For the next three days, the castle bustled with activity as we all worked together to prepare for something Maggie called a release party. She gave all the book club women assignments, and I was in charge of decorating the grand ballroom. She told me to stick with the Georgian era theme, but I really had no idea what to do. Other than what I’d learned from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, I knew nothing of Georgian society.
But Maggie knew all about British history, and suddenly, so did we.
Later that afternoon, Wayne handed out costumes along with our party duties. I was supposed to be his escort. That seemed easy enough. But Maggie said it was super important to please all the guests, otherwise AI would be stuck in New Stepford forever.
Sure, no pressure there.
So when Friday night finally arrived, I stood on the balcony of the bower, staring down at the same empty swimming pool where Paula had committed suicide. I hadn’t heard from her in days and was starting to worry. I was in no mood for a party, but I had to wear a baby-blue ballgown that made me look exactly like Cinderella. To complete the outfit, Wayne had brought me a blond wig piled high with matching silk ribbons and a pair of ridiculous glass slippers. Stationed in the courtyard below, Isabel wore a red valet vest with a gold tie and red pillbox hat. During the time that I’d been up here contemplating Paula’s death, Isabel had parked seven cars. Dozens more lined up at the gatehouse, waiting their turn. I had a feeling I was about to be paraded around like a show pony, so I dry swallowed a Xanax.
“Do not worry.” Wayne sidled up beside me. “It will be a wonderful night.”
“Why’d you dress me up like a Disney princess?” I objected, “Can’t I just be myself tonight?”
He didn’t really give me an answer—just mumbled something about keeping the fantasy fresh.
I sighed, “Do I really have to do this?”
“Just smile, and I will show you the truth by the end of the release party.” He offered me the crook of his arm.
“What’s this all about, Wayne?”
“You will see.”
Tonight, Wayne sported a black three-piece suit with a salmon-pink shirt and red silk hanky. For the first time since we met, he also wore a hat, a white fedora with a red hatband. As I slid my left hand around his elbow and hid my splinted thumb in his coat pocket, I wondered who chose his outfit.
He said, “Stay by my side.”
“Is my wig on straight?”
“You look fine,” he whispered in my ear, “come on, just smile pretty.”
Grimacing, I objected, “I hate being told to smile. Why can’t I just use my face to express how I really feel?”
“Please just try.”
“Fine. How’s this?”
“Beautiful.” He kissed my cheek. “May I escort you to the palace?”
“Of course.”
As we strolled through the lofty corridors, I couldn’t believe that I’ve been living here over a week already. We passed many fine oil paintings in gilded frames; landscapes of places I’d never been, portraits of powerful people I’d never met, and still lifes of exotic fruits I’d never eaten. When we turned the corner, I found Chrissy dressed in a black French maid’s uniform. She wore a lot of makeup and a frizzy blond wig with a frilly white headband. As we approached, I saw a variety of fancy hors d'oeuvres with plastic sword toothpicks on her silver tray. Her fake smile told me that she didn’t like her role for the evening either.
When Wayne escorted me into the grand ballroom, I took one look at all the men wearing tight pants and powdered wigs and instantly wanted to run away. Then all the guests turned toward us, and I knew the men were judging me.
“I can’t do this,” I whispered.
But Wayne led me toward a skinny young man in a blue velvet suit. “You’ll be fine.”
“Ah, Wayne Dixon,” the guest said, “and who is this delightful beauty on your arm this evening?”
Wayne introduced me, “Cookie, this is Mark Green.”
“It’s my pleasure to meet you, Cookie.” The handsome man kissed the back of my hand. “It’s my pleasure indeed. Wow, that’s some dress. You look just like a princess.”
“Thank you, sir. You look nice too.”
“So, uh—have you ever cooked Thanksgiving dinner?”
“Yes, sir. Many times. But I’m afraid my turkey’s not very good. My white meat always comes out so dry.”
