River spat out her nipple, turned his head to look at her, milk trickling all over rosy cheeks. He gave her a stern look. He never smiled when he was feeding. It was serious business.
“Sorry,” she’d said.
She’d left River at the beach house with the nanny. He is no longer breastfeeding, but he’s only a toddler, too young for a funeral like this. Barney’s mother had messaged Honey to ask if River could salute his daddy’s casket like John F. Kennedy Jr. had done when the president was assassinated. It would make an iconic image. Honey would just need to ensure River was dressed appropriately. Honey ignored the message, the way her mother-in-law had ignored her for the last ten years.
Honey had told Luisa Long she would make her own way to the funeral, but Luisa Long had taken no notice; presumably she thought Honey was crazed with grief or had suffered temporary amnesia. It was a throwback to the early days when Honey didn’t understand the machinations of her new world and kept saying she would “make her own way” somewhere, not realizing that cars, planes, helicopters, and superyachts would funnel her from destination to destination like a bubble-wrapped fragile gift.
Last night a message had come through from Luisa Long:??I understand you are at the beach house. Your car will be there at nine.??
“Have you had me chipped?” Honey once asked Barney.
There was a lot of talk in the media aboutcoercive chipping.
“Do you want to be chipped?” he asked.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“That’s my old-fashioned girl.” He grinned.
He was chipped, of course, as were all his employees. It was a job requirement. You couldn’t work for a tech company and be afraid of basic tech. River was chipped. Only conspiracy theorists didn’t chip their children. It was about safety.
Honey picks up one of the water bottles and chugs it back, thirstily, as if she’s done a workout.
Taylor gives her a little pleased smile in the rearview mirror. “Enjoy!”
“Thank you.” Honey wipes her mouth.
“There’s a lot of traffic,” says Taylor. “There’s some big event. I’m going to try to get you as close as I can to your destination but ... I don’t know.”
“Thank you,” says Honey. “It doesn’t matter. If I’m late, I’m late.”
“I think it might be the funeral for that big tech guy who died.”
“Yes,” says Honey. “That’s where I’m going.”
“Really?” Honey sees the exact moment Taylor’s brain circuits make the appropriate connection. “Wait. You’re not ... you are! You’reHoney Beckett?”
It’s always been like this. She has the kind of celebrity where people can’t name her unless they hear Barney’s name first. Without him she does not exist.
When she hears “Honey Beckett” she doesn’t think of herself. She thinks of her public persona and all the words that have described her:Barney’s latest acquisition! The former makeup artist who stole the heart of a multibillionaire! Barney’s New Babe Flaunts Her Curves in Saint-Tropez. It’s kid number seven for the tech genius and his latest wife!
She only read the comments once. The vitriol burned like hot oil.
“But ... it’s yourhusband’sfuneral? Your husband is Barney Beckett?”
“Yes,” says Honey.
People have widely different responses to her husband’s name. His company has both wiped out entire industries and saved millions of lives through cutting-edge medical technologies. He’s inspirational. He’s abhorrent. He and Mac have too much power, too much money, and too much influence. He and Mac are geniuses changing the world for the better.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” says Taylor. She twists around in her seat to look at Honey.
“Thank you,” says Honey. “I think I’m still ... in shock.”
“Well ofcourseyou are!”
But Honey registers a dip in her sincerity. She is probably thinking that if you marry a man more than thirty years older than you, then you should reasonably expect to one day be attending his funeral.
“He only just had his sixtieth birthday,” says Honey.
