Playing to Win (34 page)

“Too late for that, mate. You wanted all of me. Now you’ve got me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

“Damn,” Andrew’s mouth said, even as his eyes said the opposite. Then he looked past Colin and his smile vanished. “Damn,” he said again, this time clearly meaning it.

Colin turned to see a photographer standing about ten yards away, not far from the busker, who was scowling at the interloper as she tuned her guitar.

The man lowered his giant camera with its long lens, grinning triumphantly. “First photo of you two since the big retweet,” the photographer shouted, giving them a thumbs-up. “I’ll make a fortune!”

Clenching his fist, Colin turned back to Andrew. “Shall I kill him for you?”

“No.”

“Then shall I put my tongue down your throat and give him a better pic? Maybe he’s got weans at home need fed.”

Andrew chuckled. “Tempting, but no. Best to ignore the paparazzi and accept they’re a part of our lives now. There’s no escape.” He took a long sip of coffee and stared across the street with a look of dull despair. “Unless we move to America.”

“Aye, right, we’ll just do that then. Problem solved.” Colin started eating again, his appetite fully restored.

“We could do it,” Andrew said. “People in the States care about money and ability, not class. There I could just be Andrew Sunderland, not Lord Andrew.”

Colin stared at him and tried to keep chewing.
But you
are
Lord Andrew.
“You serious?”

“Dead serious. My parents would probably even pay for us to live there. From across the Atlantic I couldn’t embarrass them as much. It might not be enough money to live in New York City, but there are other lovely—”

“Wait, wait. Andrew, I cannae leave Glasgow. I’ve got three more years of uni. So do you.”

“Yes, but—listen, I did some research last night. We can apply to university in the US, perhaps even for spring semester. With your football skills, you could get a soccer scholarship.”

“What if I hurt my knee again? I’d lose my scholarship and have to pay tuition. Katie telt me that’s how it works there.”

“If that happens, God forbid, then I’ll pay your tuition.”

Stunned, Colin sat back in his chair, thinking of their weekend in New York. Sunday morning they’d gone to the roof of Rockefeller Center, where they could see the entire city and beyond, out over the land of opportunity. In America, anything seemed possible if you were clever and hardworking.

Meanwhile here in Britain, a millennium of tradition had entrenched the powers that be. No matter how hard Colin and his mates fought for a revolution, some days it seemed nothing would ever change. After last night’s stooshie with the Sunderland family, this was definitely one of those days.

“Is that who I think it is?” Andrew asked, peering past Colin down Buchanan Street.

Colin turned to see a few dozen men and women in suits and dresses walking purposefully up the center of the stone pedestrian way. He recognized among them several Members of Parliament, all from the Labour Party.

“Aye, it’s the shadow cabinet,” he told Andrew. “I heard the Better Together campaign was carting them all up here on the train for some event at Royal Concert Hall.” He gestured toward the tall building at the end of the road. “They must be walking from Queen Street Station.”

Andrew sniffed. “No taxis, of course, because they’re Labour and they want to appear ‘of the people.’”

The guitarist began to sing, and Colin instantly recognized a song from his childhood—Chumbawamba’s “Amnesia,” written about Labour’s betrayal of the working classes. Too bad the cheeky lass’s joke would be lost on these oblivious politicians.

Andrew pulled out his phone and glanced at the screen. “Talking of the station, I need to head there in fifteen minutes. We can discuss my America idea when I return from London. Just think about it, okay?”

“I don’t need to think about it.” Colin set his hands on the edge of the table for support. “I’m incredibly grateful you’ve proposed this, and at first glance it seems the solution to everything.”

Andrew frowned. “But?”

“I cannae move halfway round the world just to be dependent on you. If we break up, would you still pay my tuition?”

“I wouldn’t leave you to starve, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”

“I’m not afraid. Look, life here is pure difficult, I know better than anyone. But I’ve got a plan—get my degree, get a job, start a business—and I’ve got hope.”
Most days, anyway.
“If we go to America and things don’t work out, I could lose everything. That’s not fear talking, it’s just common fuckin’ sense.”

Andrew gave a frustrated huff. “So then what? All we need to be happy is a new world here in Britain?”

