The Replacement Wife

by Barry Fields

In the middle of Group Five boarding, Lawrence’s wife said she forgot something to read and ran off to the bookstore. Lawrence boarded the plane without her, taking his window seat and keeping his eye out for her as passengers filed by, eyes trained on the row numbers.

Lawrence Purnell, the thirty-five year-old vice president of Global Retail Software’s European division, prayed for an on time departure. The afternoon of their arrival, he’d scheduled a meeting with upper management of E. Leclerc, France’s largest retailer. It was a potential mega sale that would earn him a huge bonus over the next few years. After four days of work, he and Sylvia would have five vacation days in Paris.

He began to worry as the plane slowly filled with no sign of her. From the beginning, the degree of his enthusiasm about the trip had matched her indifference. Sylvia found nourishment in home life: gardening, outings with her women friends, yoga, evenings with their two kids. Travel didn’t excite her. She reluctantly agreed to accompany him to Paris after Global Retail offered to pay her fare if they flew economy.

Did she decide at the last minute to back out? No, she wouldn’t. It wasn’t the kind of stunt she would pull.

No more passengers maneuvered down the aisle. Flight attendants shut the overhead compartments, and departure announcements blared over the speakers. Another couple of minutes and they’d be closing the door. Lawrence fidgeted anxiously, releasing a long breath of relief when he saw the sun hat, purple pullover blouse, and tan slacks.

Except it wasn’t her. Instead of a brunette who after two children had put on some weight, this woman looked like one of the Swedish supermodels he’d seen in his wife’s Vogue: tall, blond, stunning. She crammed her carry-on into the overhead bin. The man sitting by the aisle got up, allowing her to wedge her way to the seat next to him.

“Hi, Hon, sorry it took a bit,” she said.

Hon?

“Who are you? Why are you wearing my wife’s clothes?”

Grinning, she turned to him and poked him in the ribs. “Since when are you the jokester?”

Lawrence raised his voice in alarm. “Who the hell are you? What did you do with my wife?”

He felt a jerk as the plane was towed backward onto the tarmac. The woman next to him said something that was lost in the required broadcast, so loud he couldn’t help but listen: safety features, exit rows, lavatories, oxygen masks, emergency landing.

“You okay now?” she asked when it was over.

The plane taxied on the runway. Lawrence glared at her and reached for the call button. Standing, he hunched under the bulkhead. A few seconds later, a flight attendant in her blue uniform rushed to them. “Yes? Is there a problem?”

“You bet there’s a problem!”

“Honey,” the woman said, tugging on his hand. Then, to the flight attendant, “My husband’s just a bit nervous. He’ll be alright.”

The flight attendant pointed a finger at him. “We’re getting ready for takeoff. Sit down and put on your safety belt.” She hurried to the back of the plane.

Lawrence was stuck. He could create a scene, make them abort the flight. But they’d probably arrest him, and his antics wouldn’t help his wife materialize. Canceling the opportunity to get the contract would also get him fired, especially with Allied Marketing Technologies breathing down their necks, vying for E. Leclerc’s business.

“Look what I picked up.” The pretender showed him a National Geographic and Travel and Leisure. Magazines his wife never looked at. She opened the travel magazine. “There’s an article here on new restaurants in Paris. I’ll bet we’ll find something interesting.”

“Stop the charade. Who are you, and where’s my wife? I don’t want to ask again.”

The woman appeared shocked. “Are you okay? Oh God, I hope you’re not having a stroke. No, you can talk okay. It’s something else.”

She didn’t plan on giving up her role easily. Lawrence held his tongue as the engines powered up, and they accelerated for liftoff. He waited for smooth flying when they’d gained some altitude. “My name’s Lawrence Purnell. What’s yours?”

“Cut it out already.” She must have had a thought that convinced her to change tactics. “Oh, I get it. Hello, Lawrence. My name’s Sylvia. I’d like to introduce myself since we’re sitting next to each other. Funny thing is, I could have sworn you were my husband.”

“You are definitely not my wife.”

“Well, you look remarkably like my husband. You even have the same name.”

