The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (3)

He dropped down on one knee, like a proposal, like the prince in Cinderella, this impossibly handsome man, and as he gently wriggled my mangled shoe loose from the grate with my hands on his strong shoulders, I felt something inside me shift. A hope, long tamped down, flickered back to life in the darkness. And the rest is history.

Here I am a year-and-change later, having moved a continent and my entire life to be with him.

“Ed is doing great,” I answer, though we both know it’s an understatement. Ed’s start-up company turns over more money in a month than the literary agency Louisa works for does in a year. Edward is doing immeasurably well, but we’re British and we don’t talk about stuff like that. Besides, Louisa is well aware of who Edward is, the family he comes from. He’s a Holbeck and with a surname like that, even without family investment, success was almost inevitable. “I’m actually on my way to meet him now. He’s taking me skating.”

“Skating?” I hear the interest pique in her tone. She’s desperate to hear about him. About the Holbecks. Somehow I managed to bag one of America’s wealthiest bachelors without even trying and everyone wants to know how I did it, why I did it. But more important, they want to know: what are they like?

For that, of course, there is Google. And God knows I did a deep dive or ten in the weeks after meeting Edward. Generations of wealth, woven into the fabric of America since the Gilded Age, shipping, communications, and of course that ever-present shadow of questionable ethics. There is no end to the op-ed pieces on them, the gossip column space, the business section dealings with the Holbeck name, and yet the air of mystery they maintain around themselves means one can never quite be satisfied. They remain elusive, mercurial. That, with their presumably ruthless brand of magic, is a heady and alluring mix.

“He’s taking you skating? Like roller-skating?” Louisa asks, incredulous, though I doubt anything I told her about Edward would really surprise her.

“No,” I say. “No, he’s taking me ice-skating. It’s a family tradition, The Rink at Rockefeller Center, start of the season. He wants us to go together this year.”

“Oh my God, will his whole family be there?” Louisa erupts. She’s dying to hear more about them but I haven’t been able to furnish her with any more information than I’ve gleaned from the internet so far.

“No. Still haven’t met them. No family yet. Edward’s terrified they’ll scare me off.” I cringe as I say it; I know how it sounds. Millionaire playboy won’t introduce girlfriend to family. I’m aware I’ve moved my life for Edward and I haven’t even met his parents yet. But it isn’t like that. I see the look in his eyes when we talk about them. He has his reasons and the time will come. Besides, I didn’t just move over here for him. I’ve needed a fresh start for a long time now, and the success of the book and meeting Edward made that a very real possibility.

Funny, I always thought I’d end up over here. My mother was an American. Sometimes, if I close my eyes, in coffee shops and restaurants I can almost imagine her voice among the crowd, her round open vowel sounds all around me, the warmth of it, like the past.

It’s funny I don’t recall my dad’s voice at all, but I was only eleven when it happened. Twenty years of new experiences having scribbled over what was once so clear. Though I miss him just as much. It’s only natural to forget when remembering hurts so much.

Louisa chuckles. “I’m not surprised he’s wary. They sound terrifying. Well, you know what I mean, fascinating but…hive inducing.” Her tone becomes playful, confidential. “Although between you and me, bloody hell, I would definitely be willing to put in some awkward in-law hours if Simon had looked half as good in a suit as Edward does.” Louisa and Simon split up last year. He was pretty useless by all accounts, but her compliment stands.

And she’s right. I would be willing to put up with an awful lot to be with Edward.

“Oh, and how’s the new book coming?” she asks with a studied nonchalance that almost has me fooled. I’m three weeks past the deadline for my second book.

I shiver in the winter breeze, waiting for the crosswalk light to change. The truth is I haven’t been able to focus for about a month now. Even the thought of sitting down to finish drains me. The crosswalk pip-pips and I join the swarm of commuters flowing across Fifth.

“Harry?” Louisa’s voice drags me back to reality. “The book?”

“Sorry, yes. The book is coming,” I say, which is true. “I’m almost there,” I say, which is not true at all. “I just need—”

“—another month?” she interjects. She knows me too well.

“Um. Yes. That would…that would be great.”

“Okay. I’ll hold the publishers off one more month. Listen, the first book is still flying off the shelves so we’re in a good place. People will wait for the next. But you need to be honest with me about where we are, Harry. You’re definitely nearly there?”

The seriousness of her tone hits me hard. “Yes. Four weeks, probably less. I swear. First draft done.” As I say it, I realize it will be hard, but I can do it. I just need to break my funk.

My eyes catch the time blinking high on the side of an office building. I need to finish this call. Rockefeller Center is right ahead and Edward will be there waiting.