Chapter Two
“The first name on the shortlist, an astounding talent that seems to have come from nowhere, is Dr. Hal Babbage, a bioengineer
who is making remarkable leaps forward in organ transplant technology.”
Hal Babbage’s giant photo appears on the screen as applause fills the room and I am looking at the face of my dream man. I
can’t quite recall when I decided that blond, tanned, and somehow modestly heroic was my idea of romantic perfection, but
since I was a teenager, whenever I’ve closed my eyes and dreamed of, you know, sex stuff, it’s been the face of Hal Babbage
that smoulders back at me before doing, you know, sex stuff. That golden hair, with a swooping fringe that falls across his
bright blue eyes. That jawline that could cut paper. That perfectly sculpted mouth that seems to be just on the verge of a
smile.
Hal Babbage takes to the stage and fills out his powder-blue suit in a way that would certainly suggest he could hold his
own in a wrestling match, maybe a naked one, I don’t know, just a thought. My mouth falls open. Rani grips my arm.
“Wowsers,” she says. “Totty.”
“Next, we have Sasha Reeves and her husband, Steve. Lend It Forward brings community funding borrowing to start-up small businesses, empowering entrepreneurs of all backgrounds to make their dreams come true.”
Sasha is a glamorous-looking woman, who takes to the stage holding her husband’s hand, punching the air as she arrives before
the audience.
“So proud of my team for getting here,” she shouts to one corner of the room to whoops and cheers. I like her smile and her
sassy walk. Maybe in her forties, Sasha has that kind of innate confidence that I really hope I might get one day, when I
grow up.
“Our third finalist is Forrest Faulkner, renowned prizewinning artist and poet all the way from the US!” Forrest barges past
me and, with a toss of his long curls, heads up onto the stage like a wine-spattered shirt is the hottest trend amongst male
bohemians. He has my begrudging respect for styling it out. If I was in his shoes, I’d be curled up in a corner right now.
I nearly am as it is, and I only have this yellow dress to contend with.
“Forrest has developed an easily transferable and accessible arts program that is designed to give everyone a chance to discover
their creative talent, especially in communities where creativity is a luxury. He’s had some incredibly positive results with
victims of addiction and children from disadvantaged communities.”
Forrest seems to be here alone, there is no particular cheer for him, but he waves to the crowd anyway, and even bows.
Wow, the man’s got an ego, that’s for sure.
I guess that is a requisite for poetry. It must take some serious self-belief to make sticking random words together your life’s work.
I’m enjoying being quietly rude about Forrest when it hits me that three names have been called and there are only four places on the shortlist. Maybe I haven’t made it after all?
“And finally,” Lady B says, “I’m delighted to call the name of a truly local lass, Yorkshire’s very own Dr. Ava Green, computer
science and AI architect.”
“Fuck,” I swear just as the in-house live stream camera focuses on me and my giant red sweaty face flashes up on the big screen.
Rani beams at the camera and gives me a little shove in the right direction.
As I head for the stage, every awkward, humiliating, and mortifying experience of my life flashes before my eyes. Hitching
up my skirt, I half stumble up the stairs, intent on keeping my head down and letting my long hair cover my hot face. It’s
quite lucky that I can smell Forrest a mile off; it means I don’t have to look up and risk making eye contact with Hal Babbage
as I take my place next to him. The heat of the lights is intense and though I know the volume of the applause shows that
I have a lot of support here, it makes me want to screw my eyes shut and cover my ears. So, I try and think of something else.
Something that is not me standing in front of a lot of people in a dress that makes me look stupid and face that matches my
red hair.
“Now let’s have a few words from our spectacular shortlist!” Lord B says, jovially. “Perhaps each of you could say a few words
about what it means to you to be here tonight, as part of the shortlist.”
“My goal is to bring safe, cost-effective, and tailor-made organ transplant alternatives to the world,” Hal says, in exactly the deep and gentle voice I have heard in my head every time I imagine pillow talk, although I don’t actually know what pillow talk is.
Do people get into bed and talk about the suitability of their pillows?
Because that’s a conversation I can get behind.
“There will be no need to wait for a donor organ when you can have one grown for you with my technology.”
“I’m so thrilled to be here,” Sasha says, pumping the air with her fist. “We are gonna totally smash it and show you how easy
it is to help people help themselves! Whoop!”
“Forrest”—Lord B hands the mic to him—“you just flew in all the way from the States. How do you feel about being a guest in
this old pile for the next few weeks? Wordsworth was quite fond of it, you know.”
“I feel incredibly honoured,” Forrest says. “All I want from my work is to bring the basic human joy of art and story into
as many lives as I can. In this world of screens and tech it feels more essential than ever before to keep the human creative
impulse alive and all our souls connected to what makes life worth living.”
“And Ava?” The mic looms in front of my face.
“It was me,” I say. “I spilt the wine on him and ruined his silk shirt. That’s why he looks like that. Also I’ve designed
a new kind of AI that doesn’t rely on scrapped data to learn, and is not only better for the environment, but designed to
solve the world’s worst ecological problems, so yeah. That’s me. Oh, and also I hate yellow.” I think for a moment. “But I
love my friend Rani who is here with me tonight.”
