The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (29)

But that will not be happening, because unlike Marv and Sylvester, I do not have giant bear hands. And now that I’ve been forewarned, I am forearmed. Robert’s tape is safe with me.

I fish the cassette from my pocket, open the player, and slide the tape in. It shuts with a satisfying click.

I press PLAY and the machine responds with another gratifying clunk, then a low fizz and an ambient crackle as sound bursts to life in my ears. I brace myself for Robert’s voice.

Through the headphones, I pick up the distant muffle of speaking, then I distinguish the low rumble of fabric rubbing on the mic, as if this were recording in someone’s pocket.

It could be the murmurs of a private conversation or something already badly recorded over. I spin the volume dial up in the hope of hearing more, but the words remain indistinct. And then I get the odd feeling that I am listening to something I shouldn’t be.

There’s a chance Robert might have given me the wrong tape. He retrieved it in the half-light, after all.

I consider turning it off but suddenly the quality of sound changes in my headphones; the muffling lifts. I strain to hear more, sliding the volume up to its highest, and then I hear it. The sound of breathing first, and then, in earsplitting volume, the unmistakable voice of Robert Holbeck.

Reflexively I yank the headphones from my ears with a yelp. In front of me an elderly woman is staring directly at me angrily, her face slack with age, her expression unambiguous. “What are you, deaf?” she shouts, her tone implying she knows I’m not. “You gonna answer it? Or we all gotta put up with it?” she spits, jutting a bony finger toward my bag, and I realize what the hell she is talking about. My phone is ringing, loud and persistent in the car.

“Oh, er, thank you,” I manage, and she shrugs dismissively as I fumble the offending article from my bag and answer it.

“Sorry, yes, hello?”

“Oh hi, Harriet. Is this a bad time? It’s Amy at Grenville Sinclair. Is everything okay?”

I straighten in my subway seat. It’s my publisher. Again. I dread to think of what could be sparking this second call in a week.

“Amy, no, no, I’m free. What can I do for you?”

I look down at the Olympus microcassette player on my lap. Through its small window I watch the reels of the tape continuing to turn. It’s still playing. Shit. I clunk down the STOP button and then the REWIND and watch the reels reverse their movement.

“Oh, fantastic. Wonderful,” she says with relief. “I’m so glad I caught you. I tried you on your home phone but there was no answer. My mistake. I thought I recalled you once mentioning in an interview that you write from home. Where are you writing these days? It sounds busy there. Do you write out and about?” Her tone is friendly and conversational but the unspoken upshot of the call is that we both know I am not writing right now. And I should be. My deadline has passed and I am under contract.

“No, actually, I’m just out doing a little research,” I lie. And yet considering the new direction my novel has taken, perhaps calling Robert’s tape “research” isn’t such a stretch.

“Oh, fascinating. Can you tell me more, or is it all still bubbling away?” she asks.

“Bubbling, yeah,” I say, floundering. “Listen, Amy, I am so sorry about what happened the other day. I think wires got crossed and—”

“Not a problem at all, Harriet. I totally understand the situation. And your agent, Louisa, has emailed about your extension request, which is actually why I’m calling.”

“Oh, great,” I respond optimistically, though something in the change of her tone makes me realize this is not a good call.

“Yes, so Louisa mentioned you’re almost there with this draft. More than two-thirds. Now, you know how much Grenville Sinclair loves you; we even looked at pushing publication dates. But the thing is, not much more can be done at this end. We’re in a bind. I know this is a lot to throw at you, but we’re really going to need that manuscript by the second week of December.”

I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly arid. “The second week? As in…?”

“Two weeks? Is that doable?” Her voice is a little crisper now, a little more businesslike. “It sounds like you’re nearly there anyway, right?”

“Right,” I lie. I have fifty thousand words of a ninety-thousand-word novel and last night I entirely reworked the plot.

Two weeks to write forty thousand words and pull the whole thing together. I feel my pulse skyrocket but force myself to remain calm. This isn’t the moon landing. It’s a curveball, for sure, but it’s doable. It’s a high daily word count, but I’ve managed it before. After all, I got seventy-five hundred done last night alone. I seem to be back in the game, which is the most important thing.

“Okay. Okay. I can do the eleventh. That is not a problem. Thank you for letting me know, Amy.”

After I hang up, my eyes drop to the cassette player on my lap. I definitely do not have time for this now. I need to be working all day, every day, until December 11. No interruptions, no distractions. I click off the cassette player’s power, carefully wrap the headphone cord around it, and open my iPhone Notes app.

Robert will have to wait. All the Holbecks will have to wait. Though judging by their previous track record, that doesn’t seem like something they’re used to doing.