‘Who was that?’ I whisper as we round the corner away from him.
‘No idea. Never seen him before in my life,’ Edward shrugs. ‘There’s a pretty heavy turnover around here.’
‘Oh.’
The voices coming from the door ahead of us become clearer as we approach, then I catch the jovial tinkle of Matilda’s laugh. They sound friendly at least.
At the closed door Edward holds my gaze for a second. He’s waiting until I’m ready. I take one last fortifying breath before giving him the nod, and he opens the door.
Three oversized white sofas face each other around a low glass coffee table, over which the entire Holbeck family and friends have arranged themselves.
All eyes in the room find us as we enter, and for a heart-stopping second, Edward and I come to a halt, hands held, smiling like idiots. A silence, punctuated only by the gentle spit and crackle of the log fire in its marble fireplace and the dull clunk of ice cubes in glasses, fills the room. I feel Edward bristle beside me.
My eyes flick across the group hungrily as I take in as much as I can. Visible beyond the drawing room’s far door, a lofty dining room opens out, its table set and glimmering in soft candlelight. This is where our evening will play out.
After an eternity that is almost certainly only a few seconds in real-world time, Edward’s mother speaks, breaking the tension. ‘Harriet,’ she says with genuine warmth as she rises to welcome us. ‘Edward, darling.’
The rest of the family seem to relax, life coming back to the room around us. In a micro-second they have, no doubt, made their judgements on me, on our relationship – if they hadn’t done so already.
Glasses raise in acknowledgment; smiles beam and positions shift as Eleanor glides over to us. I take her in, tanned and immaculately made up, her grey hair cut into a razor-sharp bob. She modelled in the ’90s; I know this from Ed, but mostly from the internet. Her wide eyes and thick brows are hallmarks of a bygone age. I recall an image of her in profile, balanced on tiptoes in a ballerina costume, aged eighteen, for American Vogue. No wonder Edward looks the way he does. No wonder all his siblings do with parents like Eleanor and Robert.
I scan my periphery for him, for Edward’s father, but I know he’s not here. I do not sense him and, judging by the family’s now easy demeanour, I know I must be right.
Eleanor takes my hand in hers in greeting, her skin warm and soft to the touch, the scent of her perfume fresh and powdered as she leans in to air-kiss my cheeks.
‘I cannot tell you how pleased I am, Harriet,’ she tells me with a twinkle in her eye, ‘that you could both make it tonight. And at such short notice.’ There’s something in her tone that tells me that she knows the favour Matilda asked of me and she appreciates my help.
She holds me back at arm’s length and playfully makes a show of inspecting me, genuine joy lurking just beneath her surface. ‘Radiant. Absolutely radiant.’ I let out an evasive chuckle. I certainly don’t feel radiant.
‘I know. I don’t know why she said yes either, but she did,’ Edward quips, making his way over to plant a kiss on Matilda’s cheek. Beside her sits a kind-faced woman that I do not know; she pats Edward on the arm supportively as he shifts past her. I have no idea who she is. In fact, there are five people in this room that I don’t recognize. Actually, that’s not strictly true. I recognize some of them.
Eleanor gently slips my arm over hers. ‘Now, yes. I need to introduce you to everyone, don’t I?’ she says with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. ‘You know Matilda, of course.’ Matilda raises her gaze to us and flashes a ruby red smile.
‘Of course,’ I smile back.
‘And you’ve met Edward,’ Eleanor jokes, to a couple of chuckles. ‘And that poor woman he’s trying to squeeze to death over there,’ she says, indicating the woman with the kind face, ‘is Fiona, my son Oliver’s wife.’