The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (15)
Three oversized white sofas face one another around a low glass coffee table, over which the entire Holbeck family and friends have arranged themselves.
All eyes in the room find us as we enter, and for a heart-stopping second Edward and I come to a halt, hands held, smiling like idiots. A silence, punctuated only by the gentle spit and crackle of the log fire in its marble fireplace and the dull clink of ice cubes in glasses, fills the room. I feel Edward bristle beside me.
My eyes flick across the group hungrily as I take in as much as I can. Visible, beyond the drawing room’s far door, a lofty dining room opens out, its table set and glimmering in soft candlelight. This is where our evening will play out.
After an eternity that almost certainly stretches only a few seconds in real-world time, Edward’s mother speaks, breaking the tension. “Harriet,” she says with genuine warmth as she rises to welcome us. “Edward, darling.”
The rest of the family seems to relax, life coming back to the room around us. In a microsecond they have, no doubt, made their judgments on me and on our relationship—if they hadn’t already.
Glasses are raised in acknowledgment; smiles beam and positions shift as Eleanor glides over to us. I take her in, tanned and immaculately made-up, her gray hair cut into a razor-sharp bob. She modeled in the 1980s; I know this from Ed, but mostly from the internet. Her wide eyes and thick brows are hallmarks of a bygone age. I recall an image of her in profile, balanced on tiptoe in a ballerina costume, aged eighteen, for American Vogue. No wonder Edward looks the way he does. No wonder all his siblings do, with parents like Eleanor and Robert.
I scan my periphery for him, for Edward’s father, but I know he’s not here. I do not sense him and judging by the family’s now easy demeanor, I know I must be right.
Eleanor takes my hand in hers in greeting, her skin warm and soft to the touch, the scent of her perfume fresh and powdered as she leans in to air-kiss my cheeks.
“I cannot tell you how pleased I am, Harriet,” she tells me with a twinkle in her eye, “that you could both make it tonight. And at such short notice.” There’s something in her tone that tells me that she knows the favor Matilda asked of me and she appreciates my help.
She holds me back at arm’s length and playfully makes a show of inspecting me, genuine joy lurking just beneath her surface. “Radiant. Absolutely radiant.” I let out an evasive chuckle. I certainly don’t feel radiant.
“I know. I don’t know why she said yes either, but she did,” Edward quips, making his way over to plant a kiss on Matilda’s cheek. Beside her sits a kind-faced woman that I do not know, who pats Edward on the arm supportively as he shifts past her. In fact, there are five people in this room whom I don’t recognize. Actually, that’s not strictly true. I recognize some of them.
Eleanor gently slips my arm over hers. “Now, yes. I need to introduce you to everyone. Don’t I?” she says, with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “You know Matilda, of course.” Matilda raises her gaze to us and flashes a ruby-red smile.
“Of course.” I smile back.
“And you’ve met Edward,” Eleanor jokes, to a couple of chuckles. “And that poor woman he’s trying to squeeze to death over there,” she says, indicating the woman with the kind face, “is Fiona, my son Oliver’s wife.”
Fiona is about my age, with soft features and a maternal glow. I try to remember what Edward told me about her and Oliver. Fiona is a stay-at-home mom; she and Oliver have three sons and a Portuguese water dog. Oliver took over Edward’s responsibilities in the family business alongside Matilda when Edward decided not to take them up.
Fiona rises and offers me an outstretched hand across the huge coffee table, and I shake it thankfully. She gives me an encouraging look; she’s clearly run the gauntlet of meeting this family for the first time herself. She feels my pain.
“Marty and Nancy are old family friends,” Eleanor continues, pointing over to a cheerful-looking older couple seated near the window, a black dog asleep at their feet.
Nancy gives me a wry smile and raises her glass, with Marty quickly following suit.
“We’re not married,” Nancy quips with a wink. “Just old. And the dog’s his.”
“Then there’s Stuart there,” Eleanor says, directing my gaze to the other side of the room, “my youngest son, and his partner, Lila.” My gaze follows Eleanor’s and I flat-out stare. Beside Stuart—who appears to be a shorter, thinner, and more irascible version of Edward—sits an incredibly familiar face. I recognize Stuart’s girlfriend from glossy magazine adverts, gossip columns, paparazzi pictures, and a notable role in a new action franchise. Stuart’s girlfriend is Scandinavian model-turned-actress Lila Erikson.
She looks up from her phone at the mention of her name, her perfect mouth pulling into a friendly albeit slightly tight smile. “Hey-hey, Harry. So nice to meet you,” she says with a Nordic accent heavier and deeper than expected. In her lap her phone screen begins flashing up a call. She groans. “I’m so sorry, everyone, it’s them again, I really have to take this. So embarrassing.” She sighs in apology, shaking her loose blond hair. “Sorry, Harry, it’s very rude. It’s so great to meet you. I just need to sort out this total fucking shitshow of a double booking. My asshole agent.”
“Li, it’s fine,” Stuart interjects, jumping on her expletives, “just take the call.” I watch as his nervous eyes flit quickly back between his girlfriend and his mother and then he catches me staring, surprised to have pulled my focus. He studies me quickly as beside him Lila slips from the room, then turns back to chug from his glass bottle of Coke as Lila’s voice wafts back to us in Swedish from the hallway.