False Hearts by Laura Lam

knew that was where I wanted to stay.”
    She leans back in her chair. She has an audience for the first time in days. After all she’s put me through, I find it infuriating that she’s still putting on a show.
    “That’s something I didn’t realize going in,” she continues. “That even though people pay money to go to these clubs, they sometimes still hate you, deep down. Hate that they can’t form any genuine connections in real life so they have to pay for you. Or pay for Zeal in the rooms and for you to join in, as they don’t have any friends who will link with them. They resent you for it. It can make things plenty awkward, lemme tell you. In Zenith, people are nicer, and really seem to like being around you.”
    She’d said something similar to me before, but she’d also shrugged, saying that they loved her too. Love, hate, desire, envy, or simple enjoyment of her company. Sometimes all of it wrapped up together.
    “And did Vuk hate you?” Officer Oloyu asks.
    That stops her. “No, I don’t think he did.” Her voice is quiet.
    “What’s the exact specification of your job at Zenith?” Officer Oloyu asks. I can tell he’s interested. He’s likely never been to a club like Zenith. Not on his salary.
    She crosses her arms over her stomach, pulling the fabric tight against her breasts. She knows Oloyu’s looking. Her head tilts up, defiant, one corner of her mouth quirked. I know that look, too. “I suppose—I’ll never work there again, will I? I’ve been called a hooker, a whore, a call girl. All that. Whatever. It’s not just sex—sex work rarely is, anyway. I’m their fantasy.” She smiles, and it lights up her wan face. She has reclaimed many of those terms for herself, telling me the words couldn’t hurt her if she did. Maybe she’s distancing herself from other types of sex work because she’s speaking to a police officer. Even if being a hostess is not illegal, she’s still nervous. “These days, so many men and women work all alone, connected to their wallscreens and their small, cramped apartments. They don’t seem to understand how to make real friends, or maybe they want some who are a bit less … complicated. So they come to clubs like Zenith, where friends, lovers or almost-lovers are all lined up at the ready. There are no expectations, no birthdays to remember or weddings to attend. Connection without attachment. Without strings. Without disappointment.
    “So that’s what I do. I talk to them. I pour them drinks. I laugh at their jokes. I listen to them. I look them in the eye. Most of the time, that’s all they need. They have a nice time, and then they go home to their empty apartments and their wallscreens.”
    “And if they need more?”
    She shifts in her chair, resting her head on one hand. She’s positively chatty, now that she’s started. She has a rapt audience in Oloyu, and she wants to entertain. “It’s usually only high-end business people who have enough money to use Zeal in the club. We’re exclusive. Best product, best experience, and all the hosts and hostesses are great actors in the Zealscape. For the clients, it’s like a mini-holiday in a really expensive virtual reality hotel. The same host or hostess can plug in the whole time, but only if they want to. They get a bonus. Sometimes if they wake up in between fantasies, they’ll have physical sex, but that’s only if they want to. Same with sex when in the Zealscape. It’s not about the sex. Or again, not only about it. It’s to feel close to someone, even if it’s just for a little while, but still knowing the next day they can get on with their life without any guilt. And the sex is freely given or not at all, and the client can’t complain. They all understand the rules.”
    And what if they didn’t? Would they grow angry? Angry enough to attack Tila?
    “And do you stay overnight?” Officer Oloyu asks. He shifts in his chair, probably aroused and uncomfortable with it.
    Tila