Table of Contents
Title Page
Pocket Wife
About the Author
The SHORTCUTS Series
MIKA
THE LAST
BREE’S DINOSAUR
POCKET WIFE
LANDFALL
THE GHOST OF MATTER
IMPRINT
Pocket Wife
I FELT BEHIND MY EAR, found the little switch and turned it on. Jenny hadn’t activated my Tiny yet, but I figured I’d lie back and wait. It pays to sit still until it happens. I leaned back against the V-shaped pillow and stared at the light shade. I couldn’t help toying with the switch, and poking at the outline of the plastic disc, which lay flat beneath my skin. I’d been worried they’d have to drill through bone but when I’d expressed my concern to the technician he’d laughed. ‘The sensors are highly tuned,’ he’d said. ‘They pick it all up from outside the skull.’
The light shade was white, round, and smooth as a pickled onion. Seems everything’s getting smoother and rounder. Gone are the good old days when you could retire to your hotel after a long day at work and sink into a decent, squishy sofa. These days you sit down and slide right off. I glanced at the fridge – thought about the Indian Pale I had in there, the condensation misting the cold glass, the sound of released pressure as I popped open the top.
I felt the usual added strain on my mind as Jenny switched on my Tiny, and immediately closed my eyes and tried to focus on whatever it was I was supposed to be looking at. The little bugger’s eyes aren’t the best; the cameras don’t swivel properly. Ah, there we go. Jenny was holding my Tiny up in front of Nico.
‘Say hello to Grandpa,’ she said. The image rotated back and forth vigorously.
Nico gurgled something; it was hard to tell over the sound of whooshing air.
‘It’s your Grandpa!’ Jenny squealed. ‘Your Grandpa!’
‘Stop waggling me around!’ I called. I could hear my own voice coming from my Tiny’s speakers – the same, but not quite.
‘Sorry,’ she said, and the room suddenly stabilised. A monstrous baby’s hand reached towards my face and I braced against the hotel pillows.
‘That’s right,’ Jenny cooed. ‘He’s far, far away.’
Nico slapped the highchair tray with his palms, and Jenny pushed me right up into his snotty face.
‘Christ, that’s enough,’ I said, opening my eyes. The onion-shaped light shade was clearly visible through the now semi-opaque image of Nico. It looked like he had a third eye, right in the middle of his forehead. I stood up and inched towards the fridge, trying to concentrate on the hard lines of the hotel room. By the time I got back to the bed my head ached. I used a pillow to stifle the sound of the beer being opened, then lay back, closed my eyes again, and took a sip.
Jenny had propped my Tiny up on top of the kitchen bench back home, facing the sink, a chopping board, and a knife the length of a cricket pitch. Outside the window the sky was a deep blue. Sparrows and wax-eyes of pterodactyl proportions flew in and out of my vision. Jenny had bought the bird feeder a few years previously, had insisted I nail it to the fence. They made a hell of a mess, those birds, but Jenny loved to watch them. I could just make out the sound of cicadas. But I was cold. Damned cold, actually, like I was lying on snow.
‘Jenny, where on earth did you put my Tiny?’ I called.
She came back into view, carrying a bag of potatoes.
‘I’ve switched myself on,’ she said.
‘You’ve got to be joking.’
‘I told Rach I’d prepare some meals for Nico, which she can take home.’
‘Don’t be stupid. You’ll chop off one of your fingers. We don’t need to both be on. And why am I freezing here?’
I had a brief glimpse of the ceiling before she repositioned my Tiny.
‘Sorry. Frozen peas,’ she said. I presumed she’d pressed her hand against my Tiny’s back, since the cold became less.
‘Turn me on, Carl. You know I like to see where you are. I feel disconnected...’
I grumbled as I leaned over to the bedside drawer and pulled out her Tiny. About four inches tall, the thing had been made in her exact likeness. The brown eyes stared blankly. I carefully gripped the tiny left ankle between thumb and forefinger, starting to make the twist, then remembered the beer and quickly placed it on the floor where it couldn’t be spotted. I twisted the ankle and her Tiny’s eyes swivelled to look at my face.
