The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (7)
I look at my screen. I have not rallied.
“I’m not writing, Lou. I’m googling Mitzi Holbeck.”
An image of Edward’s great-grandmother stares back at me on Google Images. A grainy black-and-white wedding shot from The New York Times in 1923.
“Oh. Hang on…there was a Mitzi? My God. Fabulous name.”
I stare at Mitzi, and Alfred Holbeck beside her, a paparazzi shot from their wedding day for some old society column. They were celebrities back then. Alfred holds open a town car door for Mitzi as she beams out at the camera in her wedding dress, a knowing twinkle in her eyes. God, she was beautiful. Alfred too, gallant, handsome, a rough-hewn old-world prototype of Edward.
“I know, right, and she was really something too. An artist. She fled Germany between the wars—her family was originally from Bohemia.”
“Bohemia? Is that even a place? Who are these people?”
“Bohemia is just a fancy name for Czechoslovakia, pre-1918, basically before—” A loud knock on the front door interrupts me.
I push my study chair back and stare down our long apartment hallway to the front door. Odd, I’m not expecting anyone this morning, and Edward left for a tech conference in San Diego earlier. “Sorry, Lou, one second.”
“Everything okay?” Louisa asks.
“Yeah, just the front door.” A second knock comes, more insistent this time.
“Probably a package or something.”
As I make my excuses and hang up, another knock comes hard. I head out into the hall, scraping back my hair quickly as I pass the hall mirror. A brief glance at my reflection reminds me I haven’t yet showered this morning. But then I’m supposed to be in full deadline mode. Perhaps with Edward away for the next few days I’ll actually get time to write, to finally finish my book.
As I reach for the front-door latch, I freeze. Edward said I’d meet Matilda soon. My heart skips a beat as I realize she could be on the other side of this door.
My fingers hover over the latch; I am in no fit state to meet someone like Matilda Holbeck. I look down at my comfy writing clothes, my bobbly wool socks and cardigan, and groan internally. This is not the first impression I should be making. I’ve seen photographs of Matilda Holbeck and I’m pretty sure a wool sock has never even made it into her Architectural Digest apartment, let alone onto her feet. I squint through the peephole but our new Christmas wreath blocks my view.
Another loud knock comes, this time incredibly close to my face.
I could pretend to be out but I’ve hardly been stealthy this side of the door. If she knows I’m here and hiding that would be an even worse first impression than my appearance.
I take a deep breath, remind myself I am good enough as I am, and open the door.
Instead of Matilda’s pale angular features, I’m met with the brisk outdoor energy of a bearded city courier. Disinterested, he hands me a crisp white envelope, gesturing for me to sign. I quickly scribble my name, half relieved, half spooked by my own paranoia, then watch as he wordlessly disappears around the corridor toward the elevators.
Back in the apartment I turn the thick card of the envelope over in my hands. On the front, my name and address are carefully inked onto the paper. I don’t need to open it to know who it is from: no one I know owns stationery this nice; no one I know couriers mail. Matilda has sent me a letter. She could have called, sent a text message, emailed, but she didn’t; she sent a hand-couriered letter. Hardly as accessible as advertised, but I can’t deny there is a certain thrill to the feel of the watermarked correspondence in my hands.
In the kitchen I flick on the kettle and perch on a kitchen island stool, slipping a finger under the envelope’s gum seal and carefully tugging out the note card from within. The thick white card is embossed at the top with the silver swirling initials MBH.
Matilda Beatrice Holbeck. Edward’s sister. The next in line to the throne. Unmarried, five years my senior, the Holbecks’ only daughter. Beneath her initials an elegant handwritten request to join her, tomorrow, at a fashionable Upper East Side members club for afternoon tea. Four P.M.
My stomach flips as I read; my publisher meeting is at four P.M. tomorrow. I am already in tricky territory with my deadline, so meeting the publisher is definitely not the kind of appointment I can push. It would send all the wrong signals. Which means I need to rearrange with Matilda.
At the bottom of the card in silver leaf is an RVSP email, her assistant. My shoulders relax slightly at the idea I won’t have to turn her down directly. Her assistant can just reschedule—I’m free pretty much any other day.
I shoot off my RSVP and head back to my desk with purpose, to address my word count.
Four minutes later a reply pings into my inbox. Matilda’s assistant, Max, writes: That is unfortunate timing-wise. I will pass on your deepest regrets to Ms. Holbeck.
My stomach tightens. He’ll pass on my deepest regrets? Well, that sounds incredibly dramatic. Almost like I’m refusing to meet her at all rather than asking for a raincheck. Mild panic begins to brew but I tell myself I do not have time for this right now. I can only hope Max passes on my actual reasons. I force myself to stop rereading my email, and his, and I dive back into the novel.
An hour later I almost jump out of my skin when an extremely loud phone starts ringing in our hallway. I didn’t even know we had a landline, and it’s certainly the first time anyone has ever called it in the four months since we moved in. Edward must have had it installed at some point.