But the thing that stands out the most is the subdued but persistent flashing and flickering coming from above the bookcases, where wall-hung plasma screens display a constant rolling stream of live news channel feeds. Each screen a different network, on mute. Newscasters stare down at us, not dissimilar to the oil paintings in the dining room, except these ones move.
Text scrolls. An oil spill off the coast of Brazil, a Hong Kong billionaire under house arrest, another police shooting, the GDP growth of the Indian economy.
‘Take a seat,’ Robert says, gesturing to one of the club chairs, and I head over to the fire as instructed to sit.
I watch him, this older, more storied Edward, move across the room and push the heavy door of the study closed, eclipsing the sounds of the apartment beyond.
He notices my eyes flit to the screens above. ‘I like to keep my finger on the pulse,’ he says, wafting a hand up at them dismissively. ‘Let’s call them the pulse.’
I smile at the remark and he turns from me, seemingly at ease with me in his space. Wordlessly he heads across the room to a cabinet beside the spiral staircase and, lifting the lid of a brightly coloured box, he pulls something out from within. ‘Does it bother you?’ he asks, without looking over, and I can’t tell if he means the silence or the situation. But when he turns, I see that he actually means neither.
He lifts his hand, showing me an unlit cigar.
‘It doesn’t bother me, no,’ I answer after a moment. ‘I’ve always quite liked the smell if I’m honest.’
That smile again. ‘Well, it is always important to be honest, isn’t it? Especially with one’s self.’ There’s something in his eyes a little too knowing for comfort. He cuts the cigar end and sets about lighting it. It’s only then that I stop to consider the impact his cigar smoke might have on the raspberry-sized foetus growing inside me. But it’s too late to turn back now, though. Its embers flare red as the dark tobacco leaves transmute to wavering white ash when he takes a puff and sinks into the armchair opposite mine.
Beyond the flickering screens, in the deep darkness, I make out his desk – a wide, monstrous thing lurking in the half-light, its wires, cables and hard drives like tentacles reaching into the shadows.
RD leans back in his chair, his eyes cast up to the rich smoke pooling above us. There is a painting above the fireplace. J. L. Holbeck, Edward’s great-great-great-grandfather, the man who started it all.
It must be hard, to look at him every day, to know that everything in your life is down to the hard work of another man. And no matter how hard you strive, no matter how much you achieved, in your heart you’ll always question how much of it was down to you. Tough to be confronted with that legacy every time you look up.
But here I am feeling sorry for a billionaire.
I study Robert’s features again as he looks up at the screens and feel the strangely familiar ache of excitement I felt the first night I met Edward.
That dangerous fizzle of possibility. A desire to possess, to be possessed. To smell him, feel him, close. I feel a blush rising up my neck and try to shake off the thought. I know it’s deeply inappropriate; a sharp twang of guilt pelts me from within for my thoughts. I love Edward, I am here because of Edward, and I know the only reason I am feeling this right now is because the man sitting in front of me reminds me so much of the man I love. But with a thrill of something else.
After a moment he looks back at me. I wonder if he can read my thoughts, if he can feel this strange pull between us too.
Shut up, Harriet.
God, I want him to like me. I’ve seen pictures of Robert as a young man; I’ve seen the magazine interview photos of him in the ’90s, lithe and dangerous in Wall Street double-breasted suits. But at sixty-five, his hair silvered, it’s clear that right now is his real peak.
There’s a gentle knock on the study door.