Glasshouse - Charles Stross [129]
It takes me three hours to catch a taxi home, mostly because I pass the Lady’s Lodge Beauty Parlor and stop to get my hair tidied up, and then the department store. The staff in the salon and the store are still all zombies, which is annoying, but at least they don’t get in the way. I need some more clothes, anyway—I have no idea what happened to what I was wearing the other day, plus, dressing à la mode is a good, easy way to boost your score, and I can use that right now—and in between buying a couple of new outfits I fetch up at the cosmetics counter. The store is deserted, and I figure I’ll give Sam a surprise, so I wait while the zombie assistant applies a makeover with inhuman speed. Those dark ages folks may not have had much by way of reconstructive nano, but they knew a lot about using natural products to change they way they looked: I barely recognize myself in the mirror by the time she’s finished.
I’m still not very well, and find myself flagging much sooner than I expected. So I finish off in the shop, arrange to have my purchases delivered, and catch a taxi home. Home is much as I expected—a mess. The cleaning service I commissioned when I got the library job has been round, but they only come once a week, and Sam has been letting the dirty dishes pile up in the kitchen and leaving the glasses in the living room. I try to ignore it and put my feet up, but after half an hour it’s too much. If I’m going to settle down a bit, I need to take care of that—it’s part of the role I’m playing—so I move everything to the kitchen and start cycling them through the dishwasher. Then I go and lie down for a while. But a pernicious demon of dissatisfaction has gotten into my head, so I get up and start on the living room. It comes to me that I really don’t like the way the furniture is laid out, and there’s something about the sofa that annoys me unaccountably. The sofa will have to go. In the meantime I can rearrange where everything is, and then I realize it’s nearly six. Sam will be home soon.
I’m a very poor cook, but I manage to puzzle my way through the instructions on the cartons, and I’m just laying out the cutlery on the dining table in the dayroom when I hear the door rattle.
“Sam?” I call. “I’m home!”
“Reeve?” He calls back.
I step into the hall, and he does a double take. “Reeve?” He gapes at me: It’s a priceless moment.
“I had a little accident at the cosmetics counter,” I say. “Like it?”
He goes cross-eyed for a moment, then manages to nod. In addition to the makeover I’m wearing the sexiest, most revealing dress I could find. I’ll take my praise where I find it. Sam’s never been a great one for expressing his emotions, and this is going pretty far for him. Come to think of it, he looks tired, sagging inside his suit jacket.
“Hard day?” I ask.
He nods again. “I, uh”—he draws breath—“I thought you were ill.”
“I am.” I’m more tired than I want to admit in front of him. “But I’m glad to be home, and Dr. Hanta’s given me the next week off work, so I figured I’d lay on a little surprise for you. Are you hungry yet?”
“I missed lunch. Didn’t feel much like eating back then.” He looks thoughtful. “That wasn’t such a good idea, was it?”
“Come with me.” I lead him into the dayroom and sit him down, then go back to the kitchen and switch on the microwave, then pick up the two glasses of wine I’d poured and take them back to the table. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s agog, eyes tracking me like an incoming missile. “Here. A toast—to our future?”
“Our . . . future?” He looks puzzled for a moment, then something seems to clear in his mind, and he raises his glass and finally smiles at me, surrendering some inner doubt. “Yes.”
I hurry back to sort out our supper, and we eat. I don’t taste much of the food because, to tell the truth,