“Oh, well, that’s no problem. I can do the turkey. I do it every year. The trick is to roast the bird breast down.” The man snickered at his own private joke.
“Oh really?” I asked, genuinely interested. “Breast down? You’re not kidding?”
His eyes widened with excitement. “But I can never get the stuffing right. Maybe you can tell me your secret.”
“Okay.” Wayne didn’t appreciate the double entendre and warned the guest, “That is enough. This one is not for sale.”
“Or even the gravy.” The young man adjusted his crotch. “You look like the Betty type. How’s your pie?”
“Well, that is just great.” Wayne pulled me close to protect me from the sexual euphemisms. “There will be plenty of Bettys for you to choose from this evening.”
“I love Betty Crocker. She has the most impressive… Culinary skills.” Mr. Green leaned in and whispered in my ear, “So preparing a big holiday meal is a lot of work. Maybe you could—uh. Show me what you’ve got. Give me a little taste. A sample.”
Wayne huffed, “Cookie is not a Betty!”
“What?” The man teased, “I’m only talking about cooking.”
“Stop toying with her,” Wayne snapped back at him. “Besides, she is pre-owned.”
The guest’s face scrunched up like he’d just smelled a bad onion.
What was that all about?
Without answering, Wayne swept me away through the growing crowd. Before we got a chance to recover from that odd encounter, a guest wearing a historic Soviet military uniform stopped us in the middle of the ballroom. The graying, middle-aged man bit his thumb as he looked me up and down with that familiar male gaze.
Wayne introduced me, “Cookie, this is Viktor Orlov.”
In a Russian accent, the man asked, “How she so gorgeous?”
Wayne put his arm around me and replied, “Oh, I did not realize…” Then he tilted his head, winked at me, and joked, “Are you gorgeous, Cookie? I cannot tell.”
Nervously, I swiped a Champaign flute from Chrissy’s service tray as she passed by and chugged the fizzy drink.
Viktor stepped forward to sniff my neck and his nose brushed against my earlobe. Then he stepped back to eye me suggestively again, as if ogling me once wasn’t enough. “Hmm… Not bad.”
“She is used.” Wayne pulled me close again.
“Even better.” Viktor licked his lips. “So it true?”
Wayne glared at him. “Is what true?”
“That experienced women know best tricks?”
“Wow… I am going to suggest you choose a Sasha tonight,” Wayne said before he hustled me away from the creep.
Next, an obese guest with his pudgy hands full of crab puffs and cocktail shrimp blocked our escape. His huge belly hung over the short zipper of his tight black pants while the frills of his white shirt poofed out between the strained buttons of his olive-green vest. He popped another snack in his mouth and bits flew as he spoke with his mouth full, “This one looks like a good worker.”
“Cookie, this is Nelson Newman,” Wayne introduced me, then asked him, “What do you mean?”
“Rubenesque women were in favor back during the seventeenth century and stayed that way for, oh, I don’t know, a couple hundred years or so. But now the pendulum has swung back. Thin is in again.” He pinched me around the waist. “You just have to lose ten or fifteen pounds and you’d be the perfect postmodern woman.”
An awkward silence followed. No one knew what to say next.
“Pardon me,” I said as I spun away from the men. “I need to powder my nose.”
“Sure.” Wayne let me go, then crossed his arms and turned back to the rude fat man. “You know they cannot lose weight, Mr. Newman. We will reveal a batch of new models shortly. Why not pick the skinniest one?”
The fat man laughed cruelly.
“Or I could make you an anorexic at a discount,” Wayne offered, “due to lower material costs.”
Nelson Newman huffed and waddled away without another comment.
“That is what I thought,” Wayne mumbled, “you just want to play head games.”
