Pseudo lifted his eyebrows. “Nothing, Doc. It’s just that he and you don’t seem to always get along. He was ribbing you a fair bit last time.”
“Oh.” The server had appeared. “Orange juice,” said Peter.
The server turned to Cathy, her face a question. “Mineral water,” Cathy said. “With lime.”
“Nothing to drink today?” said Pseudo, as if the very concept was an affront to all things decent.
“I’ve, ah, got a headache,” said Cathy. “Took some aspirin.”
There was no end to lies, thought Peter. She couldn’t say, I’ve stopped drinking because last time I got drunk I let a coworker fuck me. Peter felt his fists clenching beneath the table.
Two more of Cathy’s friends arrived, a man and a woman, both middle-aged, both slightly heavy. Cathy said hi to them. “Light turnout tonight,” said the man. “Where’s Hans?”
“Hans is in Beantown,” said Pseudo. Peter thought he’d been waiting all day to get to say “Beantown.” “At that interactive-video conference.”
“Gee,” said the woman. “It won’t be the same without Hans.”
Hans, thought Peter. Hans. Hans. Each uttering of his name was like a knife thrust. Haven’t these people ever heard of pronouns?
The server reappeared and put some reconstituted orange juice in front of Cathy, and a small bottle of Perrier and a glass with a bruised lime wedge pushed into its rim in front of Peter. All nonalcoholic drinks were the same to her, he guessed. Peter and Cathy exchanged drinks, and the server took the newcomers’ orders.
“So how are things with the two of you?” asked the newly arrived man, waving a hand generally at Peter and Cathy.
Cathy smiled. “Fine.”
Why is he asking that? Peter thought. What does he know?
“Fine,” echoed Peter. “Just fine.”
“You’ve been all over the TV, Peter,” said Pseudo. “Going anywhere else soon?”
Well, I’m not going to fucking Beantown. “No,” said Peter, then, “Maybe.”
“We haven’t made any plans,” said Cathy smoothly. “But Peter has an understanding boss.” A chuckle or two from those who knew that Peter was the boss at his company. “I’ve got to see how my schedule is shaping up at work. We’ve got that big Tourism Ontario contract coming up.”
The woman nodded sympathetically. Evidently that particular job was the bane of her existence, too.
The server appeared with more drinks. Simultaneously, Toby Bailey, another of Cathy’s coworkers, arrived.
“’Evening, all,” said Toby. He indicated to the server that he’d have the same thing as Pseudo. “Where’s Hans?”
“Boston,” said Peter, preempting another uttering of “Beantown.” Pseudo looked slightly disappointed.
“Did Donna-Lee go with him?”
“Not as far as I know,” said Pseudo.
“Well, some American cutie is going to get porked tonight,” said Toby, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. People chuckled. Hans seemed to have almost as big a presence when he wasn’t there as when he was. Peter excused himself to go to the washroom.
“Well,” observed Pseudo as Peter departed, “I guess even the rich and famous have to take a leak now and then.”
Peter bristled as he made his way to the stairwell and walked down to the little basement that contained the two restrooms and a couple of pay phones. He didn’t really have to go, but he needed a little peace and quiet, a little time to get his bearings. It was like they were all mocking him. It was like they all knew.
Of course they knew. Peter had heard enough of Hans’s bragging in the past. Christ, they all probably knew about every one of Hans’s conquests.
He leaned against a wall. A Molson’s bimbo smiled at him from a poster. It had been a mistake coming here.
But wait — if Cathy’s coworkers knew, they’d probably known for months. It was ages since she and Hans had first done it. Peter tried to think back to the last time he’d been here, and the time before that. Had there been any indication that they knew? Were they really behaving differently tonight?
He couldn’t tell. Everything seemed different now. Everything.
He’d be humiliated if they knew. His private life invaded. On public view.
Humiliated. Degraded.
Christ, Hobson, can’t keep a woman, eh?
God damn it.
Life had been so simple before.
This had been a mistake.
He headed back to the table.
He would endure it for another hour. He looked at his watch. Yes. Sixty minutes. He could take that.
Maybe.
Peter and Cathy walked wordlessly up to the door of their house. Peter touched his thumb to the FILE scanner, and he heard the locking mechanism disengaging. He stepped through the door into the tile-covered entry area and paused to remove his outdoor shoes. Four and a half pairs of Cathy’s shoes were already lined up in front of the closet.
“Do you have to do that?” said Peter, pointing at them.
“I’m sorry,” said Cathy.
“I’d like to be able to come into my own home without tripping over your shoes all the time.”
“I’m sorry,” she said again.
“You’ve got a shoe rack in the bedroom.”
“I’ll move them there,” she said.
Peter placed his shoes on the mat. “You don’t see me piling up shoes out here.”
Cathy nodded.
Peter walked into the living room. “Computer — messages,” he called out.
“None,” said a synthesized voice.
He walked over to the couch, scooped up the remote, and sat down. He turned on the TV and began flipping channels, with the sound on MUTE.
“The pseudointellectual was in fine form tonight,” said Peter sarcastically.
“Jonas,” said Cathy. “His name is Jonas.”
“What the fuck do I care what his name is?”
Cathy sighed, and went to make herself some tea.
Peter knew he was being mean. He didn’t want to be this way. He’d been hoping tonight would go well, had been hoping that they could get on with their lives, with things the way they had always been.
But it wouldn’t work.
Tonight had proved that.
He couldn’t have anything to do with her coworkers ever again. Even without Hans there, the sight of those people reminded Peter of what she’d done — of what Hans had done.
Peter could hear the sounds of a spoon hitting china in the kitchen as Cathy stirred milk into her tea. “Aren’t you going to join me?” he called out.
She appeared in the doorway that led to the kitchen, her face impassive.
Peter put down the remote and looked at her. She was trying to be cooperative, trying to be brave. He didn’t want to be mean to her. He just wanted what they had had before.
“I’m sorry,” Peter said.
Cathy nodded, hurt but stalwart. “I know.”
CHAPTER 18
Sarkar Muhammed’s artificial-intelligence company was called Mirror Image. Its offices were located in Concord, Ontario, north of Metro Toronto. Peter met Sarkar there on Saturday morning, and Sarkar took him upstairs to the newly created scanning room. It had originally been just a regular office. There were crushed indentations in the rug where filing cabinets had once been. There had also been a large window, but it had been completely covered with plywood panels to prevent light from coming in from outside, and the walls had been lined with gray foam rubber, molded in egg-carton shapes to deaden sound. In the center of the room was an old dentist’s chair on a swivel base and along one wall was a bench covered with a PC, various oscilloscopes, and several other pieces of equipment, including some circuitry breadboards lying out in the open.