The Family Game by Catherine Steadman (8)

The shrill ring continues, impossible to ignore. I head out to answer it.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Harry, it’s Amy at Grenville Sinclair.”

My publisher. That’s odd.

“Oh, hi, Amy?”

“Hi. So, I’m calling about the meeting scheduled here at the office tomorrow. Just to let you know we’re rescheduling our end.”

“Rescheduling?”

“Yes. We’re happy to. So, that’s fine,” she says curtly. There’s something odd in her tone. “Can you do next week, perhaps? Or if not, there’s really no rush for this meeting at all. We could just postpone until the New Year if that’s easier…for you? Timing-wise.”

And suddenly I realize exactly what’s going on here and I am genuinely speechless. It takes me a second to give voice to my thoughts, so bizarre is the conclusion they seem to come to.

“Amy? Did someone else just call you? Is this something to do with—wait, Grenville Sinclair is part of the Laurence Group, isn’t it?”

She gives a nervous laugh. “It is, yeah.”

“Right. And…the Laurence Group is a subsidiary of…?”

“ThruComm Holbeck.”

“Yep. Okay. Yep,” I manage. “I think I see what’s happened here.”

While I of course knew that my publisher was in some way connected to the business interests of my future in-laws, the idea that they might ever use this fact as some kind of leverage had not even crossed my mind until now.

Matilda has canceled my meeting so that I can eat cake with her.

“Um, Amy, I am so, so sorry about this, I…if any—”

“No, no, no. Harriet, please. Really, it is absolutely fine. I mean, whatever we can do to accommodate our authors. That’s always our primary concern here. So let us know, about next week or next month. Whenever you’re ready. We’re here.”

“Okay. Okay, thank you, Amy.”

The line is silent for a moment. “Yes, thank you, Harriet.” And she’s gone.

I stand in silence in the hallway for a moment to let what just happened sink in. And the realization hits me that however weird this situation is, this is only the start of my dealings with the Holbecks. Matilda is supposed to be the most restrained member of Edward’s family, and if this is restrained then God help me.

Dazed, I head back to the study and grab my mobile, bringing up Edward’s number, my thumb poised over the DIAL button. This is exactly what he was worried about. His family being too much for me. I take a breath and close the app.

I can do this. I knew his family would be tricky but this is what I want. I want to be with Edward, to start a family with him, to be part of something bigger than myself. I’m going to have to buckle in if I’m going on this ride. I can’t balk this early. After moving continents for this, after leaving my old life and friends behind, I won’t let this knock us off course. And I don’t want Edward to be forever pulling me out of sticky situations. I can deal with this on my own.

I place my mobile back down on the desk beside me and type out a short email to Matilda’s assistant, Max.

Am now available for 4 P.M. tomorrow.

My email swooshes out into the ether.

I sit motionless for a moment wondering if I have made the right decision or if I have allowed things to start off on slightly the wrong foot. I feel the mild panic of earlier rise again inside me and my hangover pound back to life. I try to breathe through it but suddenly I realize it’s too late. I shoot up from my chair, an unstoppable urge to vomit surging through me. I burst from the room and hurtle toward the bathroom, hand clamped firmly over mouth as behind me I hear the ping of a new email landing in my inbox.





3


Two for Tea


WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 23



The nausea hasn’t abated when I arrive at Matilda’s private members club the following day. The website listed the dress code as smart casual so I’m wearing heels even though I feel like death warmed up and have an irrationally strong desire to take them off and hurl them as hard as I can at the ten-foot ecru marble sculpture in the club lobby.

Pre-meeting nerves and illness have twisted my previously hopeful attitude into one of full-blown irritation at being forced into this situation. I should be working; I should be meeting my publisher, not here at the beck and call of a woman I’ve never even met.

And I have no idea why my hangover decided to stick around but it seems to have somehow morphed into some kind of stomach flu. Either way it’s safe to say that—after a day and a half of nausea, vomiting, and lack of sleep, in spite of being absolutely exhausted—there is nowhere on earth I would rather be less than waiting to be seated for a formal afternoon tea.

But here I am, because I have to be. The truth is I want Edward’s sister to like me way more than I care to admit, and postponing again, this time due to illness, might look a little too deliberate.

As I’m led into the club’s lounge my eyes find her almost immediately, that vibrant pop of auburn hair, a shot of red in a sea of New York neutrals. She’s even more beautiful in real life than in the photographs I’ve seen. Perhaps they all are, the Holbecks.

I glide past tables of elegantly dressed, artsy, Museum Mile hipsters. At her table she is turned away from me as she points to something in a menu, an attentive waiter leaning in to catch her order. I imagine she knows exactly what she wants. She must feel eyes on her because she looks up and meets my gaze with alarming precision, almost as if I’d called her name. A fresh wave of nausea hits me and I pray that Matilda’s first memory of me won’t involve me being sick.