The Perfect Wife(12)

“Well, fizzle my fenders,” Danny says dreamily, parroting one of his favorite expressions from Thomas the Tank Engine.





9


The three weeks are nowhere near up when Tim gets a call.

“He’s done what?” he says incredulously. Then, “No, I’ll do it. I don’t trust that idiot to fix this.”

He puts the phone down. “That was Mike. Some stupid screwup at the office. I’m going to have to go in.” He grimaces. “If that’s all right. I don’t like leaving you.”

In truth, you’d known three whole weeks was going to be a stretch. Your honeymoon was only ten days, and even then Tim sneaked into the bathroom every morning to answer emails.

“I’ll be fine. And besides, I want to finish going through my books.” You’ve devoured everything in the bookcases downstairs, but the big double-height bookshelves on the landing remain untouched.

“Well, if you need anything, just call.” He takes something from his pocket. “Here. It’s time you had this again.”

This is a beaten-up old smartphone, scratched and battered, the screen a little chipped at the corners. It’s encased in a papier-maché shell made from layers of vintage wallpaper.

“You made that case yourself,” he adds. “You were so good at things like that.”

Before he leaves he kisses you on the forehead. “Love you, Abs. See you later.”

“Love you, too,” you echo.



* * *



—

As soon as he’s gone, you turn on the phone. Tim still won’t talk about what happened to you, but perhaps there’s something here that will satisfy your curiosity.

You go into the texts. The most recent one was five years ago, sent to someone called Jacinta G. Sure! Count me in for Pinot and character assassination! Abs xx

You’ve no idea who Jacinta is. But here you were, planning a girls’ night. And then you died. Out of the blue, never expecting that text to be your last.

You keep scrolling. Most of the names mean nothing, lost in the fog. Then, suddenly, one pops out.

Lisa.

Your sister. Your finger hovers over the CALL button. But then you wonder how much Tim has told her. She may know nothing about this. About you. You can’t just phone her out of the blue without some sort of warning. Reluctantly, you move on.

You see Tim’s name. Your last text to him simply read:


Things going well here. OK if I stay another day? xx



His reply came just a few minutes later:


Of course. As long as you like. x



You scroll up further, stopping at random.


Still up for date night? Reservation’s @7 Axx



Tim’s answer was badly typed—under the table of a meeting, perhaps:


Sadly mty date toniht will b w Ted’s bozo coders. Going tp pull a late one.

No worries. Takeout? Xx

I’ll piuck up grocries. Steak? candles? wine? choc dess?

You had me at choc dess. Xx



It was a happy marriage, you think. Despite Danny, despite Tim’s type-A personality, the two of you made it work.

You scroll on, stopping occasionally, until you reach a whole decade ago.


Thank you for a beautiful evening. And an even more beautiful night. Tim x

The pleasure was all mine, believe me! Axx



You feel a sudden pang of emotion. Eventually you and Tim may be able to go on date nights together. You can dance, hold hands, even kiss. But the special physical connection of lovemaking is another matter.

Unbidden, the exact word for what you feel about that lands in your thoughts, ready-made.

Your emotion about those texts is envy.



* * *



—

You’re about to put the phone down when you spot the Safari icon on the menu bar. You tap it and a search engine appears, the box blank and inviting.

At last. Quickly you type in Abbie Cullen-Scott San Francisco death accident? How?

An agonizing moment while it searches. And then—

Page Blocked.

You look at it, wondering. Blocked by who?

Then you realize. Tim must have set up some kind of filter. Like one of those parental-control apps, with the details of your own death as the blacklisted content.

It’s because he loves you, you tell yourself. He guessed the temptation would be too great. It’s a sign of how well he knows you. How much he cares about protecting you from pain.

You wonder if he’ll get sent some kind of alert now. You hope not. It would be nice to keep your weakness to yourself.

And nicer still if my husband had trusted me in the first place, you can’t help thinking. Even as you ruefully acknowledge that he was right not to.

You wonder what else he’s screened from you. Picking up the phone again, you try Facebook, then Twitter, then Instagram. Only Instagram loads, and even then, links to certain accounts seem to be blocked.

Are there horrors here he has chosen to shield you from? What insinuations does he not want the roiling, restless multitudes of the Web to whisper in your ears?

Then you remember the disgust in the eyes of the Prius driver who brought you home. Imagine that, being flung at you online!

Tim’s right, you decide. Too much reality right now might not be a good thing.