Clarissa had taken the bull by the horns. She had gone to see her nieces. Emily and Harriet hadn’t minced their words. They needed the money. They were sorry for Jordan. But they were convinced Jordan had done quite well for herself, hadn’t she? They saw her on TV, on social media; she traveled; she seemed to lack nothing; she had a husband and a daughter; her mother was a respected writer. And on top of all that, she was beautiful. Jordan had it all, right? Oh, and one last thing: Jordan had chosen to live in France; one mustn’t forget that. Serena was very attached to her country. It was important to her. They had stayed in England, they had no husband or children as of yet, and time was flying by! That money was perfect timing, and they were sure Jordan would understand. What about another cup of tea, dear Aunt C…? Clarissa had felt like strangling them. Her father, who always spoke his mind, was right; he called them tarts. In the train on her way back from London, Clarissa thought about the way Jordan raised Andy, how much effort she put into it, and how complicated it had been during her numerous trips when Andy was a little girl. Clarissa had helped out a lot. What on earth had gotten into old Serena’s head? She knew her aunt hadn’t approved of the fact that her own brother had married a Frenchwoman. Solange, Clarissa and Arthur’s mother, had apparently found it difficult to find her way into her husband’s family. Clarissa thought she had ultimately managed to do so. Perhaps not, in the long run.

  That day on the train, Clarissa decided she wouldn’t be speaking to her brother and nieces again. It was common, after all, to bicker in the aftermath of wills. What was less common, she felt, was the sudden and intimate overlap of every aspect of her life: the breakdown of her marriage, the rough patch with her brother, and the hurried arrival in a new home she still didn’t feel at ease in.

  When they left, Jordan told her mother to look after herself, to get a good night’s sleep, to rest. Andy hugged her with all her might. Clarissa waved good-bye to them as the transparent glass elevator whooshed them down. Jordan’s lovely face was turned up to her, and she could read all the anguish there. She knew Jordan was going to speak to her husband, Ivan, tonight, and she already knew what her daughter was going to say: that Clarissa looked old, frail, and sad, that she was worried, that she couldn’t understand what had happened. She could hear Jordan’s voice: Yes, the flat was lovely, and it was wonderful that Clarissa lived there, but the move had tired her. How was she going to face all this, alone, at her age, in her state? Jordan would undoubtedly bring up the long depression Clarissa had endured after the death of her first child. Jordan remembered that endless tunnel; she was only a little girl at the time, but she had grown up with that despondency. She’d say she feared Clarissa might plunge into a similar gloom. Clarissa could now hear Ivan’s voice. Jordan’s husband was a tall, thin man in his early forties, with soft blue eyes. He rarely lost his temper and spoke gently but firmly. She could hear him say Clarissa was a tough cookie. She’d pulled herself out of depression a long time ago. Clarissa knew what she wanted. And if Clarissa wanted to be alone, then that was fine. Jordan just had to stop worrying.

  Clarissa closed the door of the apartment. She turned her back to it, leaning against the wooden surface, looking out toward the living room. It did look nice, she admitted. The lovely gleaming surfaces. The light. The view. Her precious books, the ones she read with such delight, were missing. They were still at François’s. She was going to take the time to make sure they were all placed properly on the shelves. Romain Gary. Virginia Woolf. Her favorite writers. Books never let you down. They were always there for you.

  The cat pranced along, and she watched him go toward the main window. Chablis had spent most of the lunch on Jordan’s knees, purring. He had eaten well, had played with Adriana. Perhaps he was getting over his apprehension. She was happy about that. She still wasn’t quite sure how to deal with a cat. As Clarissa observed him, Chablis suddenly seemed to stiffen. Surely she was imagining things. No, he arched his back, and his ears were flattened, golden eyes deepening to black. The cat crouched now, tail slowly twitching, staring at the middle of the room as if someone were standing there. Mystified, Clarissa remained motionless. He then slunk under the sofa, and the only thing she could see now was the tip of his tail.