I see Rani’s thumbs-up emerge from the crowd and feel better.
“Right.” Lord B blinks. “So, what can you tell us about your feelings about being on the shortlist?”
“It’s proper hot in here,” I say, and everyone laughs.
“A real Yorkshire lass!” Lord B laughs, as he returns the mic to the stand centre stage.
“Thank you for doing that,” Forrest says, turning to me as Handsome Hal and Sasha and her husband walk off the stage. He doesn’t
seem to notice that his voice is being picked up by the still live mic. “For taking some accountability for this disaster.”
“Forrest,” I whisper, “just leave it . . .”
“No,” Forrest says as everyone in the crowd stops talking amongst themselves and turns to look at him. “I won’t leave it.
There’s no point in having one of the biggest brains on the planet if you can’t have the intelligence to accept an olive branch
when it’s being offered.”
“It’s just that it feels more like a declaration of war . . .” I say, nodding to the curious crowd. However, it seems like
artistic types who mistakenly think they have something to say are even worse than introverted tech types when it comes to
picking up on social cues. I tried to save him from himself. I failed. He’s angry, really angry. About a shirt. Loser.
“Trying to make the world a human contact–free zone, that’s the real crime. You and your lot are happy to take humanity off
the cliff edge at a thousand miles per hour, and never mind what happens to the rest of us. We just have to go along for the
ride. It’s so shortsighted.”
There are a lot of things my brilliant, logical, and erudite brain wants to say in this moment.
A whole host of brilliant put-downs and comebacks that will probably haunt me at three in the morning.
But they are all stuck behind the twelve-year-old girl who got mercilessly beat down and called stupid at school, the girl who still wants to cry whenever she is frustrated and stuck and insecure.
Me, I am that girl. The crowds gasp, and finally Forrest Faulkner realises that he’s been insulting me in surround sound. “Shit . . . listen, the thing is . . .”
“That you are a wanker,” I tell him. Then I hoist up my terrible skirts and make a run for it.
Hobbling as fast as I can in this skirt, I half tumble down the stairs and make a beeline out of the ballroom and down this long corridor full of dozens of serving
staff, until I see an open door and find my way out into the night air.
Suddenly it’s much quieter and I can breathe again.
The night smells of ancient cedar trees and this afternoon’s shower. A peacock calls somewhere in the dark. This is more like
it. Inhaling deeply, I lean against a stone pillar at the top of a broad flight of steps that leads down to neatly cut lawn.
“Are you okay, Ava?” a voice I almost recognise asks.
Looking up, I see Hal Babbage. I freeze, unwilling to look at him or open my mouth in case of an unforeseen incident of awkwardness,
which, if I’m honest, is always a distinct possibility. I sense him hesitating at my side. “Look, I don’t want to intrude.
I’m guessing you’re exhausted by all that hoo-ha, and the last thing you need is a stranger asking you questions but”—he takes
a step closer—“I just wanted to check in.”
Straightening my shoulders, I make myself look at him. His handsomeness is unprecedented in real life. In my real life anyway;
maybe in other continents there are just stupidly good-looking people wandering around all over the place. I don’t know. I’ve
never been anywhere outside of the UK, or Yorkshire very much.
“I just made a terrible dick of myself, didn’t I?” I ask him. Like I just told Forrest, I say things out loud by accident all the time. Yay.
“Not at all,” he says, that mouth twitching into a smile. “Most people out there won’t remember a thing by tomorrow, thanks
to the free wine. And the great thing about being a genius, like you are, is that you’re allowed to be a bit eccentric. It’s
practically a job requirement.”
“Ha, genius,” I say, blushing. “Wouldn’t go that far.”
“I’ve read your work,” Hal says, holding my gaze with his. His eyes are the colour of cornflowers on an August day. Now that’s
what I call poetic, Forrest Faulkner. “I think you are incredible.”
“Oh.” I don’t know what to say so I just stand there, clutching at the material of my skirt. “I look like a chicken goujon
though.”
Hal Babbage chuckles. “You most certainly don’t,” he says.
“There you are!” Rani appears in the nick of time, before I tell Hal Babbage that his eyes remind me of bubblegum-flavoured
ice cream and that I’d like to lick them, or something equally stupid. Her long dress shimmers in the moonlight; she looks
like a princess. “You should come back in! People want to talk to you. The Courier wants a photo!”
“I do not want to talk to The Courier if that’s allowed,” I tell her, suddenly utterly exhausted. “I think I’ve reached my maximum capacity for peopling now.”
“I’m Rani,” Rani says as she introduces herself to Hal. “I’d better take Ava to her room. Getting her out of the lab was a
major project and she’s basically still socially feral. Would you mind making excuses for us if anyone asks?”
“I’d be delighted,” Hal says. “Get some rest, Ava. I hope I see you tomorrow at breakfast, perhaps.”
“You smell like summer meadows of freshly cut grass,” I tell him. “It’s my favourite smell.”
“Thank you,” Hal says as if he’s not weirded out at all.
“Is it me, or is that man perfect in every way?” I ask Rani as I hook my arm through hers.
“Every. Single. Way,” she replies.