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Chapter 13

Friday afternoon, Andrew steered his Tesla roadster into the parking area near the Dunleven Castle stables, mindful of the drifts formed by last night’s snowstorm. His sister’s gray Range Rover was already there.

He found Lady Elizabeth inside the warm barn, looking sullen in her long wool coat and riding habit. “Timothy says there’s too much snow for us to ride,” she said. “What do we pay him for if not to do as we ask?”

“We pay him to look after the horses.” Andrew gave her a quick air-kiss to the cheek. “Which includes protecting them from our bad judgment.”

He shared his sister’s disappointment, however. It had been weeks since he’d been on a horse, and he’d leapt at Elizabeth’s suggestion they ride together.

A whinny sounded from the far end of the stable, followed by a slam of iron upon wood.

Elizabeth jolted, then grimaced. “Your mistress awaits. Timothy said she needs time on the lunge. Getting fat, I imagine.”

“She prefers ‘pleasantly plump,’ thank you.” Andrew hurried down the well-lit central corridor until he neared Gretchen’s stall. “Who’s my wee princess?” he sang. She neighed on cue.

“At least she knows one trick.” Elizabeth followed at a distance—a prudent choice, as she and Gretchen had been enemies since the day the Shetland pony had arrived nearly fifteen years ago.

Andrew leaned on the stall door and scratched Gretchen’s rump—which she always displayed to him before her face—taking care to avoid the maze of scaly black scars amidst her milk-white hair. It seemed ages since he’d seen her the day after Fergus and John’s wedding. Could it have been less than a month ago?

When Gretchen finally turned to face him, he offered the obligatory carrot. “Want to go outside?” he asked as she crunched.

With an affirmative snort, the pony showered the stable door with carrot shrapnel.

He fetched a halter and a thirty-foot lunge line, then led Gretchen out to the riding ring. She tossed her head with glee at the feel of the brisk winter wind, pausing but a moment to pin her ears back at the sight of Elizabeth.

Once Andrew had Gretchen walking around him in a large, anticlockwise circle, his sister approached, her pale face barely visible between her russet woolen scarf and faux-mink hat (at least Andrew hoped it was faux). They rotated with the pony’s motions, like a binary star system with a single planet.

Andrew kept his focus on Gretchen, clucking and chirping to keep the pony’s pace at a brisk walk. There was so much he wanted to tell his sister, but didn’t know where to begin.

“Remember when we were kids,” Elizabeth said at last, “we’d go riding in the snow and give the old stable master a heart attack? What was his name?”

“Finn. And that must have been George you did that with. You and I were never kids together.”

“Right. Sorry.”

Andrew bit his lip. His sister was trying to form a bridge between them; it wasn’t solely her fault they were short of building materials. “I remember you teaching me to ride,” he said. “On your saintly chestnut gelding Aesop, may he rest in peace.”

“I remember picking you out of the dirt after you tumbled off. You always hopped right back on like nothing had happened. I used to wonder if you enjoyed falling, simply for the drama of it all.”

“I enjoyed it more after I discovered it annoyed you.”

“As I suspected.” She tucked a dark brown lock of hair back under her hat. “But you were still my favorite toy.”

Andrew’s arm twitched in surprise, jerking the lunge line. Gretchen thrashed her head, her thick mane an undulating silver curtain. “Trot!” he called out to distract the pony from his mistake. She obeyed, but only after a few seconds, as if to imply that speeding up was her idea.

A blast of wind hit just as the sun peeked through a gap in the clouds. Elizabeth wrapped her arms around her waist as she walked faster to avoid the lunge line. “I should have seen what Jeremy was doing,” she said. “How he was trying to control you. I should have looked out for you.”

This admission of imperfection—and odder still, the display of sibling concern—made Andrew uneasy. “I would’ve ignored any warning or advice.”

“That’s no excuse. I didn’t protect you because I preferred not to think of you at all. Whenever Jeremy discussed your future, I would change the subject, because the mere thought of my little brother… ugh . Don’t lie and say the feeling wasn’t mutual.”

“It was.” Andrew longed for his family’s usual emotional caginess. “And now?”

“Now, I-I want you to be all right.” Elizabeth fidgeted with her scarf. “I want to help make that happen.”

“Whooooa.” Andrew brought Gretchen to a halt, then staggered, dizzy from turning in a circle. As Elizabeth steadied him, he stepped back and switched the lunge line to his other hand, prompting Gretchen to turn and face the opposite direction. Then he clicked his tongue. “Walk!” Once the pony was in motion again, he said, “I appreciate your concern.”

“After what happened in London the other night…”

“Yes.” Andrew’s face grew hot. Nearly everyone he knew had reached out to him in the two days since his panic attack. It was embarrassing, but also a wakeup call. He clearly needed support from someone other than himself, his boyfriend, and a mysterious midfielder/“civil servant.”

“So you’re getting help?”

“My first therapy appointment is tomorrow. Colin kept insisting.” He glanced at his sister, waiting for her to call him a whinger, a weakling, a wee self-centered brat.

“Excellent.” Elizabeth tugged on the fingers of her gloves, looking as awkward as Andrew felt. “He seems good for you, astonishingly. And you’re probably the only one in our family not already in therapy.”

He nearly lost his grip on the lunge line. “Seriously?”

