 

     A gin and tonic with a slice of lemon. A chilled glass of Pinot Grigio. A whisky sour.

A drink. Or even….

     Carla put her hand in her pocket. The flyer was still there. She glanced around. They wouldn’t have seen her, would they? Could they hear the paper crackle? Very soon after Carla had moved into the apartment – and she did love it, she really did – she’d found the only blind spot, in the corner behind the large yucca plant, where the camera’s eye couldn’t follow her. It was a supportive eye, of course. Only there to enhance and facilitate her every whim and desire.  

     Carefully closing the fridge she headed to the yucca plant now, and once concealed, she took out the flyer.

     A man had thrown it into her bicycle basket when she’d stopped at some traffic lights near work. She hadn’t seen his face, just the back of his head retreating into the crowd. She was sure she recognized that thick red hair... She’d only glanced at the flyer before thrusting it into her pocket – it didn’t do to be seen accepting non-online contact. She looked at it properly now.

     It was a small flyer, handwritten on brown paper. ‘An Invitation From The Ambassador’ she read. ‘8.30.  Tonight.’ She’d heard rumours – underground parties, raves, secret locations…but she’d never been to one. Never been asked. There was an address. Thirty minutes bike ride. She could do it.

     But first, she had to cover her tracks. She headed back to the fridge.

     “This evening’s meal will be watermelon, spinach and quinoa salad -.”

     “Yes, I know,” interrupted Carla.

     “The optimal time for consuming your meal is 19.23. You must start assembly in three minutes.”

     “Will do.”

     It had sounded like a dream. A fridge filled with all her favourite foods. When she got back from work all she had to do was throw a few things together. It was so easy! She always had the exact amount of correct ingredients for each recipe. There was no wastage, no leftovers or second helpings. If she sometimes thought that it might be nice to stroll around a market and choose something that looked tasty, she reminded herself of the time saved, time she could use to relax, and she thought about how very, very healthy she must be. Besides, there weren’t any markets anymore.

     It was probably her own fault that the fridge now felt to her like a tyrant, and Room Service Premier like an old-fashioned spy who she’d been stupid enough to invite to live in her kitchen.

     She threw together the salad and took it to the eating station where she struck a yoga pose, to add to her health score, while she pretended to eat. In reality she put the food in a bag, to dispose of later, away from the apartment. Meal over, she yawned and stretched elaborately. 

     “Bed” she said.

     The colours muted to violet. Bach played, a notch or two below fully audible. Crouching over the bed to mask her actions, Carla heaped pillows under the duvet, an old trick from her childhood. She slid her monitor under a pillow. To anyone watching it looked like she was fast asleep in bed. Throwing on black leggings and a black top, she slid out of the apartment. She was only going out, she was allowed to go out, but she felt like a criminal.  On the flip side, she wasn’t tired anymore. She was pumping with adrenaline.

 

*          *          *

​

When Carla’s bike skidded to a halt by the gates she wasn’t sure she was in the right place. She’d been instructed not to bring any devices, not to use GPS, and without it she was not convinced of her exact location. She seemed to be by a derelict industrial area, with rusty fencing and battered ‘Keep Out’ signs. Carla noticed that the padlock on the gate’s bolt was shiny and new. When she touched it, it sprang open. She nudged the gate. It swung back. She was in. She found herself in what must once have been a loading area, years ago. Now, weeds were pushing up through cracked concrete. A few shipping containers were stacked in the far corner. Carla hesitated. It was very dark, very quiet. Screwing up her courage, she decided to take a quick look at the containers, then get back on her bike and ride home. 

     When she got to the first container, she saw a faint light around the door. She knocked. The door opened. A woman with black hair and heavily kohled eyes peered out.  Carla held up the flyer. The woman grinned, opened the door and ushered her in.

     It was a sensual explosion.

     The containers had been knocked together to create a large space. There must have been fifty people in there. Music blared from what looked to Carla like – it couldn’t be, could it? – a boombox? She’d only ever seen one in the movies. Bright disco lights strobed the walls. But what was the most exciting, what was so thrilling that Carla’s mouth was watering to the point of drooling, was the smell. She could smell baking. Roasting.  She could smell meat, and sugar. 

     She could smell a feast. And it smelt real.

     This wasn’t calm. It wasn’t soothing. It was almost certainly not safe.

     Carla was so exhilarated she thought she might explode.

     “Carla!” It was the man with red hair who’d put the flyer in her basket. She did recognize him! His name was Todd - they’d been to college together. He was one of the good guys. She trusted him.

     “What’s going on?”

     “Welcome to the Ambassador’s party!

     “Thanks! So… what’s happening? Who’s the Ambassador?”

     “Sssshhhh! The only question you need to ask is - what first?” he asked.

     Craving overcame her. 

     “Drink. Eat. Dance. In that order,” said Carla.

     “Right this way ma’am!” said Todd.

     There was a bar. With alcohol. She could have whatever she wanted, no health card needed. She chose a chilled Chablis, then she turned to the tables.

