I feel myself lean away from the intruder, as far as the reception desk will allow. “Ooh it’s here,” my manager chirps, rapping her nails on the glass top of my desk, one eyebrow cocked as her eyes slide from the shiny chrome of the new equipment to the exposed underwear of the IT associate protruding obscenely from under the desk.

She looks suddenly concerned as a series of high pitched beeps emit from my new desk buddy and I jump, startled, sending my cup of tea skittering towards the expensive machinery. She lowers her voice, whispering, thick with empathy “I know you know this, but you’re not being replaced. She’s here to help you, lighten the load.”

“She’ll be able to deal with the visitors, check them in by sight! Aw, it will be brilliant! We’re the first company in the country to get one you know,” she nodded so vigorously my own head begins to bob in sympathy, the marionette core of my being, that tug to please, to appease, taking over the growing worry in my gut.

“Brilliant,” the corners of my mouth tug upwards in an attempt at a smile and I glance at my apparent saviour, a mesh bag obscuring her features which look impossibly even, balanced. The skin of her arms is the off-putting colour of semi cooked chicken, it gives me the uneasy stomach clenching feeling of biting into food and realising the centre is still frozen.

“You can even programme some phrases for her, help her learn all about the company, although of course she’s got access to the company database, HR system, all that good stuff. She’ll even converse with you… about work, that is,” she gives a stern nod and I watch her interest in the situation wane, her eyes cloud slightly and I feel I am no longer the object of her full attention.

“Well, lots to do, let me know when she’s set up,” she smiles in a tepid way that suggests I’m fading from her mind even as her gaze still rests on me, then she disappears into the main body of the building. Swallowed by sliding doors, gestated in the thrum of video calls and fingers dancing over keys.

I turn to look at it, her. Receptionist is a position of great importance, I’m told. I’m the face of the company. But apparently my fleshy, ageing face is not as desirable as this sleek, shiny new thing.

The IT man yanks the bag from the robot’s face and haphazardly pats down her blonde bobbed hair. She has a plain pretty face, utterly non threatening, terrifyingly symmetrical, carefully forgettable.

Her lips are a fraction too thin I think, her nose slightly too narrow. I notice with a bit of discomfort that we have the same haircut.

The IT man stands, emitting a sallow, jowly huff. “Seeing double,” he gestures between us and I let out a mirthless laugh, it’s best just to smile and nod I’ve learned. Especially with men, when you’re trapped behind a desk, when they’re trying to be funny.

“She’s ready to go.” He pats her shoulder and she shudders at once solid and jellylike, her nose jiggles boneless on her face and I think of the gelatinous creatures caught in cold spotlights at the bottom of the ocean.

Alien, foetal, smooth to the point of slick. She whirs as she starts up, her mouth and eyes opening and flexing, her head rotating, her neck extending notch by notch like an unfurling telescope then rolling in an android yogic vinyasa.

I hate her, the insipid jerky movements, those stumpy eyelashes, the way her fake skin folds at the side of her mouth in a grotesque approximation of expression. I want to peel off that layer of deceptive fake flesh and reveal the alchemic circuitry beneath.

Instead I glance at the IT guy and mutter; “Spooky”, but he’s already groaning at a series of buzzes from his phone, not sparing me a glance as he stamps up the hall. Sliding doors, office buzz, silence.

I’m alone with it. I aim a well placed kick at its side. She shakes on her heavy metal base, face remaining in place in utter beatific bliss.

In her unblinking gaze I see myself as the interdepartmental task force which approved her must, the pleasantly excused but teeth-clenched annoyance at my inconveniences. My missed trains, my sick leave, the two days I took to attend a funeral. I see myself, outdated, in the face of this sleek certainty.

I pull the IT guy aside as he tries to escape outside for lunch. I ask what happens if there’s a power cut, if our systems go down and the WiFi shuts off and she can’t pull from her database of faces or logged visitors. I am answered with a pitiful, irritated laugh, “Well, that’s what you’re for.” He turns his back on me and I nod and sit beside her, knowing for certain now. I am her backup.

Every incoming phone call becomes a stand off, a rush to answer. She almost always wins, answering in clipped tones and pausing a second too long before answering. I hear the caller’s agitation. I want to throttle her but what good would that do? She can’t breathe or feel, not in any way I understand.

I open the spreadsheet to check inventory, and her head turns to me and from her eyes she projects an order confirmation for stationery onto the desk. She tells me in the same clipped tone she uses for calls that she will automatically order anything needed from now on. So much faster than my invoicing, my stationery cupboard mental maths. The colours from the projection rest on top of my hands and I snatch them away, that sick infected feeling creeping over me again.

I take short lunch breaks, aware of the seconds ticking by as I tear a sandwich to shreds with my fingers, of how she will never need a break, will never spill mustard on her blouse. As I deal with the heavy pettiness of being a human she sits immovable and smiling.

I return to her and glare, spend my time jumping at her whirring, jerking movements. But the week passes in a blur of wiped coffee stains, filed emails and filled spreadsheet columns and I become almost used to her. Her humming is almost lyrical compared to the silent expanse of the reception space. She’s the only person not swallowed by the main office or spat back out onto the street, she stays in limbo with me, tethered to the desk.

The staff seem to like her, they nod at me then stand in front of her, sallow faced and ready for scanning, until she buzzes the door for them. Visitors too, delivery men snap pics of her and toss packages onto her metal lap, although I always have to sign. It was a design flaw not to give her arms.

On our two week anniversary, days of drudgery, I let her take some calls and race for others. Compromise. It’s a nostalgic and hazy Friday afternoon. I’m not afraid to touch her anymore, although her skin still makes my fingers retract, rubbery in a way that catches on the rough edges of your fingertips and makes you aware of every nick and flaw in your skin.

It’s quiet, most people are working from home. By 3pm as the sun bleeds in through the sliding doors like a spilled cocktail and I brush down her silky, staticky blonde strands with my hairbrush, brush some pale pink gloss across those strange thin lips. Like the bodiless hairdressing doll I had as a child she lets me change her, take a lighter to the tips of her hair then quickly tamp the ends to make them jagged. She remains judgemental but unable to react. I choose to think she likes the changes.

I study her then reach for the stationery cupboard, string a paper clip, now redundant thanks to our paper free policy, through the hole in her fake skin. The holepunch worked surprisingly well on her ear lobe. I flick it. It’s pretty, in a punk way.

“This place used to be a riot,” I tell her and push her synthetic locks over the paperclip. Her hair reminds me so much of my old doll and I brush it again. Her face remains placid until she turns her head so quickly I jump and for a moment I think she might say something, really say something,  instead of her normal babble about stationery and expected deliveries. But instead she tells me:

“It is currently 16 degrees with showers. The coffee machine has a scheduled milk rinse tomorrow.”

I nod and let a tear slip down my face, patting her head “It sure does… it sure does.”

I look out at the carpark, the weakening sun glinting against the neat rows of wing mirrors. I think about lunch tomorrow, I think about updating my CV, about dumping a cup of coffee over my new assistant. But my heart starts at the thought, it would be cruel. I bring my gaze back inside, turn to smile at her. “We’re a team, after all.”

*

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