Page 44 of Playing to Win

“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—albeitafterdinner, 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.”

“WithBraveheartjokes 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—orhadworshiped, 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.

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