The Family Game(26)

They say your sex drive can go wild during pregnancy. That must be it. A chemical reaction; nothing to do with me, or with my character.

As Edward pulls me close, I become aware of the scent of Robert’s tobacco on me, in my hair, on my clothes. I open my eyes and there is Edward, Robert thirty years younger. I bury my hand in his still dark hair, my body pressing into his, as I desperately try to separate the man I am thinking about from the man I am kissing. The hard ridges of Robert’s tape cassette dig into the skin of my upper thigh through the velvet of my jumpsuit, less than an inch from my silk underwear. I wonder if I should pull away and stop this before it goes any further. But I do not.

As Edward’s lips travel to my neck, my gaze flutters to the Holbecks’ driver, a thick sheet of glass dividing us. His eyes are glued to the road, oblivious.



* * *



Back in the apartment, hours later, I sit on the edge of the bathtub, my feet cold against the tiles. I can’t sleep but it’s not morning sickness this time; it’s everything else.

Bobby, Edward and Robert Holbeck himself.

I tap Bobby’s name into the search bar of my phone. The apartment is silent around me; Edward is fast asleep back in our bed.

The search results load but to my surprise have autocorrected to Robert Holbeck. For a second, I’m baffled, then it clicks and I kick myself for being so stupid.

Bobby and Robert have the same name. Father and firstborn son. The weight of that tradition hits me afresh as I stare at the screen. Bobby never really even had his own name.

I scroll past the autocorrected business articles and op-ed pieces on Robert Davison Holbeck’s empire, its reach, its impact. Google images of Robert’s roguishly handsome face slip past and I try to squash the bizarre mixture of feelings they give me – shame, desire and anger at myself.

I don’t locate what I’m looking for until the third page of the search results. There is a straightforward, no-frills obituary in The New York Times.


Robert Alfred ‘Bobby’ Holbeck, aged 19, died on October 18th, 2002, at Mount Sinai Hospital, New York, after therapeutic complications. Born on January 3rd, 1983, to business magnate, investor and philanthropist RD Holbeck and his wife Eleanor Belinda Holbeck, a former model and Goodwill ambassador, Robert was in his second year as an undergraduate at Columbia University in the city of New York, studying Law. He was a bright student, a valued member of the undergraduate community, and a highly skilled young athlete. He will be greatly missed by all who knew him and his family kindly ask for privacy, and the space to grieve, during this difficult time.

A memorial service will take place on November 18th at St Paul’s Chapel on Columbia’s Morningside Heights campus for those who wish to pay their respects.



I notice the date of Bobby’s memorial service. The anniversary of it would have been last week, just three days before Edward proposed to me. I can’t help but wonder if thoughts of Bobby somehow influenced Edward’s decision to ask me. A sense of ‘carpe diem’ perhaps.

I look down at the glimmering jewel on my finger. Did he give me this ring out of love or out of fear that he might end up like Bobby? That his family might slowly push him to the edge?

I skim the obituary again, shuddering at the strangely bureaucratic language used to describe his death. Therapeutic complications.

There is precious little else about Bobby online. Edward was right: the Holbecks really did manage to keep Bobby off the internet. A year after 9/11, I guess the city – the world – had bigger fish to fry back then. Easy to lose track of one accidental death in the abundance of human tragedy around that time.

I know from writing research how search results can be made to disappear; the EU has its own online ‘right to be forgotten’ law. Anyone can request that their personal information be removed from search results. You just have to prove it is more damaging to the people involved for it to remain in the public sphere than it is beneficial to the public for the information to be available. The US doesn’t have a similar law yet, but there is legal precedent. I’m sure the Holbecks could avail themselves of that fact.

Matilda rearranged my work life in under thirty minutes; I’m sure, given a long enough time frame, for people like them, anything is possible.

Robert must have gone to extraordinary lengths to protect his family after what happened to Bobby. I feel that odd ache again and push the feeling away angrily. But it’s not just for Robert; it’s for all of them – the family, their strange history and the aura surrounding them. They are utterly terrifying and bewitching.

The tape Robert gave me is safely nestled in my bedside drawer – a glow blossoms in my chest at the thought of it. I have been entrusted with something special. If I had something to play it on, I would listen to the whole thing now, but I don’t.

In spite of the extremely early hour, I suddenly have a desperate urge to write – a desire I haven’t felt in months. I pad swiftly through the apartment to my study, ease myself into my writing chair and flip open my laptop. Through the window New York twinkles and I get the thrill that every early riser gets, of being the first to live the new day.

I open a fresh document and the words just come. A new story. The story of an intoxicating family with a secret.





11 The Man in the Carriage




Friday 25 November