Playing to Win (15 page)

In the drawing room they joined their parents and the rest of the family—Andrew’s older sister, Elizabeth, and her husband, Jeremy; as well as George’s wife, Sarah.

“I’m on time, aren’t I?” Andrew asked his father. He rather enjoyed being the last to appear at friends’ parties, but not at family gatherings. It gave him the paranoid sense of having been discussed before his arrival.

“Of course you’re on time. Welcome.” Lord Kirkross rose from his armchair and offered his son a hearty handshake, showing no signs of the arthritis that had plagued him of late. His favorite deerhound, Spenser, gave a languid stretch, tongue unfurling as he yawned. The dog ambled up to Andrew for a pat on the head, standing so tall Andrew barely had to stoop to reach him.

Elizabeth’s greeting was nearly as cold as George’s. As she leaned in to kiss the air beside his cheek, Andrew tentatively patted her back, taking care to avoid her long, sleek raven locks. Elizabeth hated anyone touching her hair—Andrew suspected it was the secret source of her diabolical power.

Andrew’s in-laws were kinder, as always. He often wondered how his siblings had convinced such agreeable people to marry them. He chatted with them now about their children’s summers, letting the warning of dire news retreat to the back of his mind.

When their part-time butler, Dermot, rang the dinner bell, they went in—all but Spenser, who shuffled off toward the library, where his wool-covered, memory-foam dog bed awaited him. The hound strolled pass the staircase, which caught Andrew’s attention, reminding him of Colin’s awed reaction to the grand staircase at the Edinburgh hotel. The one here wasn’t nearly so vulgar, but Colin would no doubt be impressed by the arched stained-glass window near the top. Or perhaps he’d want to chuck a rock through it.

Halfway through the first course—a lovely smoked salmon with prawns, horseradish cream, and lime vinaigrette, topped with small greens—Andrew was already weary of small talk. So he committed the cardinal sin of speaking politics at the dinner table. “Did anyone watch last night’s debate?”

Silence thudded around him, replacing the clink of cutlery against Raynaud china. Andrew’s mother cleared her throat as she dabbed the corners of her mouth with her ivory silk napkin. “Debate?”

“On the referendum,” Andrew said, “between Alisdair Darling and Alex Salmond?” Darling, a Scottish Labour MP, led the Better Together campaign to keep the United Kingdom, well,
united
; while Scottish First Minister Salmond’s lifelong goal was to destroy said Union by yanking Scotland out of it. “Jeremy, surely you must have seen it.” His brother-in-law was something of an insider in the Conservative Party, and he and Andrew often talked politics—albeit
after
dinner, not during.

“I did,” Jeremy said, “and while I can’t say I enjoyed seeing a Labour man succeed at anything, I thought Darling did splendidly.”

“I agree on both counts.” Andrew lifted his wine glass, noticing his mother had yet to replace the old-fashioned Waterford crystal with the trendy alternatives he’d suggested. “I can’t wait until this referendum is behind us and we Tories can stop pretending to be Labour’s friends. It’s an unholy alliance, like wearing stripes with plaid.”

“But all for a good cause,” George said. “The only cause which matters at the moment.”

“Yes. So anyway, the debate.” Andrew regarded the rest of the table. “Salmond looked a blithering idiot when it came to the budget. He seems to think he can keep Scotland’s economy afloat by simply pointing at it and yelling.” Andrew flourished his wine glass. “All his obnoxious bravado? Gone. The cybernats on Twitter fell mysteriously silent.”

“What about you?” George asked. “Have you been silent?”

“Of course not. I’ve made my opposition to independence clear.”

“With
Braveheart
jokes and comments on Alex Salmond’s fashion sense—”

“Or lack thereof.”

“—rather than real arguments.” His brother shifted to get a direct view of Andrew around the silver candlestick holder. “If you want to be taken seriously as a politician someday, then you must speak seriously now. Use your trivial fame to tell your million followers the truth.”

“My million followers live all around the world, which means they don’t want me banging on about Scottish independence. They want my opinion on Beyoncé’s latest hairstyle. They want photos of me chugging champagne with Harry Styles. They want videos of me dumping a bucket of ice on my head for charity, whatever the point of that was.” Andrew sat back to allow Dermot to remove his empty plate. “Besides, isn’t there a law saying no one of my station can be serious until they’re twenty-five? I’m fairly certain it’s in the Magna Carta.”

