small packet of makeup wipes from her bag and handed it to her. It took six wipes and an agonizing three minutes to remove the gunk Camelia had plastered there. Grahame kept pulling his phone out of his pocket and glancing at it the whole time. “Hello, there you are!” Becky said when the makeup was all gone. “Wow. You don’t need to wear any ever. Gorgeous.”
The food arrived, thankfully. Abigail wasn’t used to being complimented.
Her eyes widened. Her plate was huge, bright and beautiful, a salad unlike any she’d ever seen. Since leaving the commune, eating was not one of Abigail’s pleasures. She hated doing it in front of people. She picked out tiny pieces of lettuce nervously, making sure they were small enough to get into her mouth in one bite.
Her father, on the other hand, was a comfortable eater. Notnervous about spillages, like she was. Crumbs of bacon fell from his chin as he devoured the roll.
Becky wasn’t hungry. Maybe she’d already eaten, because she didn’t order anything. As Abigail negotiated the greens, her sister started talking.
“What do you think of LA?”
She had to chew for several seconds before being able to swallow and answer. “It’s big.”
“Does it always rain in Glasgow?”
“Yes.”
Nice easy questions, all of them, but chewing and anxiety made it difficult to answer. In the end, Abigail asked if she should get a doggy bag. “I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”
“Just leave it.” Her father’s kind smile made her cringe.
I’m a fool, aren’t I?
she thought. She already knew the answer. There was too much to learn.
B ECKY LINKED HER ARM through Abigail’s as they walked to their cars, almost as if sensing Abigail needed a crutch. “Did he tell you all about his prebiotics?”
“He did.”
“Fascinating stuff, eh.” Then she whispered: “Just his day job.”
Abigail didn’t have time to ask her what she meant. They’d reached Becky’s van. It was beat-up, a jalopy—a stark contrast to their father’s car.
“We’ll follow you,” Grahame stated. He nodded toward his passenger seat.
Abigail wanted to ride with Becky, but she sensed it wasn’t up for discussion. She slid in beside Grahame and buckled up. They followed behind Becky out of the airport, onto a freeway, and then up into the hills. The streets got leafier, the houses bigger, the wind cooler. Abigail found herself grinning. Movie stars probably lived here. She wondered if she’d spot any, then chastised herself for being so shallow. A few minutes later, Grahame clicked a button on the dashboard. A large iron gate on the side of a winding road began to open. They turned right into a circular driveway. Another button made the garage doors open. Grahame drove inside and pressed yet another button that made the roof close over.
Amazing: a world controlled by buttons.
In robot mode, I’ll fit right in
.
Abigail closed the door and looked at her father. “Thanks …” she started.
Oh Jesus
, she had to call him something.
“I’d like it if you called me Dad. If you want to, that is.”
He’d read her thoughts. He was a mind-reading lizard alien. Not like in
The Shining
, though; she certainly couldn’t read his.
She bit her lip and nodded across the car at him, knowing she should repeat the word. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, after all.
Repeat the word. Just do it
.
“Thanks, Dad.” She couldn’t get out of the garage fast enough.
The place was built with spotless blond stone, bay windows, and Greek style columns. Two stories high and at least four rooms wide, it lorded over the immaculate garden like a Glasgow mansion on steroids.
Becky hooked Abigail’s arm again as they walked from the garage to the main entrance. A young woman was waiting for them.
“That’s the Stepford Wife,” Becky whispered.
“Abigail, this is Melanie,” Grahame introduced. “Melanie, this is Abigail.”
Melanie smiled and gave Abigail a short hug. It wasn’t hard to
The food arrived, thankfully. Abigail wasn’t used to being complimented.
Her eyes widened. Her plate was huge, bright and beautiful, a salad unlike any she’d ever seen. Since leaving the commune, eating was not one of Abigail’s pleasures. She hated doing it in front of people. She picked out tiny pieces of lettuce nervously, making sure they were small enough to get into her mouth in one bite.
Her father, on the other hand, was a comfortable eater. Notnervous about spillages, like she was. Crumbs of bacon fell from his chin as he devoured the roll.
Becky wasn’t hungry. Maybe she’d already eaten, because she didn’t order anything. As Abigail negotiated the greens, her sister started talking.
“What do you think of LA?”
She had to chew for several seconds before being able to swallow and answer. “It’s big.”
“Does it always rain in Glasgow?”
“Yes.”
Nice easy questions, all of them, but chewing and anxiety made it difficult to answer. In the end, Abigail asked if she should get a doggy bag. “I’m not as hungry as I thought I was.”
“Just leave it.” Her father’s kind smile made her cringe.
I’m a fool, aren’t I?
she thought. She already knew the answer. There was too much to learn.
B ECKY LINKED HER ARM through Abigail’s as they walked to their cars, almost as if sensing Abigail needed a crutch. “Did he tell you all about his prebiotics?”
“He did.”
“Fascinating stuff, eh.” Then she whispered: “Just his day job.”
Abigail didn’t have time to ask her what she meant. They’d reached Becky’s van. It was beat-up, a jalopy—a stark contrast to their father’s car.
“We’ll follow you,” Grahame stated. He nodded toward his passenger seat.
Abigail wanted to ride with Becky, but she sensed it wasn’t up for discussion. She slid in beside Grahame and buckled up. They followed behind Becky out of the airport, onto a freeway, and then up into the hills. The streets got leafier, the houses bigger, the wind cooler. Abigail found herself grinning. Movie stars probably lived here. She wondered if she’d spot any, then chastised herself for being so shallow. A few minutes later, Grahame clicked a button on the dashboard. A large iron gate on the side of a winding road began to open. They turned right into a circular driveway. Another button made the garage doors open. Grahame drove inside and pressed yet another button that made the roof close over.
Amazing: a world controlled by buttons.
In robot mode, I’ll fit right in
.
Abigail closed the door and looked at her father. “Thanks …” she started.
Oh Jesus
, she had to call him something.
“I’d like it if you called me Dad. If you want to, that is.”
He’d read her thoughts. He was a mind-reading lizard alien. Not like in
The Shining
, though; she certainly couldn’t read his.
She bit her lip and nodded across the car at him, knowing she should repeat the word. It wasn’t a hard thing to do, after all.
Repeat the word. Just do it
.
“Thanks, Dad.” She couldn’t get out of the garage fast enough.
The place was built with spotless blond stone, bay windows, and Greek style columns. Two stories high and at least four rooms wide, it lorded over the immaculate garden like a Glasgow mansion on steroids.
Becky hooked Abigail’s arm again as they walked from the garage to the main entrance. A young woman was waiting for them.
“That’s the Stepford Wife,” Becky whispered.
“Abigail, this is Melanie,” Grahame introduced. “Melanie, this is Abigail.”
Melanie smiled and gave Abigail a short hug. It wasn’t hard to