The Perfect Wife

by Delaney, JP

  The waves churn and roil, their crests collapsing onto the sand in a crash of phosphorescence, only for that to be swept away in turn. Even through your misery—perhaps because of your misery—you can appreciate how beautiful that motion is. It feels like the waves must have a pattern to their endless movement; something almost unfathomable but deeply harmonious—

  v = f • λ

  The wave equation. You don’t know how you know, but it comes to you with yet another clunk.

  “Danny used to stand right there and watch the sea like that,” a voice says behind you.

  You whirl around, startled. A man of about sixty is standing a few yards off, watching you, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his waxed-canvas jacket.

  “I hope I didn’t scare you,” he says conversationally. He nods toward a house a little way up the hill. “I saw there was someone down here and thought I’d take a look. We don’t get many night visitors. Not since your husband installed the electric gates.”

  “You know who I am, then.” You almost stumble over that who. But the stranger only nods.

  “I saw you on the news. Don’t worry. I won’t tell any journalists you’re here.” He holds out a hand. “Charles Carter.”

  “I’m Abbie,” you say as you shake it. You can’t help adding miserably, “At least, I was. I don’t know what I am now.”

  He nods calmly. “The news item mentioned that, too.” He turns, putting his own hands on the rail as well, so you’re both looking out to sea. “You used to surf out there,” he observes. “All hours of the day. Nights, too, sometimes. It cleared your brain, you said.”

  “I know. That was what I was doing the night I disappeared. Surfing.”

  “So they say.” His tone is still conversational, but something makes you turn your head and look at him. He’s a handsome man, you realize: His hair may be silver, but his jaw is rugged and the skin creases attractively around the corners of his eyes.

  “What do you mean?” you ask.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean to imply anything. Just a lawyer’s natural caution of speech.”

  With a sudden flash of insight—not like the way the wave equation came to you, but equally sure and certain—you think: There’s something he’s not telling me.

  He probably thinks you’re Tim’s creature, you realize. He thinks you’ll report back anything he says.

  “So you’re a lawyer?” you say, to break the tension. “What kind?”

  “Large-scale corporate mergers and acquisitions, mostly.” You must look surprised, because he adds, “We used to have a big house in the city as well. But after my wife passed, I decided to relocate here. I can work from home, mostly.”

  “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  He shrugs. “It was eight years ago.” His eyes drift toward a boat, a thirty-foot sloop standing on the slipway below his house. There’s a name painted on its prow. MAGGIE. “You don’t forget, but you do come to terms with it, eventually.”

  You don’t say anything. You suspect he’s thinking the same thing you are. Tim never came to terms with it.

  You realize something else. You feel strangely comfortable around this man, almost as if you’re resuming a conversation you started a long time ago.

  “Did I…Did I know you well?” you ask bluntly. “Before, I mean?”

  Again you get the sense that Charles Carter weighs his words carefully before answering.

  “After your husband bought the land here and built his own house, he wanted to get rid of all these other properties just as soon as our leases expired, to increase his privacy. Naturally, some of us weren’t too happy about that. Things got a little heated…It was you who persuaded him to let us stay. Beaches shouldn’t be private, you said.” He nods at the building behind you. “It was too late for Sally and Joe’s diner. But the rest of us were grateful to you. It’s a small community here, but we treasure it.”

  “I’m glad I could help.” Once again, you feel like an imposter using that I, taking credit for something your former self did.

  “Well, if there’s ever anything I can do in return.” He pauses. “Even if you just want to talk.” Again he gives you an appraising look.

  There’s a shout from the beach. “Abbie! Abbie!”

  It’s Tim, gesturing up at you from the shoreline. “Abbie, stay there!” he calls. “I’ll come up.”

  “I’d better go.” Charles Carter nods at you. “Good night.”

  Tim runs along the boardwalk. “Abbie,” he says breathlessly. “Thank God. I thought—” He throws an anguished glance at the ocean.

  He thought you were going to walk into the sea, you realize. Having told you last night that it could destroy your fragile electronics, he was scared you might have come down here in despair to let it do just that.

  Yet, strangely, it never even crossed your mind. Because no mother, surely, could abandon her child like that.

  Charles Carter has walked off without speaking to Tim. Tim casts a hostile glance after him but says only, “Come on. Let’s get you back.”

  “Tim, I know about Sian,” you say miserably. “I saw you together.”

  “Yes, I realized,” he says quietly. “I saw you were gone when I went back to my room. We’ll talk about it back at the house.”

  26

  Sian’s in the kitchen, dressed and drinking coffee. She looks at you, but it’s Tim she speaks to. “You found her, then.”

  “Yes. Go back to bed,” Tim says curtly.

  “Wait…” you say. “Tim, I need to know…Is Sian your girlfriend?”

  Sian looks at Tim expectantly, and you realize she wants to hear the answer to this, too.

  “No,” Tim says after a moment. “She’s someone I had sex with, that’s all.”

  You note that had.

  “Thanks, Tim,” Sian says sarcastically. “Nicely done.”