“George, isn’t it cute,” Elizabeth asked, “how our brother still fancies himself a latter-day Oscar Wilde?”

George snickered. “He’s got Wilde’s proclivities, but none of his wit.”

Andrew fell quiet, feeling that familiar piercing deep in his gut, the one that had long preceded his coming out, even preceded his obvious differences. Ten and twelve years his senior, Elizabeth and George had always been a team. He was “Andrew the Afterthought,” an unexpected joy to his parents and an endless annoyance to the siblings he worshiped—or
had
worshiped, before realizing they didn’t deserve it.

Sitting to his right, Mum laid a gentle hand on his arm. “Andrew, your brother has a point. You know how devastating independence would be to this family. Our entire way of life could vanish overnight.”

He nodded, though it was an exaggeration. It would take a generation, maybe longer, for an independent Scotland to become a full republic, rejecting the monarchy and aristocracy. But new taxes and land reforms could come quickly, reducing the Sunderland family’s estate to de facto nonexistence.

“I know, Mum, but any chance of Scotland voting Yes died last night at that debate. You’ll see once the new opinion polls come out.” Andrew patted her hand. “It’s over.”

“Still,” his father said, “it would boost the Better Together campaign’s morale if someone of your stature made an appearance on their behalf.”

“You mean officially?” The thought made him laugh. “Stand up with those bumbling fools?”

“What’s wrong?” Elizabeth snapped. “Afraid you’ll look uncool to your fans?”

“Yes. I’ve a brand to protect. Ask your husband.”

Everyone looked at Jeremy, who set down his wine glass before speaking. “It’s true, dear,” he said to Elizabeth, then turned to Lord Kirkross. “The Conservative Party has long-term plans for Andrew. We let him build up social capital now as a celebrity figure, then when he’s finished university, we introduce him to politics as a breath of fresh air. The new face of the Scottish Tories.”

Andrew beamed at his parents. He couldn’t wait for the day when he could go out and speak to voters, to charm them into seeing Conservatives as something besides heartless monsters. To prove that Tories just wanted hardworking people to achieve the success they deserved.

People like Colin
, he thought,
who prefer to live on handouts only because they’ve never known any other way of life.
Those were the people Andrew wanted to set free.

“We’re not suggesting he run for office now,” George said, “only that he help the No side win.”

“At what cost?” Jeremy set an unflinching gaze upon George. “You’re not out there on the ground like I am. You don’t see the savagery aimed at Better Together politicians whenever they dare speak in public. They’re shouted down, pushed about—and let’s not forget the egg.”

Andrew smirked at the memory. His least favorite politician, a Labour MP who gave hokey speeches full of football metaphors—so as to appear “of the people”—had had an egg chucked at him during a No campaign rally. For a microsecond, the cheeky gesture had made Andrew consider voting Yes.

Jeremy continued, now directing his words to the whole family. “We can’t have Andrew tainted by that venom. Standing him up with career politicians now would make him look like just another out-of-touch Tory.”

“See?” Andrew said. “My ‘trivial fame’ is my best asset. Which means it’s one of this family’s best assets.”

“That’s not saying much,” Sarah muttered.

Everyone gaped at George’s wife. “I’ve seen the auditor’s report,” she said. “How long are we going to carry on this farce?”

Andrew turned to his father as a chill zipped up and down his spine. “What’s she talking about?”

Lord Kirkross sighed. “I’d hoped to discuss this after the main course, but it seems I’ve no control over tonight’s dinner conversation.”

“The truth of it is,” Mum said to Andrew, “we have some difficult choices to make.”

“We?” Andrew had never been asked to take part in any family decisions. Perhaps his year at university had made him seem like an adult with valuable insights into running the estate.

“We’ve tried shuffling funds back and forth.” George gave a dismissive wave. “Never mind, it’s complicated. The bottom line is that it’s time to put certain portions of Dunleven on the market.”

“I was afraid of that.” Andrew knew the Sunderlands had been fortunate to escape such a fate thus far. Most great families had long ago been forced to sell off significant tracts of land, usually to foreign oligarchs who saw Scotland as their holiday playgrounds. “How much will we have to let go?” he asked his father.

