The Perfect Wife(17)

“Yes?”

“For all the millions we’ve spent, what have we actually proved?” Mike asks quietly. “That we have the technology to build a very approximate replica of a dead human being. Yes, it’s a breakthrough, but—so what? Only a man deranged by his own grief could think that’s a direction society should be traveling in. How does it make the world more productive? What does it change? Nothing—it simply fossilizes the past. People die—it’s a tragedy, sure, but there are other people to fall in love with, and so life goes on. Compared with driverless cars, or nanosurgery, or even a drone delivery for your groceries, you’re a cul-de-sac. Extraordinary technology, yes. But yoked to a pointless application.” He stops. “At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what Tim would have said about it, if it had been anyone else but him and you.”

“He loves me,” you say defensively. “Some men build a memorial. He built an AI.”

“Memorials bring closure. You’re the exact opposite. Think about it—for as long as you exist, he’ll never get over the death of the real Abbie, or know what it is to have the love of a new woman in his life. At best, you’ll only ever be a pale shadow of the person he once loved. How is that a meaningful relationship? Another woman, someone who isn’t Abbie Cullen and isn’t even trying to be—that woman might have had a chance of healing him, of helping him move on. And now she’ll be denied that chance. Your existence deprives Tim of the very thing he was trying to achieve.”

You feel a flash of anger, not least because you can see Mike’s point. “And if he had moved on and met someone else, you’d be jealous of her, too. You’d resent her for being the focus of his attention, instead of you and your precious company.”

Mike smiles thinly. “You think you’re the first to say something like that to me? I know my place in Tim’s life. I made my peace with it long ago. Sure, I stand in his shadow. But that’s a pretty big place. And I’m lucky enough to have a rock-solid marriage of my own.”

“To Jenny. One of your own employees.”

“To Jenny,” he agrees. “The most brilliant programmer I’ve ever worked with. Who understands that a long-term relationship is about kindness and compromise and yes, hard work sometimes.” He closes his laptop. “The good news is, you’re working fine. But that may be down to good luck rather than good coding.”

There’s a ping from across the room. Guiltily, you turn toward it, thinking it might be the iPad, but then you realize it’s just your phone. You go and pick it up. Another text.


Love u too. How u doing? Not bored? x



“Tim?” Mike asks.

“Yes.” Quickly you text back, All good! X

“Did you tell him I’m here?”

You shake your head.

“I think that’s the right decision. We’ll keep this between ourselves.” Mike starts winding up his computer cable. “This is something you’ll soon learn, Abbie. With Tim, honesty is not always the best policy. The secret to managing him successfully is to be selective.”

“I’m not trying to manage him at all. He’s my husband.”

Mike doesn’t reply for a moment. Then he says, “You know, we have something in common, you and I. We both want what’s best for Tim. Just remember how fragile he still is, would you? The very last thing he needs is any more emotional upheaval. Any more hurt. Right now, that could destroy him.”

His eyes hold yours. You realize he isn’t talking about the tests he just carried out—in fact, you’re pretty sure those were simply a pretext, an excuse to come here and have this conversation.

Mike’s warning you about something. Something you don’t even know yourself yet. But whatever it is, he wants you to keep it a secret.





13


When Mike’s gone you go and look at the iPad. Thirteen percent charged now. You thumb the switch. The Apple logo appears, followed by a message saying the operating system needs to check for updates.

Finally, a keypad appears. iPad requires passcode after restart.

You search your memory for numbers that might have some significance for you. You try your birthday, then your year of birth. Each time the iPad shakes the screen. Wrong.

You grimace, frustrated.

The simplest thing, of course, would be to tell Tim. He could give the iPad to his tech people to unlock. You put it on the table, where he’ll see it when he returns. But then you stop.

If there are secrets on that iPad, they’re your secrets. You didn’t want Tim to know about them back then. Until you know what they are, isn’t it best to play it safe and say nothing, at least for now?

And then there’s Mike’s warning. If whatever’s on the iPad will cause Tim grief, it might be better for him not to know about it.

You try not to listen to the small voice inside you that’s saying, You’re worried it’s something that’ll make him think less of you.

Because the thought has crossed your mind: What if, before you died, you were having an affair? You have no memory of that, obviously. But from what you’ve understood of Tim’s explanations, your memories were constructed from your digital footprint—social media, texts, emails, videos, and so on. By definition, anything you kept hidden from the world would be a blank.