The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (31)

“You certainly make a robust argument for it, that’s for sure, Eleanor. I’ll give it some serious thought,” I tell her, and bizarrely I mean it. I don’t want to fight any battles I don’t have to, especially as I get further into pregnancy. I chose to enter Edward’s world and it looks like this is what it is.

“Do, my dear. And thank you for the advice. I’ll let you get on with your important work. All my love.”



* * *



—

There’s a knock at the front door early the next morning. Luckily I’m up and dressed this time and already two hours into my day. The view through the peephole is still blocked by the Christmas wreath, so I’m none the wiser when Edward quizzically pops his head out of the bathroom and asks who it is.

“No idea,” I tell him.

“Right, if it’s any of them, I’ll deal with it. I promise, just give me a minute to put some clothes on,” he calls, disappearing back into the steam of the bathroom.

I wonder if it’s odd that I don’t mind his family’s attention half as much as he does. But then this is all new to me. I’ve never really had relatives before, and now there seem to be a lot of them.

I lift the latch and swing open the front door to reveal a beaming and incredibly tall Maori woman in her forties. She’s dressed in a pristine gray uniform, and in her arms she is carrying cleaning supplies and a large brown bag of groceries.

“Ms. Reed? My name is Ataahua. Mrs. Holbeck asked me to come over, if it’s okay? I’m so excited to be helping you with the house for the next few weeks. Is it okay if I come in?”

I stare completely dumbfounded at my newest employee. Eleanor sent us a housekeeper.

“Hi, Ataahua. This is, wow, yes, this is so exciting. Thank you so much,” I say with a smile as I wonder how in God’s name I am going to explain this to Ed when he gets out of the shower.



* * *



—

By the end of the month my phone is filled with missed calls from various Holbecks and I already can’t imagine life without Ataahua—though I’m perfectly aware that once my deadline has passed, we’ll both just be standing around in the empty apartment together. I can’t deny, however, that the last few days with her have been a writer’s dream: everything clean, ironed, and spotless when I emerge at the end of a working day after locking myself away.

I’ll miss her gentle knock on the door and her maternal face peering around it offering me delicious home-cooked food. Eleanor almost certainly overstepped the mark, but I can’t deny that part of me is so glad she did.

On this occasion the Holbecks’ interference was much welcomed, though Edward has been quick to warn me that thinking that way could be a slippery slope. But then he doesn’t know what I know, the reason they are on their best behavior: they need me or they lose him.

And boy, have they gone all-out to pull me in. During the past few days, I have been inundated with calls, texts, and offers to get to know me better. The strangest coming from Stuart, who suggested I join his tennis doubles group on Thursdays. I’ve never been so relieved to admit I don’t play tennis.

And then there was a request from Fiona to join her for coffee and a chat that I grudgingly had to raincheck, desperate as I am to glean some insider gossip from another Holbeck partner. I think perhaps Fiona’s world might intersect most comfortably with my own, and I’m curious to know how her start with them went when she got serious with Oliver.

Speaking of which, even Oliver managed to send a short but friendly email a couple of days after Thanksgiving, welcoming me to the family and saying how wonderful it was to finally meet me.

The only offer I have accepted is one from Lila, not because of who she is but due to the fact that she seemed to be the only one in the family who was willing to postpone until after my book is in—something that hasn’t seemed to occur to a single Holbeck.

With one week to go until my deadline, I am slightly ahead of myself in terms of word count, my story coming together with pleasing clarity. The tale of an incredibly wealthy family and their secret history. Of course, I have concerns about the content, the idea that Robert might read my story, that any of them might—but this is what I do. I can only go where my mind will let me go, especially now that my focus is so split. And now that I finally seem to have my flow back, I can’t let embarrassment or fear of what other people might think stop me from moving forward. Besides, I would assume that the Holbecks would appreciate the difference between fact and fiction, and I can only hope be a little flattered at the fleeting similarities. But perhaps that’s too much of a stretch.

I think of Robert reading my first book and imagine him reading this one too, my mind naturally going to his tape, safely shut away, hidden in the suitcase under my bed, the only thing I own with a lock. I had to move the tape player there two days ago after Ataahua wandered into the kitchen holding it and, oblivious to its content, started asking where she should put it. I had thought it was safely buried under my side of the mattress until then. Clearly not.

Every fiber of my body wants to listen to what is on that tape. And every Holbeck text, call, and email I have received this week has reawakened that urge. But I know if I start listening, I will keep listening until the end. I’ll lose a day, or two, and if what is on there is good, I might lose my focus altogether. I cannot risk missing my deadline. I am not a Holbeck, and to think I can get away with the things they get away with would be to delude myself.