The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (18)

I look over at Billy, the youngest of Oliver and Fiona’s boys. He sits happily playing beside Milo, the Holbeck profile already taking hold of his tiny features.

My gaze flits to the much-feted Nunu, a jolly-looking woman in her fifties. She must have been so young when she nannied Edward and his siblings back in the 1990s. She looks across, feeling all of our eyes on her, and gives a warm smile before signaling for Oliver to come over.

Oliver leaves me with Lila, and I take the opportunity to try to fill in some gaps in my family knowledge.

“Nunu’s quite young, right?” I ask, and when Lila raises an amused eyebrow, I can’t suppress a giggle. “No, I mean she’s much younger than I expected her to be. She was their nanny too, right? Edward, Matilda, Oliver, and Stuart’s?”

“No, they had someone else back then,” she says with a smile. “But that one left after the whole thing with Bobby,” she adds casually.

“The whole thing with Bobby,” I echo, trying to remember if Edward ever mentioned a “Bobby” to me.

“Yeah,” she says, her tone suddenly sobering. “Can’t say I blame her for leaving. You couldn’t have paid me enough to stay after that. The whole thing was just—”

Oliver’s hand firmly lands on Lila’s shoulder, interrupting her. He smiles down at us both. “You’re up next, Lila, Nunu will see you now. I put in a good word for Milo. And apparently,” he says with raised brows, “Milo is already asking if he can stay over tonight with the rest of the boys. Without Mumma.”

“No. Oh my God.” Lila rises and turns to me with a yelp of excitement. “Hey-hey. Nunu certainly doesn’t mess around, does she?”

As Lila glides away, two questions drift in her wake. Who the hell is Bobby? And why have I never heard of him?





7


Billy, Bobby, Strudel, and Port


THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 24



As the second course is taken away, a wave of nausea resurfaces and I calmly make my excuses to head off in search of the nearest bathroom.

Safely installed in a large cream marble bathroom I let my shoulders relax, releasing a tension I had forgotten I was even holding. Nausea temporarily abated, I lean on the basin and inspect myself in the mirror. My makeup is still in place despite my strong expectation of it having completely melted from my face through a combination of hot flashes and social anxiety. My hormones are all over the shop.

I place a hand on my abdomen. What are you up to in there? I ask my tiny raspberry-sized passenger. Whatever it is I need you to stop, just for the next few hours, just till we’re in the car home.

A knock on the door sends my pack of mint gum flying out of my hand and skittering across the immaculate bathroom floor.

“Shit.” I sigh, hunkering down to fish it out from behind an oversized potted fig tree. “Just one second.”

After dusting myself down I crack the door but there’s no one there. Until I look down. Little Billy stares up at me, his expression blank save for two tellingly tearstained eyes.

“Oh, hey Billy,” I say, and hearing the uncertainty in my own voice I suddenly remember for the first time in a long time how terrible I am with kids. I never had the benefit of siblings, or babysitting jobs, or friends with kids—absolutely no day-to-day experience to draw from. Which obviously doesn’t bode well at all for the future.

Billy must have been looking for his mum and found me instead but decides I’ll do for now. He grasps both my legs in a surprisingly robust hug.

“Oh, okay,” I say, a hand patting him gently on the head as I check the corridor for literally anyone else. Not a soul in sight. I guess this is up to me. I bend to meet him on his level, his grasp loosening to let me. “Hey, honey. Billy? Look at me, sweetheart.”

He looks up, his little angel face tear-blotched and puckered. His tawny hair so like Edward’s. God, what a beautiful family. Billy stares at me, his eyes expectant.

“What is it, honey?” I ask him. “Did you hurt yourself?”

Billy shakes his head, suddenly shy, suddenly doubting whether he should have come to me with this. He turns to look back down the hall.

“Did one of the boys do something? Did they upset you?”

Billy pauses and then nods firmly.

“I see,” I say, and some unknown reflex makes me gently push the hair from his eyes. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

He looks back down the hallway again, the sound of adult laughter reaching us from the dining room. Then after a moment, satisfied no one else is coming to help, he nods.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbles, feet shuffling.

“What is it, sweetie?”

“The boys. They said I had to sleep in Bobby’s room on my own tonight, or I can’t play w’them,” he manages before the tears slowly return and he buries his face from me once more.

Bobby’s room. Again with Bobby.

Billy continues, muffled now into the dampened cotton of his sweater. “I don’t like it. I don’t want Bobby’s room.”

This is my chance to find out who Bobby is, I suppose. Decisively I take his tiny hand in mine and squat down beside him. Then face-to-face I calmly say, “Okay. Why don’t you show me Bobby’s room?”



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