Page 17 of Playing to Win

On the glass coffee table, his mobile continued to bleat. To ensure sufficient peace for his daily yoga and meditation—not to mention sleep—his phone was programmed to stay quiet between the hours of midnight and seven. Calls and messages made no sound unless they were from select VIP contacts. One VIP contact, to be precise.

“Good morning, Mum.”

“Where were you last night?” she asked.

His heart skipped. Had Reggie broken his promise not to tell Andrew’s parents about the rave? “What do you mean?”

“The Duchess said you left her garden party after an hour. You didn’t even stay for dinner.”

He let himself breathe again. “I needed to get back to Glasgow.” He took his tea into the dining area to check on his fish. “One of my mates was having a housewarming. I had to make an appearance, bring him a bottle of Nyetimber.”

“Which one?”

“The 2003 Classic Cuvee, naturally.”

“I meant, which friend?

“You don’t know him. He’s in my course at uni.” Andrew switched on the light atop the seventy-gallon saltwater aquarium. “And yes, he’s just a mate. Moved into his boyfriend’s flat in Woodside.” He kept chattering, hoping to distract her from his misdeed. “It’s an historic building, with the most lovely hardwood floors. Nicer than mine, even.”

“I still think you owe the Duchess an apology for leaving so early. Send her a gift. She loves orchids, if that helps.”

“It does help, thank you.” Good God, not only a sunrise phone call, but an appeasement suggestion. His departure from the garden party must have caused quite the scandal amongst those with nothing better to be outraged about.

“What’s on your calendar for today?” she asked.

Lying on the couch, fantasizing about Colin.“Meeting Marcus Wynn-Garvey and a few other mates at Ibrox for the rugby sevens. Why?”

“That’s lovely.” She sounded relieved, no doubt because his plans included prominent young men like himself. “Could you take a few minutes and make a list of those you’d like to invite to our ball? Invitations go in the post in two weeks, which means the names and addresses need to be at the engravers’ in ten days.”

“Of course.” He sipped his tea and searched the coral reef polyps for his newest acquisition, a dwarf flame angelfish. They could be rather shy at first.

“Please, do try to keep interlopers to a minimal number and optimal standard.”

“I’ll try, Mum, if you promise not to ring me again so early when it’s not a crisis situation.”

“I’m trying to keep your social standing frombecominga crisis situation. Has my advice ever steered you wrong?”

“No, and that’s why I still take your five-thirty a.m. calls. Don’t abuse that privilege by giving me advice I don’t need.” Ah, there was the angelfish, hiding in a nook between two rocks, its tangerine scales blazing against the dark stone.

“You’re in uncharted territory, Andrew, now you’ve come out. We all are. Your behavior reflects not only upon your family, but upon all society.”

“Mm-hm.” He knew bysocietyshe meant the upper classes, not the world as a whole, which largely didn’t concern her.

“Not to mention reflecting upon homosexuals in general.”

“Mum, no one says ‘homosexuals’ anymore unless they’re screaming about us from a pulpit.” With the lightest of touches on the glass, he mirrored the path of his favorite fish, a copperband butterfly who’d nearly died from refusing to eat when it had first arrived.

“If you say so, darling. Just keep your eyes on the prize, and all will be well.”

Andrew sighed as they signed off. He didn’t need to ask what the prize was—it was sitting on his coffee table as a daily reminder.

Tatler’s annual Little Black Book listed two hundred of Britain’s most desirable singles. Prince Harry was at the top of the list, of course, along with Princess Di’s nieces and Kate Middleton’s siblings, but the LBB wasn’t limited to royalty and their satellites. Celebrities such as actress Emma Watson and Olympic diver Tom Daley had made the list in recent years—though the latter’s honor took place before his coming out as bisexual.

The Little Black Book’s autumn publication was highly anticipated by the upper classes and highly ridiculed by everyone else. The LBB was insipid. It was inane. It was everything wrong with society.

And it was Andrew’s dream. Not to beinit so much as to not beleft outof it. For a young, beautiful, unattached Brit, being omitted from the Little Black Book meant you were nobody. And if you were nobody…well, then good luck getting elected to a powerless community council, much less Parliament.

He went to the coffee table and picked up the slim black magazine supplement, its pages crinkled from months of perusal. He’d combed the LBB’s every entry, decoding the keys to glory, wondering if he had what it took to be accepted.

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