‘You haven’t shaved today,’ Jenny said. Twice. The voice in my mind – heard by my Tiny on the other side of the world – and the voice coming from the speaker inside her Tiny’s chest. Sometimes the voices were in sync.
Her Tiny began to feel warm, and I placed it on the pillow, facing me.
‘I’ll shave tomorrow.’
‘You know it makes a difference.’
I had the usual dilemma. Did I close my eyes and watch what Jenny was doing back home, or did I keep them open and look at her Tiny? If I closed them, I’d have the relief of only one image to focus on, but her Tiny would be staring at my closed eyes, and Jenny didn’t like that. Really the whole system was flawed.
‘Rach is at a job interview.’
Her Tiny was looking at me so intently. The lips didn’t move, but the voice came out all the same.
‘What job?’
‘At the high school down the road from where she lives. They want someone to look after the plants. It’s a gardening job, really. It might involve a bit of heavy lifting, which I’m worried about, but it’s only fifteen hours. She wants to start Nico at day care a couple of days per week. She says she needs to get out of the house. I told her I’d look after him, but she’s dead set on day care.’
I became aware of a knocking noise and closed my eyes. Jenny was chopping the potatoes with her own eyes closed.
‘She’s not built for heavy lifting,’ she continued. Her grey-auburn hair was tied in a loose plait, her cuffs rolled up. ‘I told her she should do a course. She was so good at science when she was at school. She could do pharmacology, or study to be a radiologist.’
‘A radiologist?’
‘Sue’s niece did some courses at university, and she’s a radiologist now. Rach could do so much better than gardening.’
‘Let her work it out for herself.’
I opened my eyes and the thing was still looking at me. It didn’t smile. Didn’t move at all – no muscles, I suppose. I never properly learned the science of it. All I knew was that there were sensors on my Tiny’s body, and cameras in the eyes and what-have-you, and that somehow, through satellites I suppose, the information was sent to my brain. When Jenny touched my Tiny it was like being poked through a thick blanket. The newer models can smell, and have a better sense of physical touch – or so the pop-ups claim. It’s probably only a matter of time before they’re walking around, creating havoc of their own.
The Tinys arrived from the manufacturers in their boxes, naked. We hadn’t expected that. There’s nothing more sobering that seeing your silver pubic hairs copied in minute detail. Jenny immediately took to dressing them like little dolls. You can buy accessories from the company page. Last November she dressed my Tiny in a Halloween costume and surprised me by holding it up in front of the mirror. There I was, dressed like an English schoolboy, and there was nothing much I could do about it.
‘Jenny love,’ I cut in. She was still complaining about Rachel. ‘I’m meeting Michel soon – the Chief Financial Officer. He wants me to go over some figures with him.’
‘So late?’
‘He’s a very busy man. I should shower.’
‘Okay...’ She sighed, the noise at my end coming out like static. ‘Make sure you shave. And dress warmly, dear. You don’t want to catch
another cold.’
‘I will. See you the same time tomorrow.’ I switched off the switch behind my ear and reached for her Tiny. I rubbed its back with my finger. I knew Jenny would still be in there, would be switched on right to the last second, but I couldn’t speak to the thing. As soon as I’d twisted its ankle I chucked it back in the drawer, and slammed the drawer shut.
I PULLED MY JACKET collar up against the wind. People all around me hurried from one shop awning to the next, their umbrellas held out like shields, scarves flapping. The cafe terraces were deserted, the tables and chairs packed away inside the steamy restaurant interiors. Several shops were still open, music blaring, their brightness floating on the wet street. An electronics store I passed had four drift screens all playing different music at once. One of the screens followed me halfway down the block before the boy in the shop called it back. Even while at work the boy had his e-vice turned on, its holographic screen and board shimmering in the rain. I’m damned if I know how kids walk around without bumping into each other, they’re always staring into their vices. Rach changed the settings on mine once, fiddled with the opacity, but then I could hardly see what was on the screen. I sometimes think I preferred that old plastic clunky thing we used to hold to our ear. You could look like crap, be half naked in bed, and you wouldn’t offend anyone by not turning on your visuals.