  Clarissa strode to the center of the room, unnerved, glancing around her. Everything seemed in place, perfectly normal. But she, too, had sensed a presence. And she realized now, with a prick of horror, that ever since she had moved here, she had never felt completely alone; it was as if someone, or something, was watching her.

  “Mrs. Dalloway?” She was surprised to hear her voice was quavering. She sounded like a very old lady.

  “Yes, Clarissa?” came the rounded, cordial tone.

  “Am I alone here?”

  “Yes, Clarissa. Apart from the cat, you are completely alone.”

  “Why was the cat afraid just now?”

  “I have no idea, Clarissa.”

  “Who can see me?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t quite understand. Can you rephrase that, Clarissa?”

  “Can anyone see what I am doing in my apartment?”’ Now her voice was angry. No more quavering old-lady stuff.

  “No, Clarissa. No one can see what you do in your home.”

  “What about you, Mrs. Dalloway? Can you see what I’m doing?”’

  “Yes, Clarissa. I see everything you do. I was programmed to do that.”

  “So you do watch me, Mrs. Dalloway.”

  “Yes, Clarissa. All the time.”

  “And so I was right. There is someone spying on me. You.”

  “You’re right, Clarissa. But remember, I’m no one. I don’t exist.”

  * * *

  Clarissa often thought back to the day she’d spent at the C.A.S.A. headquarters in order to set up her virtual assistant and to meet Dr. Dewinter. She had been shown to a different part of the building, deep down, below ground level. The space here was white and brilliant, almost too white, she thought. The staff wore black as well, the same sleek style as Clémence Dutilleul’s suit. The man who took her in charge was in his early twenties. He had the round pink face of a choirboy. His name was Quentin. He was respectful and pleasant. He started by taking an imprint of her fingertips and a scan of her retina with a small device. It took only a couple of minutes. He then told her the setup process was going to take a while, because they needed to get it just right. Even if the questions seemed repetitive and weird, she had to stick to it. The virtual assistant had to get used to her voice, because Clarissa’s voice was the only one it was going to obey. It wouldn’t respond to anyone else. He also said that Clarissa could take a break whenever she wanted. She could get up, stretch her legs, have a glass of water.

  Quentin ushered her into a smaller room, equally white and luminous. In front of her were a chair and a desk. A large screen took up the entire wall. Quentin motioned for her to be seated. He carefully placed earphones on Clarissa’s ears. Then he went to sit behind a partition. She could hear his voice in her headset. He asked her if she was ready. She said yes.

  The screen in front of her turned gray. Two large eyes faced her now. They were wide and blue. They blinked slowly. They reminded her of the billboard horn-rimmed eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg in the opening pages of The Great Gatsby; a solemn, intense gaze, which saw everything, never missing a beat, both reassuring and alarming. An amiable male voice, which was not Quentin’s, asked her to say her name out loud. She did so. She was asked to speak more slowly and to repeat her name three times.

  In the beginning, it was easy. She had to state her date and place of birth, her nationality. Her age, her height, her weight. The eyes blinked and glowed back at her like those of a gratified cat. Then she had to pronounce a sequence of specific orders. She was asked to repeat them clearly, over and over again.

  “Lock the door. Set the alarm. Check the air-conditioning. Turn on the shower. Close the blind. Turn off the light. Set night mode. Turn on the oven. Read my emails.”

  She was asked to choose the name of her assistant. She had thought about this before, of course. When she said, “Mrs. Dalloway,” she then had to say it out loud six or seven times very clearly. She then had to choose what kind of voice she wanted Mrs. Dalloway to have. They could clone any type of voice, she knew. She picked a British accent with mellow, gentle tones.

  Quentin appeared from behind the screen. He told her he was going to leave the room. He’d be right outside. She was alone with the setup process. If there was a problem of any sort, she just had to press the pause button. Clarissa nodded. He left, closing the door behind him.

  Clarissa felt slightly apprehensive. She remained silent, straight-backed on her chair.