“If you’re my wife, tell me the names of our children and their ages.”

“I can tell you about my children, but if you’re not my husband, not about yours. Jennifer is ten and Billy is seven.”

“Where does Jennifer have a birthmark?”

“She doesn’t.”

“Where was our last vacation?”

“Bar Harbor. Mount Desert Island. With the children.”

Stupefied, Lawrence held his tongue. Whoever she was, someone had briefed her on an astounding number of details, which she rattled off the top of her head.

“Let me see your ID.”

“I don’t like your tone. This isn’t fun anymore.” She dug in the sack under her seat. “You’re carrying it too far, Lawrence.”

He examined the passport: Sylvia Purnell. Correct birthdate and place of birth. Wrong headshot. “How did you get this?”

“Same way you got yours. We renewed them at the same time.”

That was true, but passports could be faked. “Driver’s license,” he demanded, holding out his hand.

Same thing­—all correct except for the photo. The license was expired, not something Sylvia would ever allow to happen.

“I know what my wife looks like and sounds like, and she doesn’t look or sound like you.”

“You’re serious, aren’t you? I can’t believe this is happening.” She covered her face with her hands and shook her head.

Lawrence pulled out his phone, already set to airplane mode, and opened up the picture gallery. There were photos of him, the children, the house, places visited—all of them with this blond outsider.

“What the…?”

He scrolled down past a couple of hundred photos, searching frantically for the woman he knew, his Sylvia, but she’d been wiped clean, exchanged for this new person professing to be her.

“I remember that one,” she said. He’d stopped on a family photo taken at a beach. “It was right after you freaked out when you swam over that shark in Delray Beach.” She pointed at the image and forced a laugh. “Look at that face you’re making.”

What was going on? Allied Marketing, rumored to be working on AI spyware for the CIA, might have reached a whole new level of hacking and eavesdropping—modifying his phone, falsifying credentials, and transplanting his wife’s memories into another woman’s brain. But that was too sci fi; they couldn’t be that advanced. Another possibility, equally far-fetched, was what happened after he put his credit card in the new AI hologram at the airport. A winged fairy had fluttered about, greeted him by name, and instructed him to make a wish. He had said to the floating image, “I wish I had a wife who was more fun to travel with.” But how could that have anything to do with this stranger sitting next to him? He had to face a third alternative, both plausible and unpleasant; this woman had been his wife for the past dozen years and he was suffering from a massive delusion.

Sweating in spite of the cool air flowing in the cabin, Lawrence couldn’t decide which was worse. The first possibility meant something awful had happened to his wife, and she was being held captive somewhere, or worse, murdered. The second was too unlikely to consider. The third meant he should be in a psychiatric hospital getting help instead of flying to Paris to advance a multimillion-dollar deal. Whatever the explanation, for the time being he couldn’t escape the replacement wife. He’d figure out what to do with her after they landed.

“Are you okay now?” she asked.

“I guess I’m alright,” he said.

“Good. You had me worried. I thought you were having some kind of breakdown.”

His reasoning exactly. “Maybe I was.”

She perked up. “I’m looking forward to this, honey. Paris! The City of Light.”

His wife, his real wife, couldn’t care less about Paris. She’d let him drag her along to make him happy. He looked out the window, earth far below them, wisps of clouds becoming thicker and obscuring the ground as they ascended. He pulled down the window shade, searched through the movies until he found one, and put in his earbuds. The ersatz Sylvia turned on her light to read her magazines.

The action movie’s plot lacked intricacy, but with his mind racing to nowhere, Lawrence had difficulty following it. He paused the movie and took out the earbuds when she tapped him on the shoulder.

“There’s this new restaurant in the sixth arrondissement. That’s where we’re staying, right?”

He nodded. “Same hotel I stayed at last time.”

She bubbled about the Peruvian chef, the fusion cuisine, the accolades. She showed him photos of carefully composed plates, described Peruvian sauces in classic French dishes. “Let’s give it a try one night. What do you say?”

His Sylvia hadn’t wanted to hear about restaurant possibilities. If he hadn’t still been in shock, this Sylvia’s effervescence would have been infectious.

