Danielle Steel - The Klone and I - A High-Tech Love Story

“You miss him, don't you?” Peter asked when we went for a walk in Central Park that afternoon. It was snowing, and very cold. And I looked at him and nodded. I did. But he was, after all, only a Klone. I knew that now, a conglomeration of computer chips and wires enclosed in fuchsia satin. Peter had a mind, a heart, a soul, and much quieter taste in clothes. But in spite of that, I really loved him. “I thought about it on the way home,” Peter said quietly. “I haven't been very fair to you, have I?” He hadn't. But then again, what man was? Roger hadn't been fair either. And Peter seemed fairer than most. He was more of everything than any man I'd ever known. And he had a Klone, which made him doubly entertaining.

“I'm not complaining.” But I had to Paul. I had complained a lot about Peter's insensitivity to the situation, and my feelings.

“What does the ring mean? Just another gift, or something more?” He actually looked worried, as snowflakes settled on his hair and nose. He had stopped walking and was looking at me, with eyes full of questions. He looked tortured.

“Just another gift,” I said, looking pensive, remembering when Paul had put it on my finger. I hadn't taken it off since then.

“Did he propose?” I hesitated for a long time before I answered, not sure what Paul would want me to tell him. But my real loyalty was to Peter, and not to the Klone. I nodded silently as we walked.

“I thought so. And what did you say?” He looked grim, but as though he thought he had a right to know.

“I told him I couldn't marry a Klone,” I said simply.

“Why not?” Peter stopped walking again and looked at me as the snow fell all around us.

“You know as well as I do. I can't marry a Klone. He's a computer, a machine, a creation, not a human. It's ridiculous to talk about it.” Besides, and perhaps more importantly, I loved Peter, and not in any real sense Paul. No matter how appealing he was, Paul was merely an illusion. Peter was whole, or at least I thought so.

Peter was strangely quiet as we walked home. He said he had to go back to his apartment then, and he'd call me later. But by dinnertime, he hadn't called. The kids were with Roger for the rest of the weekend, and I called Peter several times that evening, but he never answered. I left him several messages, and then sat in the dark, in my bedroom, watching the snow, wondering where he was, and what had happened between us.

I didn't hear from him again until the next morning, and when he called, he sounded oddly cold. He said he'd had a call from California, and he was leaving that morning. He didn't want me to take him to the airport, and he'd be back in a few days. “Before Christmas,” he said vaguely.

“Is something wrong?” The tone of his voice frightened me. He seemed suddenly very distant.

“No, it's just an emergency meeting. Nothing crucial, but I want to be there.” He offered no further explanation.

“I mean with us.” My voice was trembling as I asked. I had never heard him sound so cold. He sounded like a different person.

“Maybe. We'll talk about it when I get home.”

“I don't want to wait that long.” I could hear it in his voice. The end had come. I suspected he wouldn't even bother to send Paul. Peter sounded as though he were retreating into his own world, and there was no room for me in it.

“I just need some time off,” he explained, but his voice sounded icy, as the snow continued to fall beyond the windows. ‘I'll see you in a few days. Don't worry if I don't call.” I told him I wouldn't, and was crying when I set the phone down. Maybe it was another woman. Maybe that was why he was going back to California. Maybe this time he, instead of Paul, had been recalled, by a blonde in San Francisco. Another Helena. I was deeply worried about it.

I sat alone, in the apartment that afternoon, turning it all over in my mind, wondering what had gone wrong, what I had done, why he seemed so cold and angry. We had been together for exactly five months by then, which seemed like a healthy chunk of time to me, but in the perspective of a lifetime was but a moment. I wondered if I'd hear from him at all, or if he'd even come back for Christmas as he'd promised. And his “We'll talk about it when I get home,” sounded anything but happy. He said he'd call when he got back, and then hung up, without telling me he loved me. I could smell another heartbreak in my future. Perhaps even by Christmas, if I was very unlucky.

The children were due back at five-thirty, and half an hour before that, the doorbell rang. I figured Roger was dropping them off early, and went to open the door, still looking glum. I was very depressed about Peter. And as I pulled open the door, I saw Paul standing there, shaking the snow off his mink coat. He was wearing it over red spandex leggings and a shimmering red Versace sweater, with red alligator cowboy boots. Peter had sent him after all. For a moment, I was relieved. At least I wouldn't be alone now.

“Hi,” I said glumly, as he swept me into his arms and off the floor, and spun me around till I was dizzy. He had on silver mittens with little ermine tails on them, and as he hugged me, he pulled them off and dropped them at my feet like gauntlets. I noticed then for the first time that he had new luggage. The purple alligator Hermes had disappeared, and he had bright red ostrich cases, made by Vuitton, with P.K. emblazoned on them in tiny pave diamonds.

“You don't look happy to see me,” he said, taking his coat off and looking disappointed. The truth was, I wasn't. I just couldn't play the game anymore. I had said my good-byes to him two days before, made my peace with it, knowing it might be the last time we would see each other. And then my heart had turned to Peter. He was all I could think of now, as I looked at Paul, desperately sorry this time that Peter had sent him to me.

“He left,” I said sadly, as twin tears rolled down my cheeks, longing for one of my old flannel nightgowns. I was in no mood for fun, or Paul. It was just too much for me to handle. I felt as though I were living in a revolving door, ricocheting from one to the other. But I knew where my heart had stopped now, and I knew better yet that Peter didn't care, and Paul was unable, or unwilling, to understand it. But at least, for once, I did.

“I know why you're upset,” Paul said happily, grinning as he marched into the kitchen, tracking snow all over my front hall with complete abandon. He opened the cupboard where the bourbon was, and this time pulled out a bottle of vodka. And within seconds had tossed down two shots, and poured himself a third one. It was the first time I'd ever seen him drink vodka, but he seemed to love it. “Peter said you were missing me terribly,” he explained, looking pleased with himself, and tenderly at me, “that's why he sent me.” He was strolling around my kitchen, looking as though he owned it, which annoyed me severely. He was, after all, only a Klone, and he didn't own me.

“I wish he hadn't sent you, Paul,” I said honestly. “I'm not up to it. I don't think you should stay,” I said sadly.

“Don't be silly.” He ignored me, as he sprawled across a chair, and tossed back another shot of vodka. “He's not good for you, Steph. I think he depresses you. It must be the way he dresses.” All I could think of was that Paul looked like a giant strawberry as he sat there in my kitchen in his red spandex leggings. They were blinding.

“I like the way Peter dresses.’ I defended him, and meant it. “He looks wonderful and virile and sexy.”

“You think gray flannel is sexy?” I nodded and he groaned, licking his lips after the vodka. “No, Stephanie, gray flannel is not sexy. It's boring.” He looked completely confident as he said it.