  “Abbie’s upset,” he says tersely. “Right now, that’s my priority.”

  “Abbie’s upset?” she says incredulously. “The robot’s upset?”

  “She’s my wife,” he snarls.

  Sian must know the warning signs by now, but she doesn’t back off. “So if she’s your wife, what am I, exactly?”

  “I could give you a word,” he says curtly. “But you might not like it. Why don’t you go upstairs and pack?”

  She stares at him. “Are you firing me?”

  “Restructuring. Your services are no longer required.”

  “Because I slept with you?”

  “No,” he says calmly. “Because Abbie can take over your duties with Danny.” He turns to you. “If that’s acceptable to you, Abbie.”

  “You cannot fire someone just because you slept with them,” Sian snaps, at the same time as you say, “Tim, wait a minute. We need to think what’s best for Danny here.”

  “There’ll be a generous payoff,” he tells Sian. “I suggest you go and think about just how generous you’d like that to be.”

  She doesn’t reply. You can almost see the numbers turning in her brain.

  Turning back to you, he says in a quieter tone, “What do you mean, about Danny?”

  “I can’t replace her. Not yet, anyway. I know some of what she knows about Danny’s therapy, but not nearly enough. She should stay. At least for the time being.” You hate saying it, but you really have no choice.

  Tim nods. “All right. Sian, you’ve got two more weeks, for which you’ll also be well recompensed. And now I suggest we all go back to bed.”

  27

  “The point is, we can’t go on like this,” Mike Austin says tentatively. “Scott Robotics is under siege. Reporters have been harassing our employees. And John Renton’s asked for an urgent meeting.”

  It’s next morning. There are five of you sitting around the beach house’s big outdoor table:
Mike, Tim, a man called Elijah who’s their chief financial officer, and Katrina Gooding, their PR consultant. Tim’s insisted you join them—“Abbie has as much right to be part of this as anyone”—but the truth is, you have nothing to contribute and the debate simply goes back and forth around you.

  You still haven’t had a chance to talk to Tim about Sian. You thought maybe he’d come to your room last night to explain, even apologize, but it’s almost as if he regards the matter as closed now.

  Compared with that, the problems at his company seem unimportant.

  “What does Renton want?” Tim asks.

  “We don’t know exactly,” Mike answers. “But it’s a fair bet he’s getting anxious about the return on his thirty million. We haven’t exactly carried our investors with us on this journey.”

  “Abbie should do an interview,” Katrina suggests.

  Tim doesn’t hesitate. “She’s not doing an interview.”

  “What’s the mortgage like on this place?” Elijah gestures at the beach house’s stunning exterior. “If Renton wobbles, you’ll be the one whose loans are called in.”

  “Yes,” Tim agrees icily. “Those are my loans, my guarantees. I put my neck on the line to achieve this. And that’s why it’s my decision. When you have the balls to start your own company and do what it takes to keep it afloat, then you’ll be entitled to an opinion.”

  Elijah shrugs, apparently unoffended. No doubt he’s heard similar things from Tim many times before. “I see this differently from you, that’s all. An interview could be a great opportunity—a chance to put our own, positive message out there. We’ve built something incredible. The more people become aware of that, the less our investors are going to be worried about short-term returns. We’ll sell it as a deliberate strategy—first disrupt the existing paradigm, then figure out how to monetize it later.”

  Tim shakes his head. “I told you. Abbie doesn’t want to do an interview.” But you can hear from his voice that he’s taken Elijah’s point.

  As one, Elijah, Mike, and Katrina all turn to look at you.

  “Well,” you hear yourself say. “Of course I’ll do it. If you think it’ll help.”

  “It really is your decision, Abbie,” Tim says.

  “It’s fine. I want to be useful.” A really useful engine.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll coach you in what to say—give you some lines to hit,” Katrina says reassuringly.

  “When should we do it?” Tim asks.

  She’s already pulled out her phone. “I’ll start making some calls.”

  * * *

  —

  While Katrina speaks to the TV networks, the discussion moves on. Tim makes all the decisions—the others seem to take that as a given. He’s been away from Scott Robotics less than twenty-four hours, and already there’s a long list of matters requiring his attention.

  Leaving them to it, you go to explore outside the house. It’s even more stunning in the daytime. The architects have cleverly positioned it in such a way that the other houses, the ones down by the beach, are completely hidden: Up here, all you can see is ocean. The red-cedar paneling of the walls is the same color as the decking around the pool, so that it all feels like one harmonious composition, a sculptural object dropped onto the rocky scrubland. The early-morning fog has burned off now, and the pool shimmers invitingly in the sunshine, its surface rippling as the pumps and filters do their work.

  But of course, you’ll never swim in it again, you realize.

  Just for a moment, as you look longingly at the pool, you have a kind of flash-memory. You, diving in, the water churning milky-gray as you arc your body up toward the surface, reaching out with a sure right arm in preparation for that first long stroke…Like your moment of insight about Charles Carter last night on the beach, it feels different from your other memories, somehow: more organic, not just retrieved from a data bank, but found.