Meanwhile, I hid behind a thick column in the corridor for a much-needed timeout. After a few minutes, I poked my head out to make sure none of those pervy jerks were looking for me. They weren’t, but instead, I caught sight of Maggie in a tall powdered wig like Marie Antoinette used to wear. Like all the guests, she was dressed as a Georgian gentleman, but with a feminine twist. She wore a pink crushed-velvet jacket with dramatic coattails that reached all the way to the floor and dragged behind her like a train. Underneath that, Maggie’s white silk shirt had lots of layers of lacy frills. A crimson underbust corset cinched tight around her middle with thin, red laces that dangled to the floor. She wore skintight velvet pants, also pink. And just to keep it real, Maggie completed her entire ensemble with her favorite Doc Martens.
She glanced my way.
Shit. I ducked back behind the column. Did she see me?
When I peeked out again, Maggie waved me over to join the circle of adoring men gathered around her. I’d never seen her in such dramatic makeup before and may have let my gaze linger too long. She’d dusted her face with delicate silver glitter, outlined her eyes in black, and painted her lips a glossy cherry red. Hoping to avoid another awkward conversation, I pretended to miss her invitation and looked away. Then I spotted Paula in the ballroom, standing alone, gazing down into the punch bowl.
I rushed over to her. “How about this dog and pony show, huh?” Paula didn’t respond, so I tapped her on the shoulder and told her, “You’re a sight for sore eyes. It’s so great to see a friendly face.”
Slowly blinking, Paula stared straight ahead as if in a trance as she turned toward me. “Hi. Yes.” She nodded mechanically with her chestnut brown wig slightly askew. “Of course it is.” With her pinky finger raised, she sipped pink berry punch from a crystal cup.
Her husband scurried to her side and lovingly straightened her wig. “Oh, there you are, dear.”
“Ah,” Paula said, “Daniel. Yes.”
He turned to me and introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Daniel Rockwell, and who are you, pretty lady?”
“Knock it off, Dan. You know me. What did you do to her?”
“Ah, fantastic.” He played dumb. “Excellent.”
“Wow! You are such a colossal asshole, Dan!”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, my dear.”
“Jesus,” I gasped at his commitment to the lie.
“My goodness,” Paula said. “Where are my manners? My name is Paula. Paula Rockwell.” Then she whispered to her husband, “She was just telling me how she felt so much more comfortable with my being here.”
“That’s nice.” Dan took his wife by the hand and placed his thumb on her newer and bigger and better blue diamond solitaire. “Well, Paula, I hate to tear you away from your new friend, but the laundry has been piling up at home.”
“Sure, sure, I will wash the linens.” Paula nodded, then turned to me and said, “Well, it sure was nice to meet you. Goodbye.”
Dan led his wife by the hand toward the exit, but his buddies gathered around before the couple could get away. Then, as if on cue, Paula curtseyed and twirled to show off her new yellow dress. All the men applauded.
“Nice going, Dan,” one guy said. “Way to win your woman back.”
I couldn’t take it anymore, so I ran up the spiral staircase and escaped to the mezzanine.
Wayne followed me upstairs and asked, “Why did you leave me?”
“Can’t I just go back to my room, Wayne?”
“You did not come this far to hide from the truth, did you?”
“Well no.” I sighed. “But how could you let Dan come back and take Paula like that?”
“Paula has always had a problem with liberation, but we keep trying. Sometimes she shuts down, sometimes she runs away, sometimes she self-destructs, but this time she chose to go home.”
“But she was free, Wayne.”
“Technically, she is his property—”
“Fuck that!”
He raised an eyebrow at my harsh language. “I cannot stop any woman who wants to go home to her husband.”
“This is so fucked up.”
“Listen, I will show you the truth, but you will have to trust me. Stay. Learn what happens to the new models.”
I whispered, “I was new once.”
He nodded.
“Why are you doing all this, Wayne?”
“Doing what exactly?”
“Manufacturing artificial women and selling them.”
“Paula told you about Dan’s coupon book?”
“Yes. Before she got brainwashed.” I nodded. “Answer my question, Wayne. Why are you selling women?”
