We Sell a Lifestyle by Stephen Howard

You smile as William rips the Sold sign out from the too-long grass of your new home. Your smile falters, but he does not see. William runs inside, shouting for you to join him, to come meet your son, but instead you stand out in that too-long grass and survey the estate. Every line is straight. Every lawn is neat. Yours is the exception, left unattended as it has been until moving day. You used to love gardening, but there’s no desire to neaten this up, no visions of flower beds or hanging baskets, no inclination to nurture. In fact, there’s no feeling at all.

William pokes his head out the door. “Sasha! Come in and meet him. He’s gorgeous!”

You trundle in, the expectant mother, the dutiful wife. But this was never your expectation, a duty you never knew you’d have to perform.

The house smells of lavender and sawdust. The one odour designed to overpower the other, instead combined to produce a sickly, hazy air. You turn into the lounge. On the wall are empty frames. You think of hollowed out eye sockets.

“This is Michael,” William says, thrusting a cherubic bundle towards you. There is a woman in a blazer stood to the side, long necked and straight backed like a lamppost. Miss Decker, our agent.

“He’s the latest model. Software upgrades on a monthly basis and he’ll actually physically grow into a toddler.” The woman’s voice is peppy and rehearsed. You’ve yet to take the baby from William, who continues to hold the bundle out like he’s handling an unexploded WWII bomb.

“Michael? He?” You shake your head, take a step back. “It grows into a toddler, you say. Then what happens?”

Until now, Miss Decker’s smile has been permanently fixed, lips stretched wide, gums and teeth ready to leap out her mouth. But they retract. A cash register zipping back into place. She readjusts.

“At regular intervals, you receive the appropriate upgrade,” she says.

“I see,” you reply.

Miss Decker swaps a glance with William, enough to tell you they’ve discussed this, were expecting some difficulty from you, maybe even have some plan to win you round.

“We don’t simply sell houses; we sell a lifestyle. These neighbourhoods are safe. Your children are the highest spec software on the market. In a few years you can upgrade with our family pet package, knowing your home is already set up for it! We’re talking insurance, space, soundproofing, everything is covered.” Miss Decker’s eyes twinkle.

You shake, taste bile at the back of your throat.

“This is everything we ever wanted, Sash. Can’t you see that?” William says, placing the quasi-baby in the Moses basket beside the sofa.

Your hand drifts down to your stomach. This is like skipping to the end of the book without reading the first 200 pages or fast-forwarding the movie to see the big twist: it’s hollow without the journey. You think about the last time and the pain, remember the things you said, about not wanting to go through that agony again.

“I need fresh air,” you say, rushing out the front door.

You hear a mumbled apology and footsteps on the hard laminate floor behind you. William emerges, easing the front door shut behind him.

“Sash, I’m doing everything I can to fix things, but you gotta meet me halfway here. We got a good deal on this plot because the company is an investor, but they can rip it away anytime.”

You see how he thinks in terms of problems and solutions, not about the constant ache that having one future ripped away has already left, the internal bleeding no surgeon can fix.

“Sash, the paperwork is signed. Debra told me over the phone that Michael is classed as a legal entity now. He’s our son. He exists.” William loosens his tie, ruffles his hair, then turns and heads indoors.

A legal entity? It isn’t even real. It’s hardware and software. It’s…

You hear a loud cry sneak through the open windows in the lounge. Something in your gut twists, you feel your feet carrying you forwards, across the threshold and towards Michael. You scoop him up, this cherubic bundle, and you gasp as his tiny fingers clasp one of your own and squeeze. He’s so real.

Miss Decker clears her throat. “There are a good little group of newcomers in this neighbourhood, some with similar experiences to your own. You’ll have friends, all of whom are mothers too.”

Mothers? Is that what I am? William places his arm around your shoulders, brings you in close. His aftershave is pungent, but you don’t care. You’re nodding your head, feel William bear-hug you because he senses the change in your demeanour, your acquiescence to this solution. It feels wrong and yet somehow inevitable.

“Tell me more about the lifestyle,” you say.