The Family Game(23)

Robert stops speaking and the crackle of the fire fills the space.

I look down at my tea, and I can’t help but feel a little disappointed. All of this just to get to Edward.

‘You’re willing to put up with me because you need him,’ I say, addressing the elephant in the room directly. ‘That’s what this is about?’ I ask, gesturing between us.

A chuckle of surprise. ‘No, no, Harriet,’ he says, his tone precise, ‘I did this to see if I was right about you. You are going to be a part of this family, so it’s very important we understand each other. It’s important we both know the facts about who we are. Because you’ll have to believe me when I say, I know the facts about you. I’m sure you won’t be surprised to hear that you were vetted. Due diligence. All possible concerns noted, flagged.’

A slow blossoming of dread at the possibility of what a man like Robert Davison Holbeck could dig up on me. Ghosted boyfriends, broken promises, weakness. But I know he can’t know the worst – no one can —because I was alone the day my parents died. Only I know the things that happened that day.

He knows the shifts and ebbs of my life, the everyday missteps and the mistakes of youth. Things that do not touch the sides of what it is possible to truly regret.

‘You’re everything I hoped you would be, Harriet,’ he says, then gestures between us. ‘This is not about Edward. This is about us. If I lose a son in all this, I hope at least that I might gain a daughter.’





9 A Novel Idea




Thursday 24 November

As we rise to rejoin the family, he gestures for me to wait before heading back past the flickering television screens into the darkness where his desk lies. He flicks on a green desk lamp and slides open a drawer.

The rattle of brittle plastic on plastic, the very particular sound of a cassette tape in its case. The lamp light clicks off and Robert wanders back to me.

‘Now, as we know, we have several things in common, Harriet,’ he smirks, leaning against the arm of the nearest club chair. ‘I wasn’t sure about sharing this, but I have a good feeling about you, and from what I’ve seen, I’m almost certain you can handle a challenge.’ He looks suddenly younger, enlivened by whatever is about to happen.

He reveals what rests in his hands. It’s a relic from before my time: a tiny little cassette in a miniature case. He lets out an involuntary laugh as he catches my puzzled expression, his face more handsome than ever.

‘It’s a Dictaphone tape, Harriet, not a carrier pigeon. Don’t look so baffled or I’ll start to feel my age.’

His ease with me is almost as intoxicating as whatever the hell he’s up to right now.

‘What’s on it?’ I ask.

He holds my gaze, danger crackling in the space between us.

‘I’d like your advice, Harriet – your expertise, shall we say – on it,’ he says, tapping the tiny tape, his expression hard to read for a moment before he cracks an uncharacteristically sheepish smile. ‘Let’s call it an idea for a novel, maybe. It’s not a book, yet, but perhaps it’s the bones of one.’ He rattles the case, the bones of Robert Holbeck’s story. ‘It’s a start, to something,’ he continues. ‘Perhaps we’ll find out the story I have to tell together.’ He looks at me, and I catch the heady glimpse of an offer.

Robert Holbeck has written a story. Or at least recorded one. His voice, his words, on tape. I shiver with excitement at the thought of all that potential.

I watch him turn the tiny tape in his hands absentmindedly and wonder whether it is fiction or not. Because whatever is on that tape could be of interest to a lot of people. I can only imagine what a publisher would pay for it, given the author. Given its possible content.

‘You wrote a book?’ I ask carefully, then quickly correct myself. ‘You recorded one?’

He nods, amused by my clear interest.

‘What’s it about?’ I ask.

‘Well, now, that would give the game away, wouldn’t it?’ he replies breezily. ‘Let’s say it’s a thriller, shall we?’ Then, after a pause: ‘It’s definitely in your wheelhouse.’

This isn’t the first time I’ve been asked to look at someone’s idea for a thriller. Friends, acquaintances, taxi drivers, baristas, plumbers – you name it, as soon as people know you write, they want to tell you their story. Everyone’s got a book in them, as the saying goes. Though sometimes that’s probably where they should stay.

Something tells me Robert Holbeck’s story might be worth a read, however.

‘Why a thriller?’

He casts his eyes up at the flickering screens, stories upon stories feeding through to us in silence. ‘I like their mechanics, their intricacy. But in the end, all is explained,’ he shakes his head, lost in thought, and finally looks back at me. ‘That kind of clarity, it’s so rare we find it in life.’

‘I see,’ I say, then echo his words from earlier. ‘Fictional horror rather than the everyday sort?’

He raises an eyebrow, amused. ‘Quite. One must be careful of what one says around writers, mustn’t one? Or risk being remembered a little too accurately.’

‘You have nothing to worry about, Robert,’ I reassure him, my tone soft. ‘I could never fully do you justice if I tried.’