The Family Game(83)

I zip up my coat, slip my phone into the other pocket, and head out of the blue room as stealthily as I can.

The house is quiet as I steal through it, silent save for the ghostly piano music and the soft crackle of the hall fire. No people stir; there is no movement at all. At the back door I ease quietly out into the sharp chill outside.

The white-sprinkled gardens sparkling in the moonlight. Around me the air is full of snowflakes tumbling down in slow fluffy clusters. Deep snow is setting in, and as I look down I realize what this means for me: footprints.

But there’s little I can do about that. If the snow continues to fall they should disappear before too long anyway. I can only hope no one stumbles across them before then.

Outside the main house, I head quickly towards the maze, casting a look back at the house, its insides lit up, warm and cosy, a toy house hinged open for all to see.

On the second floor I catch sight of Eleanor searching through a bookcase, illuminated in her endeavour. Below her, at the corner of the building, I see Oliver in the flicker of candlelight through the giant windows of the sunroom, intent on unearthing something from the fireplace. But I don’t have time for spying; I turn and break into a run, but I only make it a few metres before someone rounds the corner of the maze and propels straight into me, knocking me to the ground.

I look up and the figure towering over me is Fiona, her floor-length red silk dress hitched up over rubber wellies and partially covered with a wax jacket. Her expression is as confrontational as the shovel grasped tightly in her hand.

‘Of course. It’s you,’ she says, rubbing her shoulder. She offers an unapologetic hand to pull me up. Her usually soft, open demeanour is gone to such an extent that I have to wonder if I imagined it in the first place. It’s funny how wrong I could have been about the type of person Oliver’s wife was. I guess I made the mistake of assuming all stay-at-home mums are cut from the same cloth. Fiona’s cloth is not quite as forgiving as I had supposed.

I give her my hand and she yanks me up to standing.

‘Have you seen any of the others?’ she asks with a directness that tells me we are not playing as a team.

‘I saw Oliver and Eleanor through the windows. The others I don’t know.’

She nods, looking back towards the house, then seems to decide something. ‘Yeah, I think I saw Edward or Stuart a minute ago,’ she says, absentmindedly casting her gaze towards the driveway. Then she looks me up and down. ‘And where are you going?’ she asks.

‘I’m not going to tell you that, Fiona.’

She laughs humourlessly. ‘Whatever. I’ll find out anyway.’ I try not to focus too much on the shovel in her hands, on the fact that she will be able to track my footprints in the snow, and that she doesn’t seem like a very forgiving winner who might keep my secrets. Something in my demeanour amuses her.

‘Oh my God. You’re terrified, aren’t you?’ she registers with a chuckle. ‘That’s hilarious. What have they got on you? What’s Robert got on you? God, it must be good.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Fiona,’ I say, walking away.

‘Wait,’ she shouts after me, pulling me up short, her tone aggressive. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t care. I’ll make you a deal. Your secret, if Oliver or I win, we’ll make it go away.’

Her eyes gleam in the moonlight, snowflakes catching in her tumbling brown hair.

‘And what would I have to do in return?’ I ask tentatively. ‘You want me to keep your secrets if I win?’

Fiona lets out a bright burst of laughter. ‘Oh my God, you’re not going to win, Harry! That’s so sweet. Did you really think—’ She gives me a cartoonish expression of mock-sympathy. ‘That is so cute. You really don’t know who you’re playing against here, do you?’ she says with a shake of her head, before adding seriously, ‘No, the deal is: if Oliver or I win, then you and Ed don’t have kids.’

‘What?’ I snort out a laugh. ‘I’m already pregnant. How the hell does that work?’

She frowns at my stupidity. ‘Have a think about it, Harry, you’ll get there in the end.’

What she’s suggesting suddenly hits me square in the chest. ‘Jesus Christ. You want me to get an abortion? For a game? Jesus Christ, Fiona.’

‘This is not a game – we both know that. I want you to have an abortion and to not have any children with him, at all. That is the deal. They have something on you, and believe me I’ll find out what it is. You’ve done something bad, I can tell. It must be fucking awful because there’s no way you’d have agreed to play tonight if it wasn’t. You had to play, didn’t you? You might be able to fool Edward, but I see you.’

I pull myself up to full height. This is taking too long; I need this to end.

‘Fiona, get a fucking grip. I am not aborting my child for you, so fuck off. Is this about inheritance or some bullshit? Because I don’t want their money, or need it. We’ve got more than enough. How much does anyone need anyway?’

Fiona hardens. ‘Right now, my children are the only grandchildren, do you understand that? If you have that child, if you have Edward’s child, you are taking from my sons. And I am their mother. Does that make sense to you? If you want to keep whatever dirty little secret you’ve managed to keep hidden from Ed, then you’ll do exactly what I tell you to do. Do you understand me?’