The Family Game(32)
I cannot risk being drawn into the Holbecks’ orbit. At least not for five more days.
15 Lila
Monday 12 December
It’s just past midnight on the twelfth when I push send on the email to my publishers, ten minutes over my deadline. As the manuscript wings its way through the ether and out of my sphere of control, I slump back into my chair and let out a sigh of internal surrender.
My Herculean challenge finally complete, I contemplate a cold glass of wine before quickly remembering I can’t do that for another seven months. Unless I take the continental approach to pregnancy and start on a glass a night for good measure. At this stage the idea has a certain ring to it, but perhaps a hot bath and a bar of chocolate might do just as well.
I close down the sent document triumphantly. Two days ago, I set a password on my manuscript. Call it paranoia, call it cowardice, but Edward asked about the plot that morning and I got the jitters. I was so close to the finish line and I didn’t want to run the risk of him baulking at the hook of my story before I sent it. Not that there’s anything in it to baulk at, and I can amend things in the edit if anyone raises concerns. The point is: the family in my story isn’t the Holbeck family, and the lost son isn’t Bobby. In my story, the son doesn’t really die. He comes back.
The fact remains I password-locked the document to stop Edward reading it, whatever that means in terms of trust. It’s not that I don’t trust him, and there’s nothing wrong with curiosity and it’s flattering to imagine he might want to sneak a peek, but I didn’t want to feel encumbered at the first draft stage by outside judgement. The truth is I am pleased with it, come what may. It might be the best thing I have written. We’ll see.
* * *
The next morning, after a well-deserved lie-in, I take a short walk from the apartment to meet Lila at an open-air Christmas market at Columbus Circle. I’ve seen it in passing since it went up last week, on the few rare occasions I’ve left the apartment for writing breaks.
I considered making a start on Robert’s tape this morning, but wanted to enjoy it without having to break it up. If Edward’s not home before me tonight, I will begin.
The Christmas market is a small festive shanty town of painted alpine huts, glowing warm and each stocked to the brim with crafts and imported delicacies from across Europe. There’s something so nostalgic about it that as I approach, it almost feels like coming home. The market’s thoroughfares are swathed with thick pine garlands that twinkle with fairy lights, and the air is filled with the spiced scent of gluhwein and roasted nuts.
I catch sight of Lila ahead of me in front of a large Christmas tree, totally at home in the anonymous crowd, though she stands a few inches taller than passers-by. She looks amazing, every inch the Swedish Christmas dream: snow boots, leggings and a shearling coat wrapped tight against the cold. She smiles as she catches sight of me.
‘Harry,’ she cheers. ‘You did it! You finished.’ She pulls me into a hug and claps my back harder than I expect her to, making me cough slightly. ‘You’re finished. Yes? Deadline over?’
I crack my own smile now. ‘Yep, all done.’
‘In that case, let’s celebrate,’ she says, looping an arm through mine and guiding me purposefully into the tightly packed market.
As we go, she tells me about herself, how she moved to New York as a young model, her childhood in Sweden, her disastrous first marriage to a well-known Boston Irish basketball player that led to the birth of her gorgeous son Milo and, finally, how she met Stuart.
‘Zermatt. Skiing with friends. We were thrown together. I’m sure you know, Stuart doesn’t drink. No alcohol, no substances. Our friend groups, well, they can all get a bit cokey, you know. A bit much. I grew up modelling. I’ve seen some things, too young, you know. I don’t touch any of that stuff, never have. It scares the bejesus out of me. My ex always got messy drunk. I don’t like it.’ She studies my expression for a second, then continues, ‘I know what you’re thinking. She’s going from one guy with a drink problem to another, right?’ I go to protest but she smiles. ‘It’s fine. Stuart isn’t like that. He’s ten years sober, still goes to meetings; he’s a lifer. Trust me, I’ve met a lot of addicts in my life, a lot of liars, and you get a sense for people, of who’s kidding themselves… Stuart is a good man; he might seem like a black sheep, but that’s just another way of saying how rare he is. He’s a good stepdad to Milo.’
We stop at a hut selling gluhwein, glogg and hot chocolates. The vendor clearly recognizes Lila and becomes mildly awkward. In the short time we’ve been together I have already noticed a few roving eyes and open mouths.
‘You ever had glogg?’ she asks me.
‘I don’t think so. What is it?
‘It’s like gluhwein but much better. It’s Swedish,’ she grins. ‘It’ll warm you up from the insides.’
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, and I politely decline and settle instead for a fully loaded hot chocolate with marshmallows and a crumbly chocolate stick valiantly wedged into its creamy summit.
We wander on sipping our hot drinks and I steel myself to ask a question I’ve been longing to ask since Thanksgiving. ‘Did you know all about Bobby?’ Lila’s focus turns to me, an eyebrow raised.