“Or, barring that, we do the best we can with the one we’ve got.”

Pouting, Andrew shifted the cardboard sleeve around his coffee cup. “I was right. You are one of the sanest men I know.”

“Considering you pal about with a bunch of inbred toffs, that’s not surprising.” He eyed the last bite of his wrap, still hungry. “I always forget to order two of these things. They look so much bigger in the photies on the menu.”

“What in God’s name…” Andrew craned his neck, peering down Buchanan Street again.

The endless mass of Labour MPs was still passing by, but they were no longer alone. In their midst rolled a rickshaw, driven by a man in a pink T-shirt and tie-dyed shorts. A familiar symphony was blasting from the vehicle. “Is that the Imperial March from
The Empire Strikes Back
?” Colin asked.

“It bloody is,” Andrew said with awe.

“People of Glasgow!” the ginger-bearded rickshaw rider announced with a megaphone. “These are your imperial masters! The Labour Party have traveled all the way from London to tell you to bow down!”

Colin laughed. The Better Together campaign must have spent a fortune in train tickets to bring all these MPs up north. Had they thought Scotland would be convinced to vote No by
this
bunch of losers? The people who’d stood arm-in-arm with Tories as they shafted the poor and made food banks a fact of life? Had these backstabbers thought roses would be tossed at their feet? In fucking
Glasgow
?

In any case, they were getting the welcome they deserved.

Oh, my beautiful city, I am so in love with you just now.

Andrew jumped to his feet. “Let’s follow.” He grabbed his coffee cup with one hand and thumbed in the password to his phone screen with his other. “This needs Instagramming.”

“What about ‘consequences’?”

“Right.” Andrew gave a brief frown as he tucked his phone away. “Let’s just enjoy it live, then. This is history.”

They hurried down the street to catch up to the rickshaw, now surrounded by a parade of onlookers, many of them recording the event with their phones.

“It’s like the anti-Palm Sunday,” Andrew said, his eyes alight with glee.

The rickshaw rider was now bantering with one of the Members of Parliament, a lady who’d just urged him to take his magnificent guerrilla theater elsewhere. “Have you not got a wee sense of humor?” he asked her.

“Not really,” she said. “Not with you.”

“Aw, that’s a shame.” The rider raised his megaphone again. “People of Glasgow, bow down to your imperial masters! They’ve used your tax dollars to come all the way from London. So appreciate them!” He pointed to Colin. “Get on your knees! Get on your knees and bow down to the Labour Party.”

The swelling crowd progressed up Buchanan Street, singing along with the rickshaw guy’s unofficial lyrics to the Imperial March (“Dah-dah-daaaah-dah-dah-daaaah-dah-dah-daaaah”). As Colin marched and sang, each step felt lighter than the last. Perhaps Scotland was done being pushed around. Perhaps things
could
change, and change utterly.

The impromptu parade finally ended at Royal Concert Hall, the steps of which were flanked with people holding VOTE NO signs. The rickshaw driver stopped at the bottom of the stairs, but the music continued to play as the politicians filed into the building.

Andrew tossed his empty coffee cup in a bin and turned to Colin.

“I’ve traveled all around this planet. I’ve swum the Great Barrier Reef, hiked the Grand Canyon, watched the sun rise over Machu Picchu. Yet that”—he pointed to the rickshaw—“may be the single greatest thing I have seen in my entire life.” He took Colin’s hand. “Perhaps there is a new world on the way.”

Colin grinned. “Does this mean you’ll vote Yes?”

Andrew laughed and wagged his finger. “I put my ballot in the post this morning. It’s too late to convince me.”

“Och, then away to London with your useless self,” Colin said.

Then, because he couldn’t help it, he kissed Andrew in the middle of the Buchanan Street shopping district. In the middle of a revolution.

= = =

As his train pulled out of Glasgow Central, Andrew felt his gut tugging him back. Gazing at the fan-shaped, glass-and-steel patterns of the station’s grand concourse windows, he told himself he was bound for a vastly more important city. But right now, the universe seemed to revolve around Scotland.

London Fashion Show notwithstanding.

Thinking of that event reminded Andrew he had studying to do. He needed to catch up on not only fashion, but the latest gossip outside of “North Britain,” as his London mates referred to Scotland, a joke that got less funny every time they said it.

