Playing to Win (27 page)

“I telt you to draw a mustache!” she said, laughing so hard she snorted.

“Okay, I confess.” Colin winked at Andrew. “The big fat tadger was my idea.”

“Aye.” The girl shushed the baby, who looked on the verge of bawling again. “So are you two boyfriends now?”

“Erm…” Colin straightened up and pulled his arm away. “Nah, we’re just—”

“Actually,” Andrew said, “we’re here canvassing for the independence referendum.” He looked at his sheet. “Are you Samantha Murray?”

“I’m Lexi. Samantha’s my mum. Sorry, I cannae vote yet. I’m only fifteen.”

“Oh, I—I see.” He looked at Colin, whose shocked expression mirrored Andrew’s own feeling. Fifteen with a child already born, and living in this…place.

While Colin salvaged the conversation and gave Lexi a leaflet for her parents, Andrew stood to the side and scanned the living room behind her. That same black stain ran around the perimeter of the balcony doors and dotted the vertical blinds covering them.

As they said goodbye, Colin gave Lexi a card with his address and mobile number. “If you need anything. Anything.”

He and Andrew didn’t speak on their way to the next flat, where an elderly man answered. He was leaning No, but he listened politely to Colin’s calm, reasoned arguments, and agreed to take a leaflet, along with Colin’s card.

“You’re giving your address and number to complete strangers?” Andrew asked him when they returned to the stairwell.

“What are they gonnae do, steal my nonexistent possessions? These people need to know I’m one of them. I’m not some well-meaning middle-class Yesser come to the Drum to rescue them from their own ignorance. If these folk’ll listen to me, then I owe it to them, to myself, to this entire fuckin’ country, to make myself available.” Colin shoved open the door to the next floor, but paused to hold it for Andrew. “I shouldn’t have started this contest. This isn’t a game. It’s dead serious.”

“I know.” Andrew stopped on the bottom stair, then pointed to the window on the landing behind him. “That’s mold, isn’t it?”

“Mildew.” Colin avoided his eyes. “Our tower block had it too, before the refurb. Probably why my sister’s got asthma.”

Andrew’s heart twisted. “I’m sorry.”

“Okay.” Colin pushed the door open wider. “It’s your turn.”

They canvassed for another two hours, and though Colin was his usual animated, charming self with the people they met, between flats he was silent. No more singing or dancing, no more flirting. Andrew wasn’t sure if Colin was angry with him, or if he was still reeling from the fact Lexi was only fifteen, or if he was ashamed Andrew was seeing how his neighbors lived. How
he
lived.

“Not so much noise in that flat, at least,” Andrew remarked as they left another divided household—this time, unusually, the woman was Yes and the man, No.

Colin jotted a note on his clipboard. “Yeah, life gets real quiet without electricity.”

“What?” Andrew stopped short and looked back at the door to the flat. It had been rather dim, with daylight the only illumination. “Why don’t they have electricity?”

“No money.”

“What do they spend their benefits check on?”

“Rent. Food. Clothes for their kids, who apparently have this annoying habit of growing bigger. Or perhaps a man or woman would like a haircut or a decent shirt to wear to a job interview. Mad, extravagant things like that.”

As Colin paged through the sheets on his clipboard, Andrew examined him, as if seeing clearly for the first time. His torn jeans and duct-taped trainers weren’t a fashion statement. He didn’t wear ragged clothes to make himself look tough. He wore them because they were all he had.

Colin brushed past Andrew on his way to the stairs. “That’s us finished.”

Andrew’s stomach went cold. “You’re breaking up with me? Because I was an idiot about the mildew and the electricity?” He hurried after him. “I know I’ve been unfathomably naive, thinking the welfare system provided at least the basics. I’m truly sorry. But don’t let this be the end of us.”

“God, would you shut it?” Colin spun to face him. “I meant we’re finished canvassing. We’ve visited all the names on our sheets.”

“Oh.” Andrew swallowed, catching his breath. “Did you want to stop at your flat before we—”

“No.” Colin turned again, too quickly, and gave a grunt of pain.

“Here, let’s take the lift.” Andrew backtracked and pressed the down button.

“It’s only two floors.”

