The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (30)

14


Red Rag to a Bull


FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 25–TUESDAY, DECEMBER 6



It turns out, as predicted, the Holbecks don’t take kindly to other people’s commitments.

The first call comes that evening. As I hole up in my study with ten pages already under my belt and a half-eaten sandwich at my elbow, Edward pokes a tentative head around the door. He knows where things stand with the book and what I need to do in order to get over the line. He lifts the phone muffled in his hands apologetically.

“I know you’re right in the middle of it. I told her. She knows. But my mother wants a word,” he says, his face sheepish. Something about Edward plunged into the role of put-upon son makes me laugh—though I doubt I’d find any of this quite so amusing if my word count weren’t as high as it already is this evening.

“Yeah, it’s fine. I can speak to her. I might stop for the night now anyway,” I say, taking the phone from him. “What’s it about?” I ask before raising it to my ear.

He shrugs. “Won’t tell me.”

I twitch an eyebrow in interest, and he smirks, slipping out of the room, leaving me to find out.

“Hi, Eleanor, it’s Harriet. Everything okay?”

“Oh, hello, darling. Now, listen, Edward has explained the situation. You’re a Trojan; good for you. And I’ll be out of your hair imminently. I just want to get your advice on something. Gauge your thoughts really. Robert and I, of course, want you both over for Christmas this year, but as you’re aware it’s a delicate topic with Edward. I don’t want to cause a fuss, scare him off, so I thought I’d hold off asking him at all if you thought it was perhaps too soon…for him?”

This is not the conversation I was expecting. “Um, I—”

“You see, last Christmas was the first we all spent apart,” she blusters on. “We tend to cluster together at The Hydes most holidays. But of course Edward was in London with you last Christmas and everything was a bit fraught between us, as you know. The whole family comes to us usually. It’s very festive. We’d love to get back to the way things were, you understand.”

I think she is inviting me over for Christmas. But it’s hard to be sure.

The idea of it is terrifying and thrilling in equal measure. A chance to look inside The Hydes, a chance to study Edward’s family in its natural habitat and absorb their strange magic free from constraint. But in order to do that, I would actually need to spend Christmas with them.

“Um, well, it sounds lovely, Eleanor. I really appreciate the offer, and I’d personally love to, but I really don’t know how Edward would take to that idea at the moment. Or, to be honest, how he’d take to you asking me the question in the first place,” I say gently, my voice lowered in spite of the fact I can hear Edward pottering around in the kitchen.

“I see,” she says, circumspectly. “Noted. Well, in that case, perhaps we just need a little more time to ease him into the idea. Softly, softly, catchee monkey, as they say.” She sighs, though a smile is evident in her voice. I can’t help but relish her old-world familiarity with me given the fact we’ve only met once. “Well, thank you for your honesty, my dear. We’ll give it a little more time perhaps.” She pivots. “Now, listen, Edward told me about your situation with Grenville Sinclair. Is there anything the family can do to help—?”

“No!” I blurt, but quickly recover myself. “No, it’s all good. Thank you, Eleanor. It’s actually very motivating, a hard deadline. I’ve never been so prolific,” I add lightly.

“Oh, that’s so good to hear. But you must take care of yourself, Harry dear. You must be exhausted with the house, and your work.”

The question blindsides me to the extent that I find I don’t really understand it. “The house?”

“Running the house and working full-time,” she clarifies.

“Oh, well, it’s just an apartment really. And we don’t make much mess, so—”

“Yes, Edward mentioned you hadn’t managed to find a suitable housekeeper in town yet? You know, I’m not surprised. I know it can be a real nightmare when you first move to the city. People hoard the good ones.”

I find myself once again lost for words. Edward thinks we need a housekeeper? “Er, well, we actually don’t really need a housekeeper, I don’t think.” Yet even as I say it, I’m wondering if I’m wrong. Apparently, Edward needs to make excuses for the fact that we don’t have one. Suddenly I wonder if he finds it weird that we don’t have a cleaner, that I hoover and tidy myself, that he sometimes has to cook?

“Harriet, darling, you’re not cooking and cleaning yourself, are you? Not on top of everything?” she asks, as diplomatically as it is possible to, given the inference. I look at the limp half-eaten sandwich beside me as she continues. “You will run yourself ragged trying to do it all. But who am I to tell you how to do things? I’m sure you know your own mind. Here’s the thing: We’re dyed-in-the-wool Democrats, my dear, to a man. We’re all liberal, woke, pro-union, patrons of the arts, what-have-you, but let’s be honest here: chapped hands help no one.”

I stifle a giggle. This is the strangest conversation I’ve had with a partner’s mother. And I’m pretty sure there’s some blurred definitions in there.