The Perfect Wife(44)

“How often did you and Tim sleep together?” You hate yourself for asking, but you have to know.

She hesitates. “He’s made me sign a nondisclosure agreement as part of my severance package. I can’t discuss any of it.”

“He’s just worried you’ll speak to a reporter,” you say, though you can’t help wondering if it’s actually you Tim doesn’t want Sian talking to. “That doesn’t apply to me, obviously.”

“I guess not. But I still can’t take the risk. It’s a lot of money.”

“Tell me this, then. Just this one thing, and I promise I won’t repeat it to Tim. The other night, who initiated it? Did you go to his room, or did he come to yours?”

“I can’t—” she begins, but then she sees your face. “I guess he came to mine.”

You don’t say anything.

“And it was him who got careless with the bedroom door.” She stops, then says in a rush, “Have you considered…maybe he wanted you to find us?”

“Why would he do that?” you say, mystified.

She shrugs. “Jesus, I don’t know. Guilt, maybe. Subconscious confession. He’s pretty strange in bed anyway, right? All that tantric stuff.”

“Right,” you say, although you have no idea what she’s talking about. “I think you should go and check on Danny now.”

“Okay.” At the door she stops and turns back. “Like I said, I’m sorry about what happened. I won’t be sorry to leave, though. I mean, I’m getting a good payoff and everything, but it’s not about that. The whole setup here, with Danny and you…I just can’t figure out what he wants. From you. From any of us. And that freaks me out, y’know?”

“No,” you say firmly. “I really don’t.”





34


Two hours before John Renton and the other guests arrive, you make the marinade for the fish. Olive oil, white wine, fennel, peeled garlic cloves, Pernod, and yet more saffron. You cube the fish into chunks and remove the bones with tweezers.

Step six: Cut baguettes into slices, each three-eighths of an inch thick. Drizzle with olive oil and bake at four hundred degrees until crisp, then rub with a sliced clove of garlic and spread with the rouille.

Step seven: Make the bouillabaisse.

Chop a dozen leeks and a dozen onions very fine, and sweat in an open pan along with a bay leaf and another pinch of saffron. Dice and deseed ten tomatoes, and whisk in a bowl along with yet more finely chopped garlic, more orange peel, and a glass of white wine. Add to the softened onions and pour in the fumet. Then add the chunks of seafood and poach for three to five minutes, until just done. Remove and keep warm.

The reason it’s called a bouillabaisse is because of what happens next: You boil up the cooking liquid, very hard and fast, so everything emulsifies and acquires a soupy consistency.

Add more Pernod to taste, more saffron and pepper to taste, and you’re done.

Except, of course, you couldn’t actually taste it.





35


By the time Tim comes home, the kitchen is tidy again and the table laid. White wine—three bottles of Batard-Montrachet—is chilling in the fridge, as per his texted instructions. It’s his best wine, a mark of how important this evening is to him.

“You’ve changed your hair,” he says, kissing you as he passes.

“Yes. Do you like it?”

“You should wear it any way you choose,” he says, frowning. “That’s the whole point. You’re autonomous, not some Stepford Wife. Whether I like it isn’t the point.”

“You hate it.”

“No, I like it. I’ll get used to it, anyway.”

While Tim’s in the shower Mike arrives with Jenny, his wife. She’s geeky and boyish in a T-shirt and jeans. “I worked on your deep-learning capabilities,” she tells you earnestly when you’re introduced. It’s hard to think of an answer to that. You’re rescued by Mike, who adds proudly, “Jenny has a PhD from Stanford in logistic neurons.” You nod as if you know what on earth that means. But after a moment, of course, clunk, you do. An antisymmetric sigmoidal function that can be trained from real-life examples rather than explicitly programmed.

“You mean you built my brain,” you paraphrase.

She nods. “I guess.”

Elijah brings his husband, Robert. A woman called Alicia Wright arrives on her own—late thirties, toned, her blond hair glossily smooth. “Hi! I’m Scott Robotics’ PR consultant,” she says brightly, holding out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

“I thought Katrina was the PR consultant,” you say.

“Tim fired her this morning,” Elijah says. “Alicia is new.”

“But fully up to speed, and super excited to be working with the famous Abbie!” she assures you.

Tim comes down from his shower. He’s changed from the black jeans and gray James Perse T-shirt he came home in, into fresh black jeans and another gray T-shirt. While you open the wine, the others brief him.

“Try to behave,” Mike suggests. “Renton’s an idiot, but he’s a smart idiot. He’ll want to test you. Stand your ground, but don’t let him rile you.”