Undo by Joe Hutsko (first ebook reader .txt) 📕

Byron took a sip of his water and addressed William’s question. “That’s not a bad idea, Billy. Petey and I have been talking about it between us, and we’re not exactly sure how we’re going to deliver the final product. We could do it as a Joey add-on. Or we could create our own new computer. That Joey in there that you were playing with is only the basic guts. For more reliable net and web access, we’ve slipped in a faster, 28.8 KB modem with a wireless option so you can send and receive e-mails or do paging through the airwaves, without plugging into a phone line. And we’ve come up with a sharper, lower-power thin-film transistor display, a longer-life battery pack, and an infrared port too, that lets you beam information to your desktop system or to other Joeys and IR devices, like printers, or hell, to your TV even, when we get the home-entertainment interface software we’re kicking around up and running.”

William put down his fork and took a sip of his water. “Well, there is another option that you have not mentioned.” He paused. “You could integrate the ISLE design into a next-generation ICP product.”

Everyone around the table stopped and looked at him. Then they looked at Peter.

Peter, gently rocking Isle in his lap, looked at Byron. Then he turned to William, and he smiled.

“Now there’s an interesting idea.”

*

She pulled into a handicapped parking space beside Matthew’s car, then flashed her Wallaby VIP badge to the security guard sitting behind the lobby desk. Matthew had gotten the pass for her a few years ago, after she had once been accosted by security when she had arrived and marched right past the desk carrying a basket of flowers, a surprise for her husband. As far as she was concerned, she was still the boss’s wife, and she could go anywhere she damn well pleased. She ignored the guard’s pleasantries and boarded the elevator. A moment later the door parted, and she was on the top floor.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Locke,” a handsome receptionist said cheerfully.

“Hello, Sheldon,” Greta said with an effusive smile. Such a charming young man. He knew how to treat a distinguished woman. As she headed away, her peripheral vision caught the young man lifting the telephone handset, warning the executive secretaries that she was on her way.

So well trained, she thought, a sudden hush falling over the executive area. As she marched along the row of offices, each of the secretaries graced her with a smile and a greeting.

“Greta,” Matthew’s secretary Eileen said with deliberate flatness.

Greta marched past her desk without so much as a glance and went straight into her husband’s office.

Eileen came in behind her. “He’s gone to lunch next door,” she said. “Can I help you with something?”

Lingering for a few moments, she examined several documents on Matthew’s desk with feigned interest. Satisfied, she cleared her throat and walked out of the office. Neither of the two women wished the other any sort of day, good, bad or otherwise.

She made her way back to the elevators.

The elevator rang, and someone ran past her and boarded it. “Please hold that,” she called out. Taking her time to reach the elevator, a pleasurable knowledge swept through her; whoever the person in the elevator was, he or she would hold the door for her.

“Thank you, dear,” she said to the young man aboard the elevator. Because she had participated in all of Wallaby’s major functions, whether on stage with Matthew as he wished the employees season’s greetings, or during congratulatory speeches and celebration events, everyone in the company recognized Greta Locke - the head-honcho’s wife.

Reveling in this notoriety, she strolled into the sushi restaurant and searched among the tables for her husband. Conversations quieted among the diners as they noticed her. Mrs. Matthew Locke pretended indifference to the attention she drew as she started through the dining area and headed for the back room, where on past occasions she and Matthew had dined with some of the other Wallaby executives and their wives.

“May I help you?” the hostess inquired politely, treading alongside Greta.

“I know my way around,” Greta said. She went in back and stopped before the group of private partitioned rooms. The doors to three of the intimate little rooms were open, and she could see they were empty. She went for the first closed door, but just before sliding it open she noticed Matthew’s shoes, as well as a pair of heels, sitting on the floor by the last room, which overlooked the carp pond at the restaurant’s atrium center.

As she neared the room, she heard Matthew’s voice. “Here, try this one,” then a foolish giggle, presumably belonging to whoever it was who fit into such tiny heels.

Greta stepped up to the platform and slid the door open, just in time to see Matthew, chopsticks in hand, placing a dripping pink piece of raw fish into the mouth of a young pretty thing. The girl sat with her eyes closed and head titled back slightly, wriggled her tongue in anticipation. Matthew’s other hand was hidden beneath the girl’s hair, supporting her neck.