“Our agent recommends a plan that will see the liquidation of roughly five thousand acres. That should secure enough cash for at least a decade.”

Andrew’s stomach sank. A quarter of the estate, gone to a stranger. “If that’s what it takes to ensure Dunleven’s survival”—such as the roof not collapsing whilst they slept beneath it— “then you have my full support.” Though saddened at the loss, he felt grateful his family had included him in the decision.

But then his siblings exchanged a significant look that made his skin crawl. It was a look straight out of a Hollywood spy-thriller scene in which the villains know they’ve got the hero where they want him.

“Tell him, Father,” Elizabeth said, her chin up and her eyes gleaming.

Lord Kirkross pressed a handkerchief to his forehead, where a light sheen of sweat had formed. “The portion to be sold is along the southern boundary. Including the loch.”

Andrew froze. “The loch?” He sat up straight, heart pounding. “Have we got more than one loch?”

“I’m afraid not,” George said. “Just the one with the boathouse.”

Andrew gripped the edge of the table, feeling the damask cloth slip under his fingertips. “But the boathouse is mine.”

“We’ll make it up to you,” Mum said. “Once you’re finished university, we’ll buy you a much grander home in Edinburgh or London.”

“My home is here.” He looked around the table. “Isn’t it?”

“Of course you’ll always have your chambers in this house,” his father said. “The rooms you grew up in.”

“But George and Elizabeth have homes on the estate. A place to raise their families. Why can’t I have that too?”

His sister laughed. “What sort of family would you raise?”

“Scotland will have marriage equality in just a few months. Someday, Elizabeth, I’ll have a husband and children just like you.” He held up a hand. “And yes, I know the boathouse is too small to live in year-round, but I love it and it’s mine.” He slammed his palm on the table, making his mother gasp.

“Not for long it isn’t,” George muttered.

“That’s quite enough.” Their father’s glower shut George up. “Andrew, I know this is difficult for you, but if you have a look at our agent’s recommendations, you’ll see this is the most practical solution.” He spread his hands. “The survival of Dunleven takes precedence over all of us.”

Andrew could feel the regret radiating from his parents, and the quiet sympathy from his in-laws. What his father said was true. Ultimately, Andrew didn’t matter. None of them mattered. Dunleven Castle had stood for nearly six centuries, and it was their duty—
his
duty—to keep it alive.

“I understand,” he said softly.

“Thank you.” Mum squeezed Andrew’s arm. “I promise you will be fairly compensated.”

He nodded, though he knew that no amount of money, no multi-million-pound terrace home in Knightsbridge would give him back what he’d lost today.

There’s no place for me here.
Not as an adult. And one day, when his father and mother were gone and this castle belonged to George, Andrew might not be welcome at all.

= = =

Despite the fact that his entire football kit—boots included—was rain-drenched, and despite the fact that after nine days of silence, he’d given up on ever hearing from Andrew again, Colin was in a jolly mood as he entered his flat after practice Tuesday night.

Emma and Gran were watching
River City
, Emma nervously twisting her own hair while she stared at the TV screen. Colin knew his sister hated interruptions during her favorite show, so he decided to make the most of it.

He threw down his kit bag as he leaped across the living room to join them. “Who’s got two double-jointed thumbs and is playing in our first preseason match Saturday?” He bent his thumbs at right angles to his hands and pointed them at his chest. “This lad!”

Gran whooped and applauded. Emma groaned and wrapped her thick dark braid around her head to cover her eyes. “That’s so disgusting,” his sister said. “I hope the other team breaks your thumbs so they can be surgically normalized.”

“Thanks for your support.” He peered into the dim kitchen. “Where’s Dad?”

“Bedroom.” Emma turned back to the telly. “Said he was knackered.”

“Bit early, yeah?” Colin spied a stack of mail on the table and started sifting through it. Beneath a hardware-shop flyer was a facedown trifold letter. He turned it over to see a notice with the green-and-yellow Jobcentre logo at the top.

Dear Mr. MacDuff,

We regret to inform you that your Jobseeker’s Allowance (JSA) will be suspended 4 weeks due to your failure to appear for an interview on Friday, 9 May. A second such infraction will result in a 13-week suspension of benefits, and a third will result in disentitlement.

Colin didn’t read the rest. He stalked down the hall, through his father’s open bedroom door, which he shut behind him.