I turned right down Rue McGill and into Old Montreal. The spring rain had washed most of the snow away, but there was still the odd slushy brown pile slumped up against a shady corner. After two wrong turns I finally found myself on the narrow cobbled lane with the wooden sign hanging beneath the street lamp. Madame Bellarina’s, written in burgundy cursive. The black door and brick wall were featureless and scrubbed clean of moss or ivy. I turned the brass knob and wiped my feet on the door mat before pushing through into the interior.
A short hallway led to the brightly lit foyer. Ornately framed mirrors lined the walls, reflecting the central chandelier. Two young women reclining on a plush red chaise longue stopped mid-conversation and turned to me, smiling.
‘Bonsoir cher monsieur et bienvenue chez Madame Bellarina,’ one of them said, sidling up and taking my hand in hers. Her long, dark fringe rested just above her eyes. ‘Puis-je vous débarrasser de votre manteau?’
‘I speak English,’ I said.
‘My apologies,’ she said, revealing a large a gap between her teeth as she smiled. ‘Welcome to Madame Bellarina’s. May I take your coat? It is cold outside, but in here you will soon warm.’
She helped me shrug off my coat while the other woman positioned herself full length on the chaise longue, propped up on one elbow, watching me. She was blonde, probably naturally so, her hair falling as ringlets on her shoulders.
‘I’m here to see Madame Bellarina,’ I said.
‘Do you have an appointment?’ The first woman asked, hanging my coat on the stand. ‘Madame Bellarina is most often occupied. Would you like a drink? I am certain either Anna or I can make you perfectly comfortable.’
‘Please tell Madame Bellarina that Carl is here to see her. I don’t have an appointment, but she’ll see me.’
The woman slipped out through the door that led to the rest of the establishment, leaving me alone with the blonde. She didn’t sit up but patted the space on the seat in front of her body.
‘I’m good. Thanks.’
‘Your accent is cute,’ she said. She sounded Eastern European, and I wondered briefly if she was related to Madame Bellarina. ‘I have not seen you here before.’
‘I don’t come often.’
‘You like drink? I pour you something.’
‘I’m fine. Thank you.’ I shoved my thumbs into my trouser pockets and rocked on my heels. There was nothing to look at, except for mirrors.
The gap-tooth woman reappeared. ‘Madame Bellarina will see you. Please follow me.’
‘It’s okay. I know the way.’
The passageway was dim, lit with low wattage red bulbs – as, I knew, were the adjoining rooms. Thick, velvet drapes covered each of the doors, making the passageway feel narrower than it actually was. I had always wondered about those drapes, about their exact purpose, but had never had the nerve to ask. Madame Bellarina never talked about work. At the end of the hall was a slender spiral staircase, and at the top, Madame Bellarina’s private quarters. I hesitated halfway up the stairs, my hands sweating.
She opened the door before I had a chance to knock. A fire flickered in the grate and I walked straight towards it, reaching my hands out as if to warm them. I found it hard to look at her. I always did when I first arrived. I felt her move past me, towards the liquor cabinet. She smelled like cinnamon and orange with a hint of sandalwood. I heard the cabinet door open, and close. The sound of liquid filling glass. I jumped as she placed her hand on my shoulder, her fingers brushing my neck.
‘It has been a while, no?’ she asked, passing me the glass of port.
‘Yes.’ My voice was husky, and I cleared it, and took a sip. I stared down at the contents of the glass. ‘I’ve mostly been in Asia this year. China. And India.’
‘I have missed you.’
With her heels on she was as tall as me, but she took them off, one by one, and I watched her toes wriggle in the thick fur rug. Her nails were painted red, her toes slender and perfect. She grabbed my chin, and raised my eyes to her face.
‘What does India have that you cannot find here?’ Her thick black hair was pulled back, piled high upon her head, her dark eyes thickly outlined. She had told me once that during the Second World War her pregnant grandmother had jumped on a boat that took her unborn mother all the way across the Black Sea, to an isolated township in Russia. And on that same night she told me that her mother only lived to the young age of 18. I remember lying there, doing the maths, realising that despite all visible evidence Madame Bellarina must be at least seventy years old.
‘I don’t know,’ I muttered.
