James Goss: Almost Perfect

It was then that she noticed the object clutched in the woman’s hand. About the size of an iPod, but like a flat snowglobe, glowing slightly. Curious, Emma took it from the woman’s grasp and held it up to the light – it was filled with a liquid that was a complicated blue that formed dancing shapes. As she looked into the globe she realised the shapes were straight lines and right angles and knotted cubes and so many shapes and colours and more shapes and-

Hey there, baby doll .

‘What?’ Emma gasped. She spun round. There was no one else on the beach with her. No one, anywhere. Even her music was silent. She was utterly alone. But still she was breathing quickly with shock.

Oi! I am speaking to you, darlin ’.

The voice was female, strong, northern and very definitely in her head.

I’m the machine .

This time there was a sigh. It was the long-suffering sigh that gave it away.

‘Cheryl?’ Emma gulped. What was Cheryl from Girls Aloud doing in her head?

Yeah. Right. Finally! I’m merely a representation of the machine’s mental interface, babe. You just listen up and Cheryl will give you an exclusive .

‘This machine?’ Emma shook it. Her head filled with a shriek.

Hold on there, sister! That will not happen again! Understand? You get me, you stupid little bitch?

‘Oi!’ Emma was outraged. ‘Why are you in my head? What are you?’

The voice seemed calmer, more soothing.

Well now. This will take some explaining. Shall we go somewhere warm and snug so we can get to know each other better?

‘What about the body I found y-?’ Emma didn’t even get to finish the sentence.

Oh, don’t worry about that – that was just a civilian. It brought me ashore. It’ll wake up in a bit, go home, get some kip, forget all this happened. Now come on – let’s get back to your charming one-bedroom flat in Grangetown with an eighty-five per cent mortgage and talk about the future. Let’s just say there’s a lot in it for you, Emma darling .

‘What?’ Cheryl had an odd way of speaking, thought Emma.

Hey, sorry, babe. It’s just my way. Forgive me, yeah? Cheryl is your favourite, isn’t she? Would you prefer if I was Nicola?

Emma thought about it. ‘No,’ she said.

So, Emma found herself turning away from the woman’s body and walking off the beach and back to her flat. Oddly, neither she nor the machine spoke to each other on the way – although the voice was humming along to the tune on her iPod. Thinking about it, Emma couldn’t remember much about the walk. But suddenly there she was, sat on her sofa, staring at her coffee table which contained the machine and a mug of her favourite instant hot chocolate (Midnight Orange Murmur, since you ask).

Well now, this is cosy .

‘Yeah,’ said Emma, feeling a touch defensive.

But it could be better. Don’t yer think? There was something about the voice – it was all caring and bright, but there was a real touch of steel behind it. But perhaps that was just Cheryl. And that’s what I’m here for. Let’s just say I’m a real dream machine, sweetheart .

‘So, you’re like a genie? And I get three wishes?’

A tinkle of laughter. Oh, Emma, honey, you get waaaaay more than three wishes. I just have to look into your mind and I can give you what you want. I can make you what you’ve always dreamed of. Taller, thinner, better hair. Darling, there’s no limit to what you can achieve with knockout tits and a nice smile .

Emma reached out a trembling hand for her mug and took an uncertain sip of her chocolate. There was an excited fluttering in her stomach. ‘Really? Does it hurt? How much does it cost?’

Ah, that’s the best bit. There’s no cost. I’m just chuffed to be able to help. And it’s started already. Want to see what you can look like? Go on girl – take a butcher’s in the mirror .

Emma stood up and crossed to the wicker-framed lounge mirror. And she dropped her mug in shock. She bolted off to the kitchen and returned with a damp cloth. She scrubbed away at the carpet, staring at herself in the mirror and repeating over and over ‘oh my god oh my god oh my god oh my god’ while the voice of Cheryl giggled delightedly in her head.

When she was eventually satisfied that there wouldn’t be a stain, she stood up, nervously straightening out her jogging trousers and staring at herself. She turned sideways and then sneaked a look at her bum.

And, finally, Emma laughed. She was suddenly gorgeous. Her figure was firmer, taller, and her eyes bluer – and yet she was still herself. She felt warm and confident and brilliant, and her skin was radiant.

And that, Em, is just the start of what we can do. We’re gonna have such a laugh. Things are going to be just perfect .

Gwen was late for reasons that bored even her. She briefly toyed with an apology to Jack that took in Rhys’s eccentric approach to whites-only laundry, but figured ‘life is too, too short’. So she slumped down at her desk, grabbed a bite of her Greggs pastry thing, logged in to the baffling swirl of her Torchwood desktop, and then noticed the New And Upsetting Thing.

‘Er, hello!’ she said, grinning broadly at the stunning woman tidying a workstation.

The woman looked up briefly, smiled weakly, and went back to watering the plants.

Bitch, thought Gwen. She’d clearly missed a memo. First Martha, now this. Replacing Owen with some ice queen with no personality, great hair and bloody amazing shoes. Gwen decided this was the worst Monday at Torchwood ever. Working with a supermodel. Great. Goodbye biscuits, booze and Primark. Hello gym, bottled water and clothes she couldn’t afford. What was Jack thinking?

She sneaked a glance across the desk. Actually, she knew exactly what Jack was thinking. For a man who’d lived through the entire twentieth century, he sometimes seemed stuck in the Dark Ages. Gwen breathed in. Better make friends. You never know, she might be genuinely nice, or she might get horrid period pains or have a really bad stutter. Poor lamb. Thinking about it, hell, she worked for Torchwood – she was bound to have lost half her family and everyone she’d ever kissed.

‘Hiya!’ Gwen said again.

‘What?’ said the woman, looking up. She looked odd. Distracted, but also a bit… no, not shy… embarrassed. Why? She hadn’t farted or something had she? Oh, please let it be that. Please.

‘Is everything OK?’ ventured Gwen, trying to keep the smile out of her voice.

‘What do you think?’ the woman snapped back, miserably. ‘I look like this! It is definitely not OK.’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Gwen, trying to sound sympathetic. ‘I think you look very nice,’ she finished, sounding like her Aunt Phyliss outside Sunday chapel. Please tell me she’s not about to start ranting about feeling fat. I am so going to hate her.

‘Nice?’ snorted the woman. ‘Not you too. Honestly, you turn up with a short skirt, and suddenly everyone’s trying to jump you. Typical Torchwood.’

Gwen blinked. ‘Excuse me, I think you’re mistaken. I’m, ah, definitely not trying to have…’ What would they say in a real office? Er… ‘Oh god. I’m not flirting with you. I am simply saying that I think that you’re looking… quite nice. Yes.’ Gwen finished the sentence and vowed never to start another one. There. It probably hadn’t gone too badly – the poor thing was probably constantly being hit on. Easy mistake to make, etc, olive branch extended. Lovely.

‘Oh, please, get over yourself, Gwen,’ snapped the woman, miserably. ‘You don’t understand a thing.’