The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (17)

Edward’s Harriet. There it is again.

I watch this new information pass across Robert Holbeck’s features as his eyes find mine once more.

He takes me in fully now and I realize I’ve stopped breathing. I couldn’t break his gaze if I wanted to, and for some reason it suddenly seems deeply important that I’m not the one to look away first. Half challenge, half invitation—though to what I do not know.

After a moment the skin around his eyes creases, something amusing. For not backing down I am rewarded with a smile.

One thing is for sure now: I have Robert Holbeck’s attention. For better or for worse: he sees me. And I see him.





6


Dinner


THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24



The table is laid, twelve crystal glasses gleaming in the candlelight.

On the walls above us hang oil paintings that seem to date back as far as the first Dutch American colonies. The Holbecks’ ancestry. No doubt the paintings are priceless, but I wonder how the living Holbecks can stand to have the dead ones staring down at them. Family members long gone, their milky eyes watching while the living make merry, oblivious, or long inured, to their persistent gazes.

At the head of the table Robert is flanked to his right by Nancy and a glistening-eyed Matilda. He clearly appreciates the company of women.

As my eyes play over the other guests, I understand that the family’s ranking system is in evidence in tonight’s seating plan: the heart of the Holbeck machine, and its inner workings, made visible. I’m placed as far from the seat of power as it is possible to be, slotted neatly between two other minor plus-ones: Oliver’s wife, Fiona, and Stuart’s girlfriend of two years, Lila Erikson.

Lila leans in conspiratorially as she unfurls her napkin. “They’re creepy, right?” For a second, I’m certain she means our hosts, but then her eyes travel up to the faces hanging silently above us, the gaunt white visages looming from the walls. “I hate them,” she chuckles and grabs for her drink. “Bunch of creepy-assed colonists. Oh yeah, and lest we forget, Happy Thanksgiving.” I let out a snort of laughter and she clinks her glass of wine with my glass of water. “Cheers.”

Across the table Edward throws me a rallying smile. I smile back, grateful to have been placed beside someone I can actually talk to.

“No wine, Ms. Reed?” a voice behind me inquires loudly. The gray-clad butler proffers a decanter that I had seamlessly managed to swerve on its first round of the table. But this guy isn’t going to back down quite as easily as the previous server. I weigh my next move.

What would draw less attention: outright turning alcohol down or pouring it and not drinking it?

Lila’s interest is piqued by my hesitancy, so I bite the bullet.

“No, no wine, thanks.” I give a grateful smile, but the butler doesn’t flinch.

“Perhaps you’d care for a white instead? Or a cocktail, maybe,” he asks, managing to imbue the word cocktail with a whole spectrum of negative connotations. I notice a few eyes around the table flit to us with interest.

“No, no thank you. I’ll just stick with the water for now. No need to—”

Eleanor chips in now too. “It really is no trouble, Harriet, if you’d like a different drink. Whatever you’d prefer we can get for you. I should have checked beforehand, your drink, of course,” she admonishes herself. Now that our hostess is involved conversation drops off around the table, and as Edward goes to speak, I start to babble.

“No, no. I love red wine. Love alcohol in general but I’m just not…tonight. Honestly, water is fine. I’m…basically…I’m not drinking at the moment.”

God, now I just sound like an alcoholic.

Stuart must agree because it’s his turn to dive in. “Yeah, I’m not drinking at the moment either. We unhappy few, we band of brothers.” He toasts me with his glass Coke bottle. Great, they all think I’m in AA now.

Matilda leans forward in my defense. “Not quite, Stu. Harry’s recovering from a bout of food poisoning. Right, Harry? She was an angel to come to tea with me this week and she’s a positive saint to take on a Holbeck Thanksgiving, all things considered. So let’s give her a break, shall we?” I watch her words work on the group, their interest in me waning, except for R.D.’s. His eyes fix on me and I catch the ghost of his curious smile again before he breaks the connection.

Heads dip in concentration as the food is served, and intermittent conversation bubbles along. My eyes catch Matilda’s and she winks.

After the first course I take the opportunity to swivel in my seat to gently insert myself into Lila and Oliver’s conversation about their respective children.

“I don’t know how Fiona does it though, Ollie,” Lila croons. “Your boys are so independent. Milo is—” She breaks off, throwing a look across to the children’s table where her son, Milo, sits with his halo of soft curls. Her child from a previous relationship. “He’s sensitive, you know,” she continues. “He needs to know I’m around or he goes crazy.” She grimaces. “I mean, like, crazy crazy, all the time.”

“You should talk to Nunu,” Oliver says. “She spent some time with Billy before he started preschool. He wouldn’t leave Fi’s side but now he’s fine. Some boys are just that way.”