The Perfect Wife

“Megan goes up to Abbie all bright-eyed and smiley,” he reported. “And Megan’s like, ‘Hi!’ And Abbie goes, ‘Hi!’ right back. Then Megan introduces herself and gives Abbie her card, and Abbie says sorry, she doesn’t have a card to give in return, because she’s an artist. So then there’s a bit of discussion about Abbie’s art. Then Megan asks her straight out if she’s ever considered signing up with an executive dating agency, because she—Megan—happens to have some really good clients she thinks Abbie would be perfect for.

“To which Abbie says—” At this point Sol paused for dramatic effect. “Abbie says, I don’t think a dating agency’s my kind of thing. Whatever happens, happens, right? To which Megan says, No, really, we vet all our clients personally, you couldn’t hope for a better introduction to some of the most fascinating and successful men in the Valley. To which Abbie says”—another pause—“That’s really not what I’m looking for.

“Oh? says Megan. So what are you looking for? And Abbie goes…” Here Sol was clearly torn between his desire to insert yet another dramatic pause and his eagerness to deliver the next line just as quickly as he possibly could. “Abbie goes, Well, my last relationship was polyamorous.”

Her last relationship was polyamorous. Of course it was. What did we expect? She was an artist. She was so much cooler than us.

It was Ryan—workshop Ryan, not developer Ryan—who was the first to speculate, after hearing this story, that Megan Meyer might not have struck up a conversation with Abbie on her own initiative, but had actually been acting on Tim’s instructions. Had he expressed an interest in Abbie, even then? Or—we soon built on Ryan’s suggestion—had Megan picked up on Tim’s interest somehow and decided that, if a relationship was in the cards, it was better that it happen with her own involvement, and therefore commission, than not?

And if so, had she pointed out to her client that Abbie barely met a single one of his stated criteria, from her height right through to the occasional hand-rolled cigarettes she smoked by the fire escape?

The fact is, we didn’t know if this was what had happened or not. But it fed into the obsessive mythology we had already created around Tim Scott. So that was what we chose to believe.

14

You find a coat, then—remembering the disgust in the eyes of the Uber driver who brought you home—add a hat, scarf, and dark glasses.

At the front door, you hesitate. Tim didn’t actually forbid you from going out, but he certainly warned you against doing it too soon.

Screw it, you think. You can’t hide away at home forever.

As you reach for the door handle you catch sight of yourself in the mirror. You look ridiculous. You take off the scarf.

Once through the gates you turn right, heading south. When the sky doesn’t fall in, you start to feel less tense. A jogger runs past with a dog on a leash. Both ignore you. A young Latino gives you a brief glance, but it’s one of appreciation, nothing more. A child in a stroller smiles at you tentatively. His mother, chatting on her phone, doesn’t even look in your direction.

Mission Street seems different—cleaner, smarter than it used to be; there’s no sign of the guy, brain fried on crack, who used to drag an electric toaster around by its cord and talk to it as if it were a pet. But the phone shop’s still there, next to the Korean restaurant, its tiny window piled high with phones and SIM packs. The handwritten sign is still there too, almost crowded out by IPHONES JAILBROKEN and an illuminated dot-matrix sign flashing LAPTOP REPAIRS.

Inside the shop a nerdy hipster with an elaborate beard leans over the counter, carefully picking a broken screen out of a phone with tweezers.

“Hi,” you say, a little nervously.

“With you in a sec,” he says without looking up.

You wait for him to finish. He has a mass of very curly black hair. You find yourself gazing at it, fascinated by the way it moves.

“How can I help?” he says at last, pushing the phone to one side.

“It’s this.” You produce the iPad. “I’ve forgotten the passcode.”

He takes it. “Sure you didn’t steal it?”

“Of course not. It’s mine.” You don’t seem to be able to blush, which is good.

“Just kidding.” He presses the POWER button and looks at the screen. “Why don’t you restore it from the backup?”

“I forgot to set a backup,” you say lamely.

“Hmm.” You can tell he doesn’t believe you. “Well, if it is yours, there’s a way of getting access to some of the apps.”

He presses the HOME button. For a moment nothing happens. Then an electronic voice says, “What can I help you with?”

“Siri, open the dangle-dally app,” the young man says.

