The Perfect Wife

You shake your head. “That isn’t going to happen.”

He holds up an Ethernet cable. “You won’t even notice I’m in there.”

The idea is faintly gross. “No,” you repeat firmly.

He tosses the cable onto a shelf. “Your choice. Too bad.”

You hold out your hand. “Give me the iPad. I’ll take it somewhere else.”

He folds his arms. “Uh-uh. No deal, no iPad. In case you hadn’t noticed, nothing gets nothing in this world.”

“You’re pathetic, you know that?” you snap.

“I just want to see how you work,” he says plaintively. “It’s no different from a gearhead looking at an engine.”

“Excuse me,” you say sarcastically. “From my perspective, it’s really not very similar at all.”

He shrugs. “Come back when you’re ready to make a deal.”

“That iPad isn’t yours. I’ll go to the police.”

“Yeah, right. Be my guest.”

“Prick.”

“See you soon,” he says as you march furiously to the shop door. “I’m Nathan, by the way.”

ELEVEN

A couple of days after the mouse pad appeared, Tim asked Abbie to join him in his office. Naturally, we all kept an eye on what was going on in there.

On one wall there was a big flat-screen computer monitor—if you wanted to show Tim something, you’d hook your laptop up to it and present that way. It looked as if he was showing Abbie a presentation on it now.

Someone who had an excuse to walk past told us Tim was taking Abbie through a PowerPoint titled, Why Homeopathy Is Dumb.

The presentation, we learned later, dealt with many of the key elements of designing good scientific trials, from selection bias through to the placebo effect.

Perhaps remarkably, Abbie seemed fascinated.

“But if I take a homeopathic pill, all I know is, I feel better,” she was overheard to say. And Tim was heard to reply—not arrogantly or dismissively, but as if he was genuinely interested in explaining it to her—that this was indeed perfectly possible, and might well be due to the statistical effect known as regression to the mean.

Now, it’s fair to say that some of us were surprised by the romance between Abbie and Tim. A few people even made disparaging remarks about Abbie’s possible motives.

Those who took that position felt vindicated when, a week or so later, Abbie didn’t turn up one day until way after noon. Someone spotted her striding across the parking lot, backpack dangling from one shoulder.

“Hey,” Tim said, when he saw her at her desk.

“Hey,” she replied.

“Thought you and I were going to have breakfast.”

“I know. I’m really sorry, my car broke down at the beach.”

“It broke?”

She nodded. “It’s the head gasket, apparently. I had to leave it and catch a bus. And then I had to organize the tow and the garage and it just took forever.”

Tim went into his office. A moment later he came back with something in his hand.

“Here,” he said, dropping a bunch of car keys on her desk. “For you. Now you needn’t ever be late again.”

We waited for Abbie to throw the keys back at him; or at the very least to say she didn’t want to be placed in his debt like that.

But she didn’t. She picked up the keys. She said, “Wow. Thanks.”

33

Bouillabaisse is not the simplest dish to make, although the results can be spectacular. Your previous effort used Elizabeth David’s recipe, but the most authentic one, the one favored by restaurateurs in Marseille, is from Jean-Baptiste Reboul’s 1897 La Cuisinière Proven?ale, which stipulates half a dozen different rock fish, including grouper and striped bass. Since some of them are unavailable in North America, you decide to amalgamate that recipe with one from Chez Panisse.

Step one: Make a fumet, or broth, of chopped vegetables, fish bones, fennel seeds, and thyme.

Step two: Add two cups of white wine, twelve mussels, the peel of an orange, two tablespoons of a French liqueur called Pernod, and an ounce of Spanish saffron. Simmer for two hours, then strain and set aside. The saffron alone cost over a hundred dollars.

Step three: Make the rouille, the spicy paste you will serve on bread to accompany the bouillabaisse. Take half a cup of your fish stock and soak some breadcrumbs in it. Add more saffron and cayenne pepper. Chop a whole bulb of garlic very fine. (When tempted to use a garlic press, re-read Elizabeth David’s comment on the matter: “I regard garlic presses as both ridiculous and pathetic, their effect being precisely the reverse of what people who buy them believe…I have often wondered how it is that people who have once used one of these diabolical instruments don’t notice this and forthwith throw the thing into the dustbin.” Decide to keep chopping.)

Add six egg yolks and whisk slowly together, adding a mixture of half olive and half grapeseed oil, drop by drop, in the manner of mayonnaise. Char two red peppers and two tomatoes over an open flame, then remove the skins and deseed. Pulverize in a mortar, and combine.

By the time you’ve finished chopping the garlic, it’s late afternoon and Sian’s brought Danny home. He seems fascinated by the charring of the peppers directly on the gas burner.

“How was your day, Danny?” you ask him. He doesn’t answer. Suddenly his hand darts out and he drags his fingers through the naked flame. Grabbing his wrist, you pull him straight over to the tap and run cold water on them, but it’s too late. Two of his fingers are blistered.

There’s no point in scolding him—he simply didn’t understand; not because he hasn’t encountered flames before, but because he has trouble extrapolating from those previous experiences that flames are always going to be hot.

“You have to be careful with him around fire,” Sian says unnecessarily.

“So I gather,” you say tartly. They’re the first words you’ve exchanged since that night at the beach house.

Danny doesn’t seem to feel pain as much as neurotypical children, but he is bothered by the blisters.

“When?” he says, flapping his hand in agitation. “When?”

“They’ll be better in a few days.” You know he won’t let you put petroleum jelly on, let alone a bandage, so you don’t even try.

“When?” he insists.

You give in to his need for an exact schedule. “The blisters will be gone by Friday morning at ten o’clock.” You have no idea if this is true, but saying it may calm him.

It does, somewhat. Humming nervously, he goes off to check that his Thomas trains are still precisely lined up, just as he left them this morning.

You get out the pestle and mortar and start pulverizing, glad you’ve got something to focus on other than Sian.

To your surprise, she suddenly says, “Hey…I’m sorry.”

You look over at her.

“I saw that interview you did,” she adds. “I hadn’t realized…It can’t be easy, being you.”

“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.