In the kitchen I flick on the kettle and perch up on a kitchen island stool slipping a finger under the envelope’s gum seal, carefully tugging out the contents. The thick white card is embossed at the top with the silver swirling initials M.B.H.
Matilda Beatrice Holbeck. Edward’s sister. The next in line to the throne. Unmarried, six years my senior, the Holbeck’s only daughter. Beneath her initials is an elegant handwritten request to join her, tomorrow, at a fashionable Upper East Side members’ club for afternoon tea. 4 p.m.
My stomach flips as I read; my publisher meeting is at 4 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 timings-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 rain check. 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 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.
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? Timings-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 cancelled 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.’