“Great,” he managed to say. “Let’s do it.”

Ear buds in, noise canceling on, he continued the movie while scheming how to get rid of the intruder once they landed. The way she was acting, she’d refuse to fly back to the States. Same if he insisted she get her own hotel room. The best he could do was to sideline her, leave her behind when he went to meetings and social engagements with company executives. Too bad if she didn’t like it

After a dinner of chicken in some kind of brown sauce, Lawrence dozed. When he woke up, they were already over Greenland, the same interloper ensconced next to him. She had his guidebook open.

“Honey, I am so glad you talked me into coming,” she said. “This is going to be amazing. I thought, Notre Dame, Sacré Coeur, big deal. But I can’t wait to see them. With you. It’s going to be such an ‘us’ vacation.”

He didn’t know what to say. Who was “us”? Was he in his right mind?

She brought up a previous vacation to Santa Fe, one of the few they’d taken without the children. “That was another trip I wasn’t sure about at first. There was a tennis tournament I wanted to register for. But it wound up being the best. That B & B we stayed at with the wonderful breakfasts. The art walk on Canyon Road. The dances at that Indian pueblo. We made love in this arroyo, remember? Sand got into everything.”

He did remember, except that he’d made love with a different wife, one who complained about the sand and who didn’t play tennis.

The remainder of the flight went faster than he anticipated, spent with movies, reviewing the PowerPoint presentation he knew by heart, and conversing when prompted by his excited companion. This actress who claimed to be Sylvia had little in common with the woman he married, other than her memories. More talkative, livelier, different interests—and with incredible looks. If not for the worry that he might have lost his mind, or that she worked for Allied Marketing Technologies and something had happened to his wife, he’d be enjoying her company. Not a bad woman to spend over a week with in one of Europe’s great capitals.

Their plane landed early. He took out his phone and saw a text from his mother-in-law. “The kids are fine. Went to bed without any problems.” Why was he telling this stranger? And why did his mother-in-law text him instead of her?

The French border agent didn’t flinch at her passport and wished them a good visit. The train into Paris lumbered past uninspiring scenery. But when they emerged from the underground station at Boulevard St. Michelle and saw the Seine flowing below and the old buildings and the fountain with a colossal archangel Michael stomping on the devil, his exuberant escort shouted, “Oh, my God, this is fantastic. I can’t believe we’re here!”

She dropped her oversized handbag and ran down the steps to the river, leaving Lawrence waiting with their luggage on the crowded sidewalk.

A taxi deposited them at Hotel de Fleurie, just off Boulevard St. Germain. Check in wasn’t for hours, but the concierge took their bags. It was ten o’clock and Lawrence’s meeting wasn’t until three.

“We’ve got to get a coffee at Café Deux Magots,” she said. “I want to soak up the vibes in the place where Hemingway and Picasso and Sartre all used to hang out.”

He almost asked, “Since when do you care about artists and writers?” but thought better of it. At an outdoor table at the touristy restaurant, Lawrence heard mostly English, some German, and French at only one table. But the coffee was good and the morning clear.

Afterward, she took his hand and dragged him around the corner to the medieval Saint-Germain-des-Prés, the oldest church in the city. Inside, decorated arches and marble columns held up a vaulted roof high overhead. The painted ceiling depicted stars in a deep blue sky.

She craned her neck to look at the frescoes. “Is this fucking mind-blowing, or what?”

“Sylvia!” His wife never used off-color words. But then again…

In their deluxe room, Lawrence said they should call the kids.

“Whatever,” she responded.

Sylvia’s mother answered and said the kids were eating breakfast. He spoke first to Jennifer, who wanted to say hi to Mommy, but when he reached out to give her the phone, she waved it away. He told Jennifer Mommy wasn’t there. Billy told him about playing Nintendo with Grandpa.

The wife he’d known would have called the kids herself and spent a half hour talking to them. What kind of mother was this one?

As Lawrence was getting dressed in a suit and tie, Sylvia stated she was accompanying him. When he tried to talk her into seeing some sights instead, she dug in her heels, so adamant it rekindled his suspicions she could be working for Allied Marketing.