Andrew had had enough of Colin’s bravado. “Look. A few years ago I hurt my knee whilst playing—well, never mind. Anyway, I remember how painful stairs can be, especially going down. So we’ll take the lift, then I’ll take you home where you can have an ice pack and some anti-inflammatory tea.” He cut off Colin’s protest. “I won’t tell your manager or captain. If you want to play hurt, that’s your business. My business is making you feel better.”

Colin pressed his palm to the stairway door, then dropped it. He slowly moved to join Andrew, no longer hiding his limp. “Playing what?”

“Sorry?”

“You hurt your knee playing what?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“Was it polo?” Colin asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. When Andrew didn’t answer, Colin scoffed. “Fuck’s sake.”

“Yes, I play polo. I’m a poncey toff who’s had his eyes pried wide open today. Go on and laugh.”

“I would, if I didn’t hate your pity even more than your scorn.”

“I don’t pity you.”

“The fuck you don’t!” Colin slammed the side of his fist into the lift door. The bang made Andrew jump. “Can you at least respect me enough not to lie about that? Please?”

Andrew tried to speak, but fear had dried his tongue.

Colin met his eyes and turned away, shoving his hands through his hair. “I’m sorry. I didnae mean to lose the rag there. It’s been a long day.” He rubbed his hand where it had struck the door. “I’d never hurt you.”

“I know,” Andrew said, perhaps too quickly.

The lift dinged then. As the doors slid open, Andrew went to take Colin’s hand, but something made him pull back.

Colin noticed, and his face twisted with sorrow. “Maybe I should just go home instead of going to yours.”

“Is that what you want?” Before Colin could reply, Andrew added, “At least respect me enough not to lie about it. Please.”

Colin slumped back against the wall, eyes downcast. “I don’t know what I want.”

“Me neither.” Andrew reached for Colin’s hand again, and this time he had the courage to take it. “But I think we should figure it out together.”

= = =

Colin sat alone on Andrew’s couch, an ice pack on his knee and a cup of blood-red tea in his hand, wishing he could forget today.

Andrew’s “dose of reality” had tasted bitter indeed, judging by his silence. Since they’d left the Drum, he’d barely spoken—not on the drive here, not while he made Colin’s tea, and not as he’d left twenty minutes ago to fetch them a Tony Macaroni dinner.

The oven timer beeped, signaling it was time for Colin to remove his ice pack. He got up, stalked into the kitchen area, and chucked the pack into the sink, which was as spotless as ever.

How could Andrew not be repulsed, when everything in his flat here—when everything in Andrew’s world—was clean and beautiful? Money made that possible, but it was more than that. Colin knew many of his neighbors had lost all hope, and with that hope, their pride as well. They stopped looking after themselves and their homes. They left rubbish in stairwells and carved FANNYBAWS into the simulated-wood walls of lifts. Some of them were the dregs of society. But all of them were just trying to survive.

Like most Brits, Andrew probably watched “poverty porn” like
Benefits Street
and
The Scheme
, TV shows that made the poor look like lazy con artists. Did he see Colin as one of them now, someone to fear and avoid—or worse, someone to pity? Did he finally understand what he was dealing with?

Sometimes, Colin, you’re not worth the bother.

He shook his head hard to dislodge his mother’s voice. It was never
her
talking, his therapists had reminded him. It was her disease saying those words.

That didn’t mean the disease was wrong.

The oven timer gave a reminder beep. “Shut up,” he told it, jabbing his thumb against the Off button. Then he picked up his tea mug and moved into the dining area, hoping the aquarium would work its magic calming spell upon him.

Staring at the fish didn’t help, so Colin began to pace. His knee still ached, but his simmering rage wouldn’t let him rest. He wanted to smash everything in that kitchen—the four-hundred-quid blender that made Andrew’s precious smoothies, the ceramic dish-soap dispenser, those pretentious stemless brandy glasses.

Brandy. That would help.

He hurried over to the place where Andrew kept the booze, whipped open the cupboard door—

—and smacked it against the side of his sore knee.

“Fuck!” Colin jerked back, spilling tea all over himself. He cursed again. The liquid was no longer scalding hot, but it had left a giant red-brown stain down the front of his shirt and jeans.

He set down the mug, wanting to shatter it against the worktop, then headed back to the main bedroom. Before Andrew had left, he’d invited Colin to help himself to a clean T-shirt and pair of shorts, as the warm day in the tower blocks had left them pure sweaty.