     “Meat here,” said Todd.  “Puddings over there.”

     Carla could see, but she didn’t believe her eyes. A haunch of roast beef, the flesh still pink. A glistening ham. Meatballs floating in a tomato sauce. A tub of liver pate, smooth and delicate. On the next table, carrot cake with thick white frosting, cream horns, a froth of meringues spliced together with double cream and sprinkled with crimson pomegranate seeds. A table of cheeses: brie, ripe and bulging, a slab of buttery cheddar, blue-veined stilton, a roll of goat’s cheese, soft and pungent. 

     Carla couldn’t stop herself. She grabbed a meringue and crammed it into her mouth.  It melted on her tongue, crumbly and crisp at the same time. As the sugar hit her taste buds she groaned.

     There followed an undignified scramble. Carla stuffed in beef, sausages, bacon, a whole goat’s cheese, cake, pastries and sugar, lots of sugar – she had been starved of these tastes and she wanted them, she wanted them so badly! She couldn’t swallow quickly enough! When she could eat no more she swung Todd into a wild and frenzied dance that went on and on….

     It wasn’t until Carla couldn’t dance another step and she was lying on a beanbag with Todd curled up next to her that she thought to ask about their host.

     “Where’s the Ambassador, Todd? I want to thank him for all this.  Is he here?”

     “I don’t know,” said Todd. “He might be. I don’t know who he is.”

     Carla felt a stab of disquiet. What if this was a setup? It was all so illegal.

Possession of a couple of grams of sugar got you a caution – the authorities were not monsters – but more than that and you were in trouble. There must be kilos and kilos of the stuff here. Let alone the meat! And Todd was saying he didn’t even know who the Ambassador was?

     “He’s a dude, Carla, that’s all I know. He’s a rebel. He gets off on defying authority.”

     “But he’s not defying authority. We are. Todd, how did you get involved in this?”

     “It doesn’t matter. Chill!  We’ve dropped off grid. All battery power, nothing digital.  We’re safe!”

     “People only say that when they’re about to be caught.”

     “You weren’t worried when you were tearing that beef apart. There was blood dripping down your chin.”

        “I think I should go -”

        “Wait! You’ve hit the slump. Ride it out - have another drink, another doughnut,” said Todd.

        Carla hesitated. If she went now she might never get another invitation. She might never have that exquisite sweetness on her tongue again, or that sensational umami of barely cooked beef…. She wrenched her thoughts away. She had to think about herself, about her future. If she was promoted maybe she could afford to buy herself some black market sugar. 

     She kissed Todd on the forehead. 

     “Bye Todd. And thank you. I’ll never forget this.”

     When Carla got to the door, she turned around for one last lingering look at the feast.  All she wanted to do was to go to those tables, grab the food with both hands and stuff her mouth, her backpack, her pockets full of treats she knew she might never see again. Instead, with a deep sigh, she stepped out of the container and into the night.

​

*          *          *

 

By the time Carla got home she was exhausted. It was three in the morning, and she’d had to force her body every inch of the way back. She kept telling herself it was for the best.  She had had one glorious night and now she must return to normality. In the morning, it would all seem like an amusing dream.

     The lights were on in her apartment. Carla froze.

Someone was waiting for her.  

     “Evening, Carla.” The man was wearing a uniform. A police uniform. “Well, not evening so much as ‘Just Before Morning’. So ‘Just before Morning’, Carla.”

     He was sitting on her sofa. Smiling at her.

     “Been out on the town have we? Tripping the light fandango?”

     “I…couldn’t sleep. I went for a walk. That’s allowed, I’m sure that’s allowed.”

     “Of course it is Carla, and why not? A little walk.”

     “How did you get in? Why are you here?”

     “One at a time. I was called by the ambulance fellas.”

     “Ambulance?” Carla felt faint.

     “Yup. An alarm was triggered when your monitor couldn’t detect a heartbeat. Well, it wouldn’t have been able to, would it, seeing as how it was strapped to a pillow. And a pillow doesn’t have a heart. I was called in case some kind of a crime had been committed.”

     “Crime?” Carla couldn’t seem to summon a sensible thought.

     “Crime. Any citizen can go for a walk in the middle of the night, a long walk or a short walk, to wherever they choose. As long as their monitor goes with them. For their own protection, you understand.”

     “Yes.”

     “But that is only a minor offence.”

     “Oh, that’s a relief. Well, I’m very sorry officer, for the walk and the monitor and the pillow. And for your trouble. Thank you for your attention. But I wouldn’t want to take up more of your time.” 

     The policeman looked at her. He wasn’t smiling anymore.

     “You’ve got something on your face,” he said. 

He put out a finger and brushed a crust of sugar off her cheek.

He licked his finger.

Then he patted the sofa next to him, cosily.

     “Come and sit down, Carla. So, why don’t you tell me all about your friend, this Ambassador fella. Let’s start by giving me his name.” 

     Carla sat down.

     It was going to be a very long night.