  The billboard eyes gleamed back at her.

  “Are you ready, Clarissa?” asked the new female voice with the very British accent.

  “Yes,” she said, “I am.”

  “Please relax, Clarissa.”

  “How can you tell I’m tense?”

  “Your body language. You don’t have to sit up so stiffly. And you can uncross your arms.”

  Clarissa couldn’t help smiling.

  “There. That’s better. I’m going to be asking you all sorts of questions. Do not be surprised. This is just for me to get to know you better. After all, I will be with you all the time. I need to be able to watch over you. As soon as you walk into the C.A.S.A. residence, and then into your apartment, I will be in charge of your well-being and your security. Nobody can come into your home unless you allow the person to. If I detect an intruder, I will react very quickly. An alarm will go off and security services will arrive on the spot. Now. Are you comfortable, Clarissa? I need you to be comfortable, because it might take a while. No, don’t be alarmed; this will be painless. You don’t have to answer in great detail. You don’t even have to answer at all if you don’t want to. But remember this: The more answers you give me, the better I will serve you. So let’s get going. Here’s my first question, Clarissa. Would you rather set me up in French or in English? I’m aware that you are perfectly bilingual.”

  “I’d like to be able to speak to you in both languages interchangeably, and have you answer me as you wish, in English or in French.”

  “Very well, Clarissa. Let us go on. What is your present state of mind?”

  Clarissa glowered back into the T. J. Eckleburg–like eyes. How on earth could she answer that? And what had it to do with the setup of her voice assistant? She felt disillusioned, then irritated. Maybe all her reactions were being processed and analyzed by the same hidden people who had been there the day of her interview. She wasn’t going to let herself be impressed.

  “I don’t wish to answer that question and I don’t see why it’s important to you.”

  “I see. Can you explain, Clarissa?”

  “I don’t want to discuss personal matters. I don’t know you and I don’t know who is listening to all this. I don’t see why you need this sort of stuff from me.”

  “I understand. I will try to explain, Clarissa. I need to know who you are. I need to understand your personality. The more I know it, the more I will be able to help you.”

  Clarissa grumbled.

  “Help me? You’re only supposed to oversee security and management of the flat. Why would you need details about my present state of mind?”

  “Please remain calm, Clarissa. No one is listening to this except for me. And I can do much more than just looking after your housekeeping and your security.”

  “Such as?”

  “If you answer all my questions, Clarissa, you will understand how I can help you. I’ve been programmed to do this. To make your life easier. In every way. To take charge of things. So you can write. So you can create.”

  The minutes ticked by slowly. The blue eyes blinked. The voice was silent, too.

  “Are you unhappy, Clarissa?” asked the voice at last.

  “Yes,” she said tersely. “I’m unhappy. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to explain. I don’t know who or what you are, but I just want to get on with this. I want to move into that apartment. I want to feel safe. I want to write my book. Is that clear?”

  “It is indeed, Clarissa. Please say my name when you talk to me. That way, I’ll know you’re addressing yourself to me.”

  “Okay. Listen up, Mrs. Dalloway.” She barked the words out. “I’m. Not. Happy.”

  “I understand, Clarissa. Can you tell me precisely why you’re unhappy?”

  “No! It’s none of your business, Mrs. Dalloway. I’m sure you have more important questions to ask.”

  “I’m sorry you’re unhappy, Clarissa. You’re right; I have other questions. Many other questions. I’d like to talk about your family. Will they be coming to visit?”

  “Yes, Mrs. Dalloway.”

  “Their names, please?”

  “My daughter, Jordan Vendel-Garnier. Her husband, Ivan Garnier. Their daughter, Adriana Garnier, known as Andy.”

  “Thank you, Clarissa. Can you show me photographs of them, please?”

  Clarissa picked up her phone, swiped into her photo file, and showed it to the screen, where the eyes appeared to gluttonously drink it in.

  “Thank you. Are there any other family members you wish to talk to me about, Clarissa?”