  You pause, willing more memories, but nothing comes, so you continue around the deck to the garage. There are two big double doors and a smaller one at the side. You pull open the smaller one and step inside.

  Tim said this was where you worked on your art projects. If you hadn’t been told that, you’d have taken this for construction junk. Welding equipment, gas tanks, coils of tubing and compressed air pumps, power tools, tins of household paint. And, casually propped in a corner, three surfboards of differing lengths. Their names come to you smoothly: The first is a Malibu, the second a longboard, and the third, the largest, is the type surfers call an elephant gun.

  You suppose there must have been a fourth, once. The one you took the night you died.

  Looking around, something else strikes you. Tim said you’d been spending time out here in the run-up to that night, working on a big new project. But if so, where is it? There are bits and pieces scattered around, but they look more like abandoned fragments than a major new artwork.

  You weren’t working on anything. You just wanted to get away. With your lover, probably.

  Once again, the thought comes to you, unbidden but fully formed.

  You have no proof of that, you tell yourself firmly. After all, you might have tried something and, dissatisfied, taken it apart again.

  You spot something in the far corner and go over to look. It’s a pair of blue overalls, casually discarded on the floor. When you pick them up you see they’re streaked with paint and oil. The contrast with the stylish, expensive dresses in your closet in San Francisco couldn’t be greater. Yet they were both aspects of who you were.

  Did Abbie Cullen-Scott have other identities, too, some of them kept hidden from the world? You stare at the overalls as if they’ll somehow tell you.

  “You used to spend a lot of time in those.”

  You turn. It’s Tim, coming in from outside. He adds, “We used to joke you’d wear them to galas and openings if you could. But you could get changed faster than anyone I’ve ever known. I’d come down here when it was time to leave and you’d still be working, caught up in whatever you were doing. ‘I’m not late. Give me five minutes,’ you’d say, and in four minutes flat you’d be showered, changed, and looking like a million dollars.” He smiles. “Speaking of which, we have to leave in a couple of minutes. Katrina’s arranged an interview on ABC-Seven. If you’re really okay with that.”

  “Of course,” you say, although the truth is, you’re dreading it.

  As you leave the garage together, you add, “Tim…Can I have memories that haven’t been uploaded?”

  He stops dead, then turns and studies you intently. “What do you mean?” His voice is forceful, urgent. It’s the way he speaks to his employees when something important is brought to him, you recall, his whole attention suddenly focused on them like a laser.

  “I’m not sure, exactly,” you say, quailing under the ferocity of his gaze. “It’s just that several times in the last few days I’ve had a kind of…”

  “Intuition?” he says softly.

  “Yes. Yes, intuition is exactly right. But that’s not possible, is it?”

  “On the contrary.” You can hear the excitement in his voice. “Have you heard of a game called Go?”

  “It’s the Chinese version of chess, isn’t it? But played on a much bigger board.”

  He nods. “An artificial intelligence beating a human at Go was always going to be a milestone. Many people thought it could never be done. Then in 2016, an AI built by a company called DeepMind beat the world’s top human player. But what was really remarkable was the way it beat him. During the match it played one particular move that was so reckless, so apparently random, no human player would ever think to try it. It turned out to be the decisive moment of the game.” He pauses. “These memories you’re talking about—they may be the first sign your brain’s starting to make creative leaps. Filling the gaps in your knowledge with deductions and educa
ted guesses.”

  “But I can’t necessarily trust those guesses? They might be wrong?”

  He takes you by the shoulders. “Why, Abbie?” he says urgently. “What are these thoughts you’ve been having?” His energy is overwhelming, sucking the truth out of you, the way the slipstream of an express train pulls leaves into its wake.

  You open your mouth to tell him. That before you died, you might have been having an affair. That something feels wrong about the manner of your death. That you were lying to him about working on a new art project—

  “It was nothing specific,” you hear yourself say. “Just a moment where I remembered diving into the pool. But I’ll tell you if there are any more.”

  NINE

  Next morning, Abbie’s wasn’t the only vehicle in the parking lot with a surfboard strapped to the roof. Alongside her beat-up Volvo was a Volkswagen SUV with a blue-and-yellow foamie strapped to the top—a beginner’s board.

  “It’s Tim’s,” Morag confirmed. “He’s taking lessons.”

  The thought of Tim trying to act like some laid-back surfer dude was almost comical. But it made sense that if he was, he’d be having lessons. Once Tim set his mind to something, he always achieved it. He once gave himself the challenge of learning Hindi in six months, although to the best of our knowledge he’d never visited India to use it.

  Later Darren overheard Abbie and Rajesh in the kitchen area, discussing the shopbots. Abbie was dissing them, and Rajesh—well, Rajesh wasn’t exactly making much of a case in their defense.

  “Of all the things robots could potentially do,” she was saying, “is selling people shit they don’t need really the best you could come up with?”

  Rajesh’s reply wasn’t audible to Darren—he was soft-spoken and gentle. But neither was it long. And whatever it was, it clearly didn’t convince Abbie.