As Colin changed his clothes, he had a look around Andrew’s bedroom. It was the first time he’d been in here alone. When the two of them were here together, the decor was the last thing on their minds.

His gaze settled upon the four-foot-wide, rustic-looking family tree hanging above the chest of drawers. The piece was made of pale linen, its lines and letters a dark, earthy brown. As far as he knew, this hanging was the flat’s only nod to Andrew’s heritage.

Colin examined the hanging as he pulled on a pair of cotton shorts. The tree’s staggering number of branches each bore a name—some with titles, some without. Near the top, at the culmination of six generations, were three names: George, Elizabeth, and Andrew.

Above George and Elizabeth were two names each—their children, Colin assumed. And there Andrew was, the end of his line.

If Andrew married a man, Colin wondered, would the rest of his family consider his sons and daughters legitimate? Would those names ever be added to this tree? Technically they’d be bastards, because even a biological child would be the offspring of either Andrew or his husband, not both.

Colin’s gaze drifted down the tree, over the names of men and women who’d done their sacred duty to continue the bloodline. How many of them were in love with the people they married? It didn’t matter. The aristocracy was built entirely on genes. Love was literally irrelevant.

He was just now beginning to grasp the depth of Andrew’s courage. Being gay—and more importantly being
out
, with no intention of taking a wife and impregnating her—upset the allegedly natural order of things. Even without a title to pass on, Andrew must have had the notion of marriage and children drilled into his head from an early age. Yet here he was, standing up to his archaic society and telling them what the modern world already understood—that the future meant more than the past, and that love was thicker than blood.

In the upper right corner of the hanging was the family crest, a shield flanked by two rearing white horses that looked like hornless unicorns. Beneath the shield, a pair of fish swam past each other, head to tail.

Colin froze, remembering something he’d seen in the aquarium a few minutes ago. Or rather, something he’d
not
seen.

He hurried out to the reception room. Walking around the tank, he peered within, examining every visible inch.

Oh no.

Out in the hallway, the front door opened with a rattle of keys.

“Sorry that took so long.” Andrew swept into the reception room and set a pair of paper bags on the dining table. “Usual Sunday crowd, I guess. Everyone’s talking about the YouGov poll, of course. I even overheard what sounded like an indyref-induced breakup. Not sure that couple even stayed for the main course.” He pulled a bottle of red wine from one of the bags. “How’s your knee? Better? That tea is amazing, isn’t it?”

Colin touched the corner of the aquarium. “Where’s Cristiano?”

Andrew’s face went soft and sad. “He died while I was on holiday. It’s kind of you to notice he’s gone.”

Colin could barely breathe for the ache in his chest. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. He was my favorite.” Andrew fetched a corkscrew and started opening the wine. After half a minute he said, “The fish caretaker I hired said Cristiano wouldn’t eat for her, which wasn’t surprising, as he wouldn’t eat for me at first either. He nearly died the first week I had him.” He wrenched the cork from the bottle. “Perhaps it was a kindness to me that he died now. If Cristiano had somehow survived and I’d come home to learn he’d languished without me, I would’ve stopped traveling, for his sake.” Andrew looked into the distance out the window as he untwisted the cork from the corkscrew. “He was quite the bother, but he was worth it.”

Colin nearly wept at the sound of those words, so like his mother’s and yet the opposite.

“We’ll let that breathe.” Andrew pushed the bottle away, then turned to face him. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

“What is it?” Colin managed to say, though his jaw was too tight to open his mouth. Perhaps after a long ponder alone, Andrew had come to the conclusion they were too far apart for this to last.

Andrew stood back against the worktop, holding onto its edge with both hands. “Until today, I’d no true grasp of what you faced growing up.” His gaze lowered, then flicked up again to Colin’s face. “I knew about the bullying, of course, and your mum’s illness. But I didn’t appreciate the—the challenges which lay beneath all that.”

“Okay.” Colin felt like he was under the glare of a spotlight and the peer of a microscope at the same time.

“While I was waiting for our dinner, I used my phone to look up some of what you told me. About people not getting what they need, about how hard it is to climb out of—of poverty.” His tongue swiped his lips, as if the
p
word tasted foul. “I know you love statistics, but I won’t quote them. How pupils from your background rarely attend uni. How deprivation can affect one’s ability to learn. How my neighbor’s new baby is likely to live two decades longer than Lexi’s son, Jack.”