  “Yes. My dad. He won’t be coming; he’s ninety-eight. He lives in London. He writes to me a lot. My first husband, Toby Vendel. He might drop in. Not sure yet. And my second husband, François Antoine. He won’t be setting a foot inside my house. Of that, I’m sure. Don’t ask me why, please.”

  “Thank you, Clarissa. I won’t. Can you show me a photo of him?… Thanks. I’m now going to fire all sorts of questions at you. Please answer them without thinking too hard.”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Dalloway?”

  “I mean this is not a test. This is just for me to understand how you think. How your brain works. Be spontaneous, Clarissa. Are you ready?”

  Clarissa nodded. She felt thirsty and tired. The lights around her seemed terribly bright. How her brain worked? She didn’t even know herself. At times, like right now, it felt like it had stopped working altogether.

  “What are your favorite colors, Clarissa?”

  “Green. Blue. Orange.”

  “Your favorite musician?”

  “Frédéric Chopin.”

  “Your favorite singers?”

  “Patti Smith. Soapie Indigo.”

  “Your favorite poets?”

  “Charles Baudelaire. Emily Dickinson.”

  “Your favorite artists?”

  “Harald Sohlberg. Pieter de Hooch. Vilhelm Hammershøi.”

  Mrs. Dalloway’s voice droned on, and Clarissa let herself be carried away by the questions. She answered quickly, easily. This wasn’t too difficult. It might be over faster than she thought. There was a rhythm to her replies and she gave way to it. It was like playing Ping-Pong, angling her wrist to knock the ball back as swiftly as possible.

  “Your favorite song?”

  “‘La vie en rose,’ sung by Grace Jones.”

  “Your favorite film?”

  “All movies by Stanley Kubrick.”

  “Your favorite actors?”

  “Timothée Chalamet. Salomé Jalon.”

  “Your best trait?”

  “Compassion.”

  “Your worst flaw?”

  “Impatience.”

  She hadn’t noticed that the questions were gradually becoming more and more personal. She had been too amused, or too busy throwing the ball back.

  “Your worst fear?”

  “Losing my daughter, my granddaughter.”

  “What makes you laugh?”

  “Peter Sellers in The Party.”

  “What makes you laugh in real life?”

  “I don’t know, really.”

  “What makes you cry?”

  Her mind seemed to have gone fuzzy. The tiredness took over; her mouth felt dry. She found it difficult to speak.

  “Intimate … things…”

  “What shocked you the most recently?”

  “I don’t…” she mumbled. She tried again: “The Tower … The images of the devastation…”

  Her throat felt tighter and tighter, as if she were suffocating.

  A pause.

  “Next question, then. On what occasions do you lie?”

  Clarissa stared back into the huge eyes. Perhaps her silence was easier to decipher than her answers. She wondered what would be made of her muteness. She waited. It worked. After a long blank, Mrs. Dalloway spoke up.

  “We are going to take a break now, Clarissa. Dr. Dewinter is coming in to see you. You and I will resume later. You may remove the headset.”

  The eyes slowly faded from the screen. She felt drained. Before she had time to move again, the door clicked open. She pushed the earphones down around her neck. She didn’t know whether she should stand or remain seated.

  The very tall person who entered the room had an arresting physique, with long, wavy chestnut hair and a strapping figure. The skin of her face was as smooth as a bowl of cream, with made-up eyes and a crimson mouth; the jaw was square and the features thickset. A long hand with red nails sailed toward her.

  “I’m so honored to meet you, Mrs. Katsef. I’m Dr. Dewinter.”

  The voice was low. The doctor sat down in front of her, sliding a tablet from a square white pouch.

  “How’s the setup coming along?”

  Clarissa smiled, answered it was fine, slightly longish, but interesting.

  “You no doubt have oodles of questions for me?” said Dr. Dewinter with an unexpected wink.

  A momentary hesitation engulfed Clarissa.

  Dr. Dewinter took on a long-suffering expression. Her smile was barely contrived.