The Family Game(73)

Words of congratulations cascade around us. Oliver nods his, but beside him I note Fiona’s blank expression. She looks concerned – for me perhaps? For our child? – and for the first time I wonder how much she really knows about this family. My focus is pulled by Lila squeezing me into a tight hug, her eyes twinkling with excitement.

‘A girl,’ Stuart intones wryly. ‘Dad’s going to love that. He’s always said we could do with more female energy in the place. Right?’

Matilda smirks. ‘I think he just says that to you, Stu.’

‘Do you have a name yet?’ Eleanor asks.

‘Her name is Iris,’ I say.

Iris: a beautiful flower. Or the sharp aperture of a human eye – a jewel-toned, star-speckled universe in miniature.

‘Iris,’ Eleanor repeats, savouring the word. ‘Beautiful.’





37 A Moment’s Peace




Friday 23 December

After tea, the family peel off, promising to reconvene for supper at seven. For a moment I think I might get the opportunity I’ve been waiting for to slip away and listen to Robert’s tape, but Eleanor intercedes.

‘I’ll show you around, Harriet, if you’re not too tired from the journey?’

I think of making an excuse but realize I don’t even know what room I’m staying in yet, so I have nowhere to escape to anyway.

Eleanor ferries me and Edward through the property, creaking open door after door to opulent rooms filled with beautiful objects, the house a curated marvel of fine textiles and artwork.

However, when we reach the furthest wing, the aesthetic changes.

‘This is the new wing,’ Eleanor informs me, as underfoot the floor switches abruptly from antique parquet to polished concrete. Ahead of us through a glass corridor the walls are limewashed and minimalist. We stop, our way blocked by a state-of-the-art glass security door with keypad entry system.

Beside me Edward’s phone bursts to life. He attempts to ignore it for a few rings before Eleanor gives him a look that says she will go no further until it is silenced.

‘I’ll leave you two to it, then?’ he says, pulling the phone out. ‘I should probably take this.’ He plants a kiss on my cheek. ‘I’ll catch you back in the room before dinner.’

‘Sure,’ I nod.

‘Blue room, Mom?’

Eleanor nods. ‘Yes, your bags should be up there already. Don’t work too hard, Eddie. It’s Christmas, remember? And you have a very special guest to look after.’

‘Forty-five minutes max,’ he calls back as we watch him disappear around the corridor.

I do not see the numbers Eleanor keys into the system, but once we are inside I realize the new wing is actually the most impressive part of the house.

Glass doors puff open into beautiful minimalist limewash rooms constructed with glass, concrete, pale wood and rough quartz. The lighting is ambient, the temperature climate-controlled, and everything in this wing has a beautifully designed function. It must have cost millions.

‘The old wing burnt down back when the children still lived here. Absolutely terrifying, as you can imagine, but everyone survived. Robert’s old study was lost though. The whole wing was rumble and ash. I blame the cigars. But the new wing can withstand anything. The insurance otherwise,’ she rolls her eyes, ‘you wouldn’t believe.’

‘Do you like it?’ I ask Eleanor, her sharp grey bob swishing as she turns to me.

‘The new wing? I do,’ she answers after a moment’s consideration. ‘Truth be told I like it a lot more than the rest of the house. I like knowing what everything is for and that everything works. I’ve never been a fan of the needlessly complex. Of collections. You?’

I don’t get the chance to answer as the sound of a voice raised in anger and the smashing of glass reaches us from the room at the end of the corridor. It is Robert’s, and he’s arguing with someone. I can’t make out his words but the tone is clear.

Eleanor gives me an apologetic, indulgent look. She shakes her head.

‘I swear to you, Harriet. Every Christmas, without fail. He won’t let things go. Work, work, work. And that Holbeck temper. Every year he winds himself up into a filthy mood.’ She looks at her watch. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll boil over by six and be as soft as a kitten for suppertime.’

That Holbeck temper. As she says it, I realize I’m not sure I’ve ever witnessed it. Edward is the calmest man I know; compared to previous boyfriends he’s a positive saint. And from my experience Oliver and Stuart seem more tired than angry. But, then, I know what is on Robert’s tape. Perhaps temper can be measured in different ways.

I listen once more but the new wing is silent.



* * *



Ten minutes later, pregnancy excuses made, I am lying on a duck-egg blue bed in a duck-egg blue room, surrounded by duck-egg blue curtains and cobalt objet d’art. On the bedside table beside me a cool glass of water sits next to a small vase of freshly picked cornflowers.

Once I have heard Eleanor’s footsteps tap back down the wide stone steps of the main staircase, I scramble over to my bag, lock the bedroom door, and slip on the headphones.





38 The Tape




Part 4

I am under no illusions that you have not done your homework. You will have looked into the names I have given you.