“Okay, but there’s nothing scenic out there. And you’re absolutely not coming into the meeting.”

Their taxi dropped them off just outside the Paris city limits in front of a modern building, all concrete and glass, close to the Seine. Sylvia was gorgeous in a low-cut summer dress that showed off her slender figure, thin shoulder straps betraying the absence of a bra. In the lobby, he introduced her to the Président Directeur Général, the CEO, as “Sylvia, my wife.”

His eyes laser-focused on the hint of nipple pressing against her dress, the man invited her to join the presentation.

Lawrence asked to use the restroom, and once alone, called his own CEO. “We’ve got a problem. It’s too weird to explain, but I think Allied Marketing planted a spy who’s going to hear my entire presentation.”

“Keep him out.”

“It’s a she, and I can’t. She’s a looker and the PDG’s salivating over her.”

“Shit.”

“Look, I just wanted you to know. I’ve got to get going.”

Most of the executives in the conference room spoke English, including the Harvard educated PDG. A French interpreter translated for those wearing headphones who needed it. Lawrence’s talk went well. Global Retail’s software would replace several disparate apps the company had in place, integrating point of sale, automated inventory and ordering, accounting, payroll, advertising, coupons, employee productivity, security, and product theft—every bit of data analyzed by store and department, by region and city.

Lawrence kept a furtive eye on Sylvia, as did some of the men and one of the women, all of them, he noted, doing a poor job of hiding their extracurricular desire. If her sculpted face and knockout figure helped him win the most important client of his career, that was fine with him. On the other hand, she could be recording or transmitting everything.

Questions came, some friendly, others skeptically challenging, which he easily fielded. He left with handshakes, a scheduled meeting the next day with the PDG and some regional managers, and a dinner invitation from the CFO, the Directeur Financier, “to include your beautiful wife, bien sûr.”

Lawrence had a momentary reaction of hoping the guy was married before chiding himself. Ridiculous to be jealous when he didn’t even know this imposter.

The imposter, if that’s what she was, certainly knew him. She congratulated him on a successful meeting, reminded him of how he’d snagged the German BMW account from a competitor, and kissed him in apparent elation.

They walked to dinner at Ze Kitchen Galerie, a Michelin starred restaurant on the banks of the Seine, where they ate fabulous French-Asian fusion surrounded by contemporary art. Sitting cattycorner at a small table, she reached under the table, found the bulge in his pants, and gave a friendly squeeze while sipping her wine.

He could get used to this Sylvia.

Lawrence stopped fighting her presence. For periods of time, he even forgot to worry about his actual wife. He had to admit that this one was a lot more fun, as thrilled to spend nine days in Paris as he was. He couldn’t be crazy if everything else about him and the world was normal. He doubted the mole theory, too.

After dinner, they strolled along the Rue des Grands Augustins to the quay. Floodlights illuminating the ancient arches of the Pont Neuf spanning the Seine, dark water below, the towers of the reopened Notre Dame lit up—all of it begged for romance. He took her hand as they walked.

The physical contact felt odd, her long, delicate fingers unfamiliar. Still, his feelings were platonic. Until, in the privacy of their room, she took her clothes off. The allure of Sylvia clothed and hinting at eroticism was one thing, her exquisite naked body another.

“The shower’s big enough for two,” she announced, her head peeking out from the bathroom.

In fourteen years together, all but two of them married, Lawrence had never been unfaithful. What would his Sylvia think if he cheated on her with this Nordic goddess? He wanted her as any sane man would, resisting out of loyalty. But loyalty to whom? Everything conspired to make him regard this woman as Sylvia. The only Sylvia.

“Go ahead. I need to make some notes. I’ll go after you.”

Later, in bed together, she said, “You were so strange on the plane yesterday, you had me worried. I’m glad you’re back. Come here.”

He hesitated.

“It’s our first night in Paris,” she said. “Don’t you want to? I know I do.”

He gave in, snuggled with her, and they kissed. He touched her, she touched him, and there was no turning back. Not that he wanted to. On top, her pelvis rocked with a litheness he hadn’t known a woman capable of, and in the cuddling afterwards she whispered her love for him.