She knelt, and began undoing my shoelaces. The fire was becoming unbearably hot, and I loosened my tie with my free hand. I stood awkwardly on one leg, then the other, as she removed each of my shoes. As she straightened up I noticed that she was wearing the diamond earrings I had bought her. But the diamond necklace – that wasn’t from me.
I touched it. She brushed my hand away.
‘Do you have many suitors?’ I asked, feeling myself blush.
She leaned in, on tiptoes, and kissed me on the nose. ‘Yes,’ she whispered, taking my glass of port and placing it on the mantelpiece. ‘But you, Carl, are my favourite.’
JENNY SMELLED OF SOAP and washing powder. Before it started going grey her hair was the colour of Old English Breakfast, brewing in the pot. She’d grow it long, then cut it short, never entirely satisfied with it. Her eyes slanted down at the edges, giving her a melancholy look. I used to think that she was lovely. We met at a book fair, in Oamaru of all places. I was down for my grandfather’s funeral and she was helping her sister with a newborn baby. My nephew-to-be. She came out of the public bathroom with a piece of toilet paper stuck to her shoe, and I mentioned it to her. That was how it started. Both glad to get away from our families, we walked up and down Oamaru’s long main street about five times, past the fish and chip shops and the second-hand stores, the families buying cream-filled lamingtons on a Saturday afternoon. When I finally built up the courage to ask her back to my motel her cheeks flushed a deep pink. She told me she had to get back to her sister.
Back in Auckland, a month or so later, I tracked her down online and asked her out. She was doing a kite-making course in the evenings, and we took one of her colourful beasts up Mt Eden. It flew five seconds at most, then promptly crashed into a tree. Watching Jenny back at her kitchen table amidst pottles of glue and paint, the paintbrush held between her teeth as she readjusted the dragon’s goggling eyes, I fell in love with her. Like a painful blow to my chest.
Those memories have been coming back to me recently. The ones from before Rachel w
as born, before we bought the first house, before we had a mortgage. Before my work took me away. Back when Jenny was slim, beautiful and red-haired, and I truly believed I’d never love another woman.
Jenny was never elegant. Never breathtaking, enigmatic, or even carefree. She didn’t wear perfume. The one time I tried buying her something with diamonds on it, she donated it to the Salvation Army; she obviously had no idea how much it cost. She liked to buy plain terracotta flower pots, and painted them in bright stripes. She made a terrific pavlova. In the months leading up to Nico’s birth she knitted enough hats and booties to keep a nursery of little kiddies warm. And she always made a point of meeting me at the airport when I returned home. No matter what the time. Even when things weren’t good between us.
They say that when you lose someone you love you lose a part of yourself. Personally I think that’s sentimental bullshit. Jenny and I weren’t Siamese twins; we weren’t connected by the arm or hip; we didn’t share a psychic bond. If anything, I’ve gained something these past two years she’s been gone. A new piece to me that’s lodged firmly inside, which I can’t pick loose. Next to all those memories. It’s a pointy-edged chip of guilt. Relentless, painful guilt.
IT WAS DARK OUTSIDE, some early hour just before sunrise. Maybe after. It was hard to tell since the sky was full of clouds. I stood on Madame Bellarina’s private balcony, sipping slowly from the tall glass of water I’d poured myself from the crystal jug she keeps beside her bed. I felt like shit. In the alleyway below, a man on a forklift shifted crates into the back of the small grocery store. I could see his breath. My coat was still down in the lobby, but I had one of Madame Bellarina’s thick, woollen shawls wrapped around my shoulders. Cinnamon and sandalwood.
I eased myself into one of Madame Bellarina’s ornate iron chairs, put the glass on the table so I could better massage my throbbing temples. This was the kind of moment when I wished I’d never given up smoking. Jenny had always believed it was her badgering that had finally done it, and would savour her victory by pointing out smokers and commenting on how dirty their habit looked, expecting me to agree. In all actuality it was because they’d made it so damn hard for us. You can’t smoke in parks. You can’t smoke on the street. You can’t smoke within five metres of a child without a street cam picking it up. My hasty, self-conscious puff was interrupted too many times by my vice informing me of my instant fine, and so I eventually gave it up.
Pocket Wife Page 1