Looking up and encountering his wife’s stunned expression, Matthew jerked impulsively, and in doing so plunged the chunk of raw fish into the girl’s mouth. Her eyes snapped open, and she made a revolting sound. Her hands flew to her throat. She was choking.

Matthew struck the girl sharply on the back, and with a great popping cough, the pink thing flew from her mouth into her cupped hand.

Seeing that the girl’s airway was free, Matthew turned to his wife. Getting up, his napkin fell into the tray of sushi. As he reached for it, his feet encountered an obstacle, and in an effort to prevent himself from crashing through the window, he caught the edge of the table, managing to tip over their mugs of tea, as well as knock most of the remaining sushi onto the floor.

“Sit down, Matthew,” Greta said with a disgusted flap of her hand. She gave him a look. “I must say, darling, I’m very impressed with your technique. I would have thought you’d need a hook to catch this sort of fish.”

The girl sucked deep gulps of air, alternating her wide, watery-eyed gape between husband and wife.

“Poor thing, so sorry you don’t care for the selection,” Greta said with a pout. “I think there’s some more on the floor. Go fetch, dearie.”

“Greta,” Matthew snapped, “close that door!”

“Oh, relax, Matthew. This will only take a minute. However,” she said, seating herself in the pit across from them, “I’m not leaving until I see this live one swim through a hoop and catch a chunk of that bait in the air.”

Matthew glared at his wife as she opened her purse and withdrew the pink bank form.

“This is Laurence Maupin,” Matthew said, attempting to explain himself. “She’s my public relations assistant.”

Ignoring the girl’s flawless extended hand, Greta slid aside the tray and dropped the form on the table before Matthew. She made sure to use her left hand.

The door slid open and the hostess poked her head in. “Would you like a menu?” she asked graciously.

“Go away,” Greta snapped. The door slid closed.

“We were just going over some notes,” Matthew said, still indulging in his farce. “For a speech I’ll be giving in a few weeks.”

“Is that so?” Greta said. “And where will you be speaking, Matthew, Sea World?

More composed now, Laurence eyed her tormentor with plain contempt. “This is not what you think, Mrs. Locke,” she said.

“Butt out. This business is between my husband and I.” She flicked the form into Matthew’s lap, then slapped a gold pen down on the table. “Sign it.”

“Greta! This is for a quarter-million dollars,” he said, his voice disbelieving. “What the hell are you doing?”

She gave her husband an impatient look. “Matthew, either you shut up and sign that, or I walk out there and announce your fishy little affair with Flipper here.”

He considered this, looked down at the form. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said, and picked up the pen.

“What the hell is so funny?” Greta asked, noticing Laurence’s apparently merry expression as she watched Matthew’s hand squiggling across the form. For the briefest instant, Laurence’s smile intensified when she met Greta’s eyes. At this stare-down, Greta lost.

Matthew shoved the pen and the transfer document across the table, then crossed his arms and stared down at the ruined lunch like an angry child.

Greta collected the form and folded it neatly, a triumphant smile on her face. Matthew shook his head in disgust as the slip disappeared into her purse with a snap. His anger was complete. At this point he was only thankful she was leaving immediately, without causing him any further embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry I can’t stay to see the rest of the show - ” Greta started, calmly.

Or so he thought.

“I’ll especially hate missing the part where you balance his balls on your nose.”

Matthew lunged for her, but she escaped his grasp with a titter and left the room, not bothering to close the door. She swept past the mute diners, her victory plain for everyone to see. She even paused at the door for a moment to take a few mints at the hostess desk.

But when she pressed through the doors, leaving her stunned audience behind, she felt strangely unmasked in the bright sunlight. Something inside her shifted, and her elation quickly drained.

She was overcome by a sudden panic. And then it hit her. Was this her last hurrah? Would that young girl take over her reign as Mrs. Matthew Locke? she wondered covetously.

She pressed her fist to her mouth and forced herself to concentrate on her task at hand. She had to get to the bank with the signed transfer. Then she would feel better. Yes, she told herself, catching Matthew with his little tart would strengthen her decision, would reassure her. She couldn’t wait to tell Jean-Pierre she had caught him, red-handed.

But this small euphoria was as short-lived as the last. As she raced up the highway, a disturbing realization mocked her, prodding obscenely at her sensibility. That all this time, contrary to her reasoning, Matthew had had the capacity to love more than Wallaby, and he had chosen to share it not with her, but with another woman.