Over the next three days, the meetings and dinners came off without a hitch. Sylvia, who went to all of them, irritated him by making him late for his tour of the E. Leclerc’s Paris hypermarché, the French equivalent of a Walmart superstore. She made up for it at corporate headquarters by enchanting the men, although she got jealous glances from most of the women. Except for one who looked at her with longing and monopolized her for a while.

Sylvia pulled Lawrence aside and pointed to the woman, an attractive brunette wearing a smart business suit. “What do you say to the three of us? She’s free tonight. It’ll be something new.”

He stood, wooden. The woman raised her hand in greeting from across the room.

“Don’t be a stick in the mud,” Sylvia prodded. “After all, it’s Paris.”

Lawrence stared at the floor, mute.

“She’s the Vice President of Marketing. You want her support, don’t you?”

He did, and there was no point in being a prude with his own wife. “Sure, let’s do it.”

She came to their hotel room. Sylvia displayed the abandon he expected in their ménage à trois, and in his uninhibited participation with the women. Afterward, the satiated brunette gone, his embarrassment at his lack of restraint tempered the hope Sylvia would suggest a repeat.

She didn’t. Once was enough. But she surprised him by ushering him downstairs and hailing a cab, giving an address in the Marais, and leading him into 38 Riv, a basement club with a barrel-vaulted ceiling. Sylvia ordered Champagne while an American jazz quartet played. Glass in hand, she made her way across the floor and took the mic from the pianist between numbers.

“Hey, everyone, I want you to know that my husband impressed the shit out of a group of execs over the last few days and is about to win the biggest fucking contract of his life. Lawrence, stand up so they can see you. Come on, stand up.”

Lawrence stood for a brief moment.

“Let’s toast to a man of success.” She drained her flute. He had no idea how many people in the audience knew English, but he saw some raised glasses.

She took her seat next to him, smiling, happy, and drunk.

Their five days of leisure began, days the Sylvia he’d known would have suffered through, longing for her garden and yoga classes, but days this Sylvia reveled in. She found places to visit beyond those he’d planned on—Place de la Madeleine, the Belleville neighborhood, and the pedestrian Rue Daguerre. After their tour of Louis XIV’s chateau at Versailles, she barely gave him time to rest, coaxing him through walkways in the vast grounds, to the hamlet where Marie Antoinette pretended to be a peasant, and to the queen’s Grand Trianon palace.

By the end of the day, he half-longed for the more sedate companionship of the wife who had disappeared. But only half.

At home, he and Sylvia made love a couple of times a week, sometimes less. For her substitute, even nightly wasn’t enough. This stand-in for his wife was a kick: charming, energetic, sexually charged, and willing to experiment, overjoyed with Paris. But she refused to go to the Louvre with its stuffy old art, no matter that it topped his list of museums. Only the Musée d’Orsay would do. He gave in only because she held his shoes out the window and threatened to drop them.

Her streak of selfishness notwithstanding, he felt a zeal for life like he had fourteen years ago when they first dated, forgetting it had been the other one he dated, although this Sylvia remembered those times as well. Confusing.

Lawrence called the children almost every evening on speakerphone before dinner, which was early afternoon in the States. He did the talking, getting the news from her parents and telling the kids how much he missed them. Sylvia put in an occasional word as she did her nails or looked at her phone. What kind of mother would she be when they got home?

If the kids heard something unfamiliar in her voice, they didn’t let on. Would the children and her parents look like her, blond descendants of northern European stock he’d never met?

Whirlwind activities succeeded one another. Sitting on the famous steps of the Sacré Coeur, they took in the stupendous view of Paris. They got delightfully lost in Montmartre’s winding alleys looking for the home of the Impressionist painter Renoir. They lucked out with a reservation at the Peruvian fusion restaurant. On a Bateau Mouche sunset cruise their last evening, kissing and gawking at the famed Parisian sights from the river, he realized he was falling in love with her.

Lawrence was ready to accept the new Sylvia—wife, lover, champion, friend—as a lasting fixture in his life. But what about everyone else? Would their children, neighbors, and friends be as shocked by the unfamiliar surrogate as he’d been, or would they recognize her as having always belonged to their world?

