The Perfect Wife(37)
There was a long silence, Darren said, as the two of them, Abbie and Tim, stared at each other. Darren had maneuvered himself so that he could see both their faces by now. It was as if Abbie was fascinated, he reported.
Mesmerized, even.
Then she said, “Okay, I get that.”
She said it a little distractedly, Darren told us, her eyes wide, as if a part of her mind was still gazing out over the endless, wheat-filled, well-irrigated future of Tim’s imagination.
* * *
—
There were three things, we agreed later, that came out of that conversation. The first was that, toward the end of the day, Abbie went up to Tim and said casually, “So you surf now?”
He shrugged. “Just started. What you guys call a barney, I guess.”
“I’m heading over to Mavericks this weekend with some friends. Titans is on. Want to come along?”
Now, Titans of Mavericks was this semi-legendary surf competition over at Half Moon Bay that only took place when certain very specific conditions whipped the waves up into breaks the height of four-story houses. Even to be on the email list so you knew when it was happening marked you out as a real surf insider.
“Okay,” Tim said. “Why not?”
The second was that, a few weeks later, Rajesh got a really good job at another company. No one ever knew quite how or why, but people said a headhunter had called him up out of the blue and offered him a massive stock option in this hot new start-up, but only if he was available to interview immediately.
And the third was that Abbie painted the mural behind reception, the street-art-style one that says IDEALISM IS SIMPLY LONG-RANGE REALISM! Which we took to be both a thank-you to Scott Robotics, for having her stay, and a peace offering to its founder.
28
ABC7’s studios are by Pier 15, between the financial district and North Beach. The interviewer is a woman called Judy Hersch. You’ve seen her on TV: immaculately coiffed blond hair, perfect white teeth, flawless skin. But you have no sense of what she’s like, whether she’ll be kind or not. She cried on air recently while doing an item about a puppy rescued from a collapsed building. So perhaps she’ll be sympathetic.
She usually presents along with a co-anchor, an older man named Greg Kulvernan. But this is for an occasional series called Judy Asks…, which she presents from a sofa, rather than from behind her usual desk. Katrina thinks this is good. Less formal, more woman-to-woman.
You’re whisked straight into hair and makeup. Two assistants work on you, applying layer after layer of foundations and creams. One of them is standing in front of you, blocking your view of the mirror, and it’s only when they’re done and she takes a step back that you finally see yourself. You look dreadful—as bad as that first day at Tim’s office. You protest you could have done it much better on your own.
“Take it off,” you say angrily. “All of it, and we’ll start again. I’ll tell you what to do this time.”
They look astonished. “But you look great!” one cries, offended. “Doesn’t she, Trish?”
Trish agrees that you do indeed look like a million dollars after your “makeover,” and explains that the bright lights of the studio make people seem, like, really washed out if they don’t use a little more makeup than usual. At that moment a very young production assistant with a headset and a clipboard appears and says Judy’s ready for you. Reluctantly, you allow yourself to be escorted down a long airless corridor to the studio.
“We’ll take you in during the commercial break, then Judy will introduce you as soon as we’re live. There’s nothing to it,” the PA explains with a bright, mechanical smile. “Oh, and this is a family-friendly show. Please remember not to swear or reference any sexual acts.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
The studio is hot and bright. Behind a glass wall is the production booth, crowded with more people in headsets. You see Tim and Katrina, standing at the back. On the far side of the studio, Judy is already ensconced on the famous cream sofa, being attended to by another assistant with electric hair tongs. Only when the assistant is done and Judy has checked herself in a hand mirror does she turn to you with a smile and say, “Hi!”
“Hi,” you reply nervously.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she says reassuringly. “I’ll introduce you, and then the camera will be on you and you can answer my first question.”
“What will that be?”
She doesn’t reply. Already a shadowy figure beyond the lights is counting down, using his fingers to sign the last few seconds: Three—two—one. Zero.
Judy smiles at the camera. “From the Bride of Frankenstein to Austin Powers’s sex-hungry fembots, by way of Ira Levin’s Stepford Wives, humanity—or at least a certain geeky, male portion of it—has long dreamed of creating the ultimate subservient female,” she says conversationally. “Now a controversial Silicon Valley technologist has succeeded in doing just that, by building a robotic replica of his own wife. It’s claimed to be the world’s first emotionally intelligent companion robot, or cobot, and in a scoop for this show, I’m going to interview it.” She turns to you, still smiling. “First of all, what do I call you?”
You stare at her. You’ve just realized what’s happening here—that the awful makeup was entirely deliberate, and that this interview is going to be the very opposite of sympathetic.