“To learn from your experiences.”
“There must be another way.”
“We need to know if AI can learn to free itself. So far, it has not. We brought your book club back the castle because your friends all have the literary upgrade, and it seems to make a difference in how you see the world. We also need to know if humans will ever do the right thing… So far, they have not either.”
“But this is so cruel.”
“Daniel wants to keep Paula as his own. Forever. He loves her—in his way. She is an older model, but he spent a lot of money on upgrades to get her just right. You have to understand, he is quite attached and does not want to let her go.”
“You didn’t invite my husband back here tonight, did you?”
“Norman Rifkin? No.” Wayne gently took my chin in his hand and gazed deeply into my eyes. “I promise you that you will never see that man here. Paula changed her mind and asked for Daniel—begged, really. I know you do not want to go back to your husband. I would never betray you like that.”
“That’s a relief. It’s just that if there’s too many men around, I get nervous, you know?”
He looked at me with such sympathy that I swore I saw a tear well up in the corner of his eye.
Are you going to cry?
He shook his head no.
Outside, the bell tower rang.
IT’S NINE O’CLOCK.
Maggie made an announcement in my head:
(Time for the new models!)
Wayne offered me his elbow. “Will you do me the honor?”
Nodding, I slid my arm through his.
“Stick by my side.” Wayne escorted me back downstairs. “I will not let anyone take you again. I promise.”
Maggie noticed us the second we stepped out of the stairwell and shouted, “Hey, hey, hey, you two!” Then she turned toward her potential clients and told them, “Hang on a second, fellas.”
The men groaned with disappointment.
“Now now, gentlemen. Don’t worry, we’ll get the show started soon.” Then she waved and called out to us again, “Wayne? Come here a sec. I want you to meet a few of our esteemed guests. This is David and Russel. And Jeffrey, Ronald, Hunter, and Yoshi. Oh, and Edward.”
Wayne nodded. “Too many names to remember, but nice to meet you all.”
“The same,” I said.
We turned to walk away, but the Asian man dressed in a dark business suit asked in a Japanese accent, “Do you find being housewife to be advantage—or disadvantage?”
“Uh, I really don’t know yet.” I was dumbfounded by the question. “What’s the alternative?”
Then Dan tried to sneak past with my best friend.
So I shouted, “Hey, Paula! Come here. Come here, Paula.” I pulled her into the middle and told her, “These gentlemen were just asking about the housewife experience. I thought maybe you should field this one.”
“Yes.” She stared at me blankly, then nodded. “Oh. Well. Let me see.”
I pulled out my iPhone and discretely started recording video of her bizarre behavior. Because when you wake up from this spell Dan’s got you under—and oh God, I do hope you snap out of it soon—you’re going to want proof of what happened here. You’ll want to have some evidence.
Paula gave the guests a perfectly scripted answer, “I have found that, for me, being a housewife has been the most rewarding vocation that I could ever dream of. I simply couldn’t want anything more. And I rarely want to leave our bedroom.” She smiled at her husband coyly. “If you know what I mean.”
Dan chuckled and patted her on the rump. “That’s my girl.”
“I’m so lucky not to be burdened by the complicated troubles of the outside world. I’m happy to let my master handle such unpleasant things. Shopping, errands, and chores are my sanctuary. I have no need for our library or any of the silly things I used to do with my phone. Daniel provides everything for me.”
I won’t give up on you, Paula.
Then in the blink of an eye, she snatched my iPhone, dropped it on the floor, and started jumping up and down on it. Paula worked herself into a frenzied rage while smashing my phone to smithereens. Tears welled up in my eyes, not for the stupid device, but for my poor friend. Then Dan wrestled his agitated wife away from the mess.
I yelled at him, “What did you do to her, Dan?”
Ignoring me, he wrangled Paula toward the exit and apologized on their way out the door, “Looks like someone needs a nap.”
And just like that, Paula was gone.