Katrina thinks this is good. Less formal, more woman-to-woman.
You’re whisked straight into hair and makeup. Two assistants work on you, applying layer after layer of foundations and creams. One of them is standing in front of you, blocking your view of the mirror, and it’s only when they’re done and she takes a step back that you finally see yourself. You look dreadful—as bad as that first day at Tim’s office. You protest you could have done it much better on your own.
“Take it off,” you say angrily. “All of it, and we’ll start again. I’ll tell you what to do this time.”
They look astonished. “But you look great!” one cries, offended. “Doesn’t she, Trish?”
Trish agrees that you do indeed look like a million dollars after your “makeover,” and explains that the bright lights of the studio make people seem, like, really washed out if they don’t use a little more makeup than usual. At that moment a very young production assistant with a headset and a clipboard appears and says Judy’s ready for you. Reluctantly, you allow yourself to be escorted down a long airless corridor to the studio.
“We’ll take you in during the commercial break, then Judy will introduce you as soon as we’re live. There’s nothing to it,” the PA explains with a bright, mechanical smile. “Oh, and this is a family-friendly show. Please remember not to swear or reference any sexual acts.”
“I wasn’t planning to.”
The studio is hot and bright. Behind a glass wall is the production booth, crowded with more people in headsets. You see Tim and Katrina, standing at the back. On the far side of the studio, Judy is already ensconced on the famous cream sofa, being attended to by another assistant with electric hair tongs. Only when the assistant is done and Judy has checked herself in a hand mirror does she turn to you with a smile and say, “Hi!”
“Hi,” you reply nervously.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” she says reassuringly. “I’ll introduce you, and then the camera will be on you and you can answer my first question.”
“What will that be?”
She doesn’t reply. Already a shadowy figure beyond the lights is counting down, using his fingers to sign the last few seconds: Three—two—one. Zero.
Judy smiles at the camera. “From the Bride of Frankenstein to Austin Powers’s sex-hungry fembots, by way of Ira Levin’s Stepford Wives, humanity—or at least a certain geeky, male portion of it—has long dreamed of creating the ultimate subservient female,” she says conversationally. “Now a controversial Silicon Valley technologist has succeeded in doing just that, by building a robotic replica of his own wife. It’s claimed to be the world’s first emotionally intelligent companion robot, or cobot, and in a scoop for this show, I’m going to interview it.” She turns to you, still smiling. “First of all, what do I call you?”
You stare at her. You’ve just realized what’s happening here—that the awful makeup was entirely deliberate, and that this interview is going to be the very opposite of sympathetic.
“You can call me Abbie.” Something makes you add, “And I’ll call you Judy, shall I?”
Steel glints in her eyes. “Abbie…That was the name of your creator’s wife, wasn’t it?”
“Yes.”
She looks into the camera. “Viewers may recall Tim Scott, who four years ago was put on trial for his vanished wife’s murder—a trial that dramatically collapsed when the judge dismissed all charges.” She turns back to you. “It’s been claimed you have feelings. How do you feel about replacing Abbie Cullen-Scott?”
“I’m not trying to replace her—”
“So you don’t have feelings about that?”
“Well—it’s complicated, obviously—” you say, trying to plot a path through all the verbal traps.
“How about Tim Scott? What are your feelings about him?”
“I love him,” you say defiantly. “That hasn’t changed. And by the way—”
“You think you love him,” she interrupts. “But that’s just the way you’ve been programmed, isn’t it?”
“No,” you insist. “Look, you have this all wrong. What you said in your introduction just now—this isn’t about creating a subservient little wife at all. Tim would hate that. He wants me to make my own decisions—to be autonomous—”
“But ultimately you are just a highly sophisticated, shall we say, pleasure machine—”
“No!” you say angrily. “That’s not what this is. I don’t even have genitals. I’m here because Tim loved me so much he couldn’t bear to lose me.”
The floor manager is holding up a printed board saying CAUTION! USE FAMILY-FRIENDLY LANGUAGE! You ignore him. “This isn’t about some sad loner who couldn’t