With a reluctant sigh, he wrested the stack of unread
Tatler
s from his rucksack, then dropped them on the table with a thud.

“I wondered why your bag was so heavy,” said Reggie, sitting diagonally across from Andrew, tapping away on his laptop.

“Sorry about that. You didn’t need to bring my luggage from the flat. You’re my bodyguard, not my valet.”

Reggie shrugged his broad shoulders. “You’d a breakfast date, and I didn’t like the idea of you leaving your bags at the station. Anyone could put anything into them.”

Andrew didn’t bother arguing that the Virgin Trains staff were paid to ensure baggage security. Reggie’s hyper-vigilance had saved his neck more than once. Andrew would be eternally grateful to him—and to Jeremy for referring Reggie after the sacking of the homophobic Wallace.

And yet…Andrew had never told Reggie about the FASCIST FAGGOT rock through his window. Some deep instinct urged him to keep that secret, to protect Colin from suspicion.

If Colin had agreed to move to America, Andrew would be applying to universities there at this very moment. But he rather admired Colin for saying no. He admired him even more for not giving up on them. All this time, Andrew had been the doggedly determined one, but today, at Andrew’s moment of wavering, Colin had kept them together. Apparently once he was in, he was all in.

Andrew plugged his earphones into his phone and watched a video he’d made this morning at the break of dawn. Then, he used the train’s Wifi to upload the video to his YouTube account and set it to private. He had no idea when, or if, he would share it with his boyfriend and/or the world, but the words had needed saying. Thinking of those words made his stomach flutter and his skin sing, like he was standing on the edge of a ten-meter-high diving board.

Setting aside his phone, he picked up the newest issue of
Tatler
, telling himself he should enjoy leisure reading now before university began again. This issue had a decent fashion spread, but his eyes glazed over at
How to gate-crash the smartest parties
and
Questions headmasters don’t want you to ask
.

Andrew withdrew his fork from the remnants of smoked salmon and scrambled eggs. “If I see one more article about the Bullingdon Club, I will jab this through my eye socket into my frontal cortex. It’s your job to stop me.”

“Or you could just ignore it,” Reggie said.

“I’ve barely glanced at
Tatler
in months.” He frowned at the headline
First-Class Departure: The poshest old-people’s homes.
“Now I remember why.”

“Not even a peek at the Bystander pages? To see if you’ve finally made it in?”

“What do you mean, ‘finally’? I was in the April issue, remember?” When Reggie shook his head, Andrew pulled out the duplicate copy he’d bought at the newsstand (the original occupying a cherished space in his bedroom cupboard). “I was at the NME Awards afterparty at the Glade Bar in February, a week after I came out.” He passed it across the table to Reggie. “Page 216,” he said, then regretted how vain and pathetic he looked, still knowing the page number after all these months.

Andrew remembered how he’d gazed at that Bystander picture every day, his heart swelling at this proof he was still socially important despite his coming out—or perhaps
because
of it. Odd how he’d not even thought of the photo since he’d started dating Colin.

Reggie thumbed through the pages, wearing that
I’m-so-good-at-humoring-him
look. Then he suddenly grabbed the magazine and pulled it close to his face. “Sir, is this a joke? Did one of your mates do this?”

“Do what?”

With a foreboding look, Reggie turned the
Tatler
and slapped it onto the table between them.

In the picture, Andrew was posing between Peaches Geldof and Blondie’s legendary Debbie Harry, who’d just won the Godlike Genius award. Debbie’s scarlet pantsuit matched the handkerchief protruding from the pocket of Andrew’s black silk designer shirt.

It also matched the angry crosses now obliterating Andrew’s eyes, the slash across his neck, and the two words scrawled in the margins:

FASCIST FAGGOT

“R
EGGIE
THINKS
I
did it?” Colin pressed the phone harder to his ear as he stepped off the Number 60 bus. “You don’t believe him, do you?”

“Of course not,” Andrew said at the other end of the line. “But he knows I left you alone in the flat Sunday to fetch dinner. We spoke about it while he was driving us home, remember? So as far as Reggie’s concerned, you had opportunity and motive.”