***

On the plane heading west, Sylvia dressed in the same purple pullover she’d worn on the flight over, this time with a summery print skirt. Arriving at the airport, they were herded along corridors, up and down escalators, and through passport control.

“I need to use the restroom. Wait for me at the carousel,” Lawrence said when they reached baggage claim.

He returned to a thick throng around the conveyer belt. He searched until he caught a glimpse of the sun hat and purple blouse. After weaving his way through the milling crowd, he saw the brown hair and slightly plump figure of Sylvia. The first Sylvia, the one he thought had left permanently.

Sylvia stood beside their suitcases. “Good, you’re here. Let’s go. I can’t wait to see the kids.”

Lawrence stood, immobile, eventually choking out, “Sylvia?”

She gave a mock military salute. “Present and accounted for.”

“Sylvia?” he said again.

“Were you expecting someone else? Come on, let’s get out of here.”

He raised the suitcase handle and wheeled behind her. She acted like she’d been on the plane. Impossible. But the other Sylvia had been equally impossible. Interchangeable women, so different yet the same.

Brown-haired Sylvia appeared in the photos on his phone. He didn’t need to see her passport.

He dismissed the idea of the swap being a trick of Allied Technologies; in Paris, Sylvia had been on his side. Maybe it was his brain that had been swapped out, twice—another ridiculous idea. Then, he recalled the airport hologram again, the wispy figure that he could have sworn smiled when he wished for a different wife for his travels.

Bizarre, inexplicable, illogical. But there it was.

Walking by her side, Lawrence passed customs and entered the arrivals hall in a daze. They made their way to an exit to pick up a shuttle to the parking lot. It would take some time to adjust, but he figured that his original spouse, the one whom he’d married and with whom he’d raised a family, would feel right once in the familiar surroundings of home. This edition of Sylvia, steadier and more responsible, made a better mother, a reliable companion for a daily life of work and shopping at the supermarket. The other Sylvia, spontaneous, adventurous, and fun, had been the perfect vacation partner. He would miss her untamed spirit, her eagerness in bed, how Europe had charmed her.

He wanted them both. “Now that it’s over, how did you like the trip?”

“Oh, it was alright. Not as bad as I thought it would be. Versailles was my favorite place, and Montmartre was okay. But overall, it was too much activity, you know what I mean? Exhausting. I’m glad to be back.”

“I’m glad you’re back. I mean, I’m glad we’re back.”

He meant it, but he wanted his new Sylvia, too. He couldn’t bear the heartbreak of losing her forever. And he knew how to bring her back.

“The trip wouldn’t have been the same without you. Having you there made it special.” Moving on from flattery, he asked, “You don’t have any regrets, do you?”

“I wouldn’t say that. I missed the things I do at home, but at least I’ve seen Paris.”

“You know that deal I’ve been working on in Italy? I need to go to Rome soon. If there’s another city in the world you’ve got to see, it’s Rome.”

“Well, let’s get used to being home first, then I’ll consider it.”

It tickled him to picture blond Sylvia’s exuberance in the wonders of the Eternal City. He had to share it with her. He’d talk this one into going on his junket when the time came, and she would escort him to the airport. He wondered if the hologram would remember him.

Barry Fields lives with his wife and dog in North Carolina. Recent short stories have been published in 34^th Parallel Magazine, Sundial: A Magazine of Literary Historical Fiction, New English Review, and Unlikely Stories Mark V: and in Ginosko Literary Journal, and Sunhous Review (coming winter 2025). Two earlier short stories placed in contests, and numerous nonfiction articles have appeared in a variety of publications.

Barry Fields lives with his wife and dog in North Carolina. Recent short stories have been published in 34^th Parallel Magazine, Sundial: A Magazine of Literary Historical Fiction, New English Review, and Unlikely Stories Mark V: and in Ginosko Literary Journal, and Sunhous Review (coming winter 2025). Two earlier short stories placed in contests, and numerous nonfiction articles have appeared in a variety of publications.