“You don’t seem to have an app named dangle-dally. We could see if the App Store has it,” Siri says helpfully.

“Sure, let’s do that.”

As if by magic, the App Store screen appears. The young man taps the button again, and there’s the home page.

“That’s amazing…What was that you just downloaded?”

“Nothing. Just a nonexistent application to fool Siri.” He looks at the screen again and frowns. “Which is not to say your problems are over. This iPad’s been wiped. Those are just the default apps you’re seeing there.”

“Oh,” you say, disappointed. “Isn’t there anything else we can try?”

“I could run a recovery program. It’ll take at least twenty-four hours, though. Come back in a couple of days and we’ll see what we’ve got.”

You don’t like leaving the iPad, but you don’t really have a choice. “Okay.” Reluctantly, you turn to go.

While you’ve been talking, a middle-aged couple has come into the shop. You’ve been vaguely aware of them whispering behind you, the woman’s voice rising in urgency. Now she says suddenly, “It is her. I’m going to ask.” Putting her hand on your arm, she says, “Excuse me, aren’t you Abbie Cullen-Scott?”

“Yes…Why?” you say, surprised.

“Oh my God! And you’re okay?”

“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”

“My goodness! And do you mind…I mean, it’s none of my business, but—what happened?”

“What do you mean?” Then you realize. They think you’re the old Abbie, somehow come back from the dead.

“I—well, I don’t actually remember…” you begin.

“You lost your memory!” She turns to her husband triumphantly. “You see? I told you. I always said it wasn’t him.”

“I thought you said it was.” Her husband barely sounds interested. He looks at the man behind the counter. “We’ve come for the Galaxy that got dropped in the tub.”

“No, I didn’t,” the woman insists. She turns back to you. “What caused it, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“Perhaps she doesn’t remember that, either,” her husband suggests.

“Let her answer, Steve,” the woman says sharply.

“Actually, your husband’s right,” you say. “I don’t remember anything about it—”

“But you’re here now!” the woman announces, as though it’s somehow her doing. “You’re back! And with your husband?”

“Honey…” her husband remonstrates, but the woman presses on.

“We signed the petition. Just so you know. He had so much support around here.”

You’re barely listening. It’s just occurred to you that public news of your so-called miraculous return might not fit in with Tim’s plans at all.

“There’s been a mistake. I’m not…” Suddenly the little shop seems terrifyingly claustrophobic. “Excuse me,” you say desperately, trying to push past them to the door.

“She isn’t well!” the woman exclaims. “Steve, call the police.”

“What with?” he says lugubriously. “You dropped my phone in the tub while you were playing Candy Crush.”

“We’re in a phone store!” the woman snaps. “Oh, I’ll do it.” She pulls a cellphone out of her pocket.

“Please, stay here,” she says to you as she dials 911. “Everything’s going to be all right.”

“Are you calling the police?” the young man behind the counter says incredulously. He starts taking phones from the shelves and dropping them into a box.

“You’ve got this all wrong,” you insist. “There’s really no need—” But the woman’s already talking to an operator, giving the address, saying they need to send a police car and isn’t it amazing, she’s found her, she’s found Abbie Cullen-Scott.

15

You’re standing there, wondering what to do, when your own phone rings. The caller ID says TIM.

“Where are you?” He sounds worried.

“At a phone repair shop.”

“Why? Is something wrong with your phone?”

Now’s hardly the moment to tell him about the iPad. “It was nothing, it’s sorted now. But some people saw me and they’ve called the police—”

“Don’t talk to the police,” he interrupts. “Do you hear me, Abbie? Get out of there. Go west one block, then take a right onto Bartlett—”

“How do you know it’s a right?” you say as you start walking.

“I can see you on Find My Phone. I got worried when you didn’t answer the house phone just now. Go quickly, will you?”

“Tim, I’m so sorry,” you say miserably. “You said not to go out.”

“Don’t worry about that now. Are you moving?”

“Yes. As fast as I can.” You look over your shoulder. The couple is following you, the woman still on her phone, the man lagging behind, embarrassed. In the distance you hear a siren.

“I think the police are coming,” you add. “What do I tell them?”

Tim sighs. “Tell them the truth. But Abbie—don’t believe everything they tell you, okay? I’ll come and get you.”

“Why? What might they tell me? Tim, what do you mean?”