“Why are you surprised? This life would drive anyone mad.”

“Especially now I’ve broken your family.”

She sighed. “There you go again, making it about you.”

“Trot!” He shook the line to urge Gretchen to pick up the pace, since his lips had gone too dry to make encouraging noises. “I know Jeremy’s crime is his responsibility, but it doesn’t change the fact that if it weren’t for me and my big gaping mouth, your husband would be a free man.”

“But he wouldn’t be a good man.” She hurried to keep ahead of the rotating line. “That’s something you and I need to face. How did we fall for Jeremy’s promises? Why did we think a political operative could be trusted with our hearts?”

“We thought he was on our side,” Andrew said. “People like him make good allies.”

“Until they don’t.”

“Head up,” he chirped to Gretchen, raising the lunge line. “Up! That’s my good girl.” He returned to a normal tone. “I want to help you, too, Elizabeth. With anything.”

“George has sorted most of my practical matters.” Another gust of wind came up, forcing Elizabeth to move closer so Andrew could hear her. “Perhaps you could visit Tyler and Gwyneth more often when they’re home. You’re their favorite uncle, after all. They moaned about missing you every day we were in Greece. It wasn’t Christmas without Uncle Drew, they said.”

“Really?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t believe me. Your ego knows it’s true.”

He merely grunted, feeling a bit shaken by her kindness. Now that they were a foot apart, Andrew was reminded he was taller than Elizabeth. In his mind’s eye, his sister would always loom over him.

“Is she nearly finished?” Elizabeth frowned at the pony whizzing about them. “I’m getting vertigo.”

Andrew held out his free hand, then lowered it as he asked Gretchen to walk. “I’m glad you suggested this,” he told Elizabeth without looking at her. He knew Colin would be happy to hear how well this meeting had gone—and no doubt amused at their sibling awkwardness.

“Me too.” Elizabeth took a tissue from her coat pocket and dabbed her nose. “We should do this again.”

“Only if by ‘this’ you mean horse stuff, not talking about our feelings.”

“Obviously.” She beamed at him, making his heart twist at the wish she’d do it more often.

Before he could stop himself, Andrew reached out and touched his sister’s shoulder. Her stiff posture seemed to melt, and she moved toward him, opening her arms for an embrace. Andrew bent over and?—

A squeal erupted from his left, and he felt the lunge line go suddenly slack. He pulled back to see Gretchen trotting toward them, ears back, teeth bared, the whites of her eyes showing as she advanced on Elizabeth.

“Whooooa.” Andrew jumped forward and picked up the slithering line, which Gretchen yanked as she stopped, barely a yard from her prey. “Ow.”

“You hateful beast,” Elizabeth hissed, then looked up at Andrew. “I’m talking to her, not you.”

He smirked as he rolled the twinge of soreness from his shoulder. The fact his sister had bothered to clarify her insult showed things had changed between them.

“I could tie her to the fence,” he said, “if you still want to hug.”

“No. The moment’s passed.” Elizabeth gave a dismissive flick of her hand, then turned and marched toward the stable.

Andrew watched his sister go, tempted to let Gretchen loose upon her, perhaps even shoot a “When Ponies Attack” video to share online—or at least with Colin.

But he didn’t.

* * *

Colin wasn’t normally a fan of artificial turf. Its unyielding surface left him and his teammates aching for days after a match. He’d seen news reports saying the wee bits of rubber embedded in the fake grass could cause cancer. Also, it smelled funny.

But today he wanted to kneel down and kiss the pitiless plastic fibers. The week’s snow and rain had turned Glasgow’s natural-grass pitches into unplayable swamps. Today’s game at the Warriors’ home park, Firhill Complex, was one of only a handful of amateur matches not postponed.

In other words, Colin was just happy to be here, at the center of this jade-green monstrosity, playing for the team he loved.

Well into the second half of the 1-1 match—in which he’d started for the first time this season—his legs still felt strong as he dribbled down the line into the Warriors’ attacking third, trying to outpace the defender at his shoulder. Unable to get past the speedy fullback to put in a cross, Colin kicked the ball into the defender’s shins, making it ricochet far out of play for a Warriors throw-in.

As the ball was retrieved, Colin bent over, hands on his thighs, to catch his breath. Sprints were still leaving him winded, but thanks to Evan’s “deadmill” training sessions, these spells were far briefer and milder than those at the cup battle two weeks ago.

“Beware MacDuff! Beware the Thane of Fife!”

Colin straightened up, swiped his sweaty hair off his forehead, and grinned at the Rainbow Regiment cramming the home stand. Andrew had concocted a few new chants he considered much cleverer, but none had caught on like the Macbeth quote.

He stood now beside John at the edge of the seating area, wisely removing himself from the center of the Regiment. Colin had suggested he stay home to avoid the crowd, but Andrew would have none of it.

“I need to be out amongst friends, ” he’d said, “not cowering beneath my bed like an injured mouse.”

“Suit yourself,” Colin had replied, “but just gie’s the signal and I’ll get myself red-carded so we can leave.”

It wasn’t completely a joke. Nothing had ever scared Colin like the sight of Andrew’s pale, clammy face at Wednesday night’s party.

He returned his attention to the touchline, where Warriors left back Katie Heath was preparing the throw-in, lifting the ball behind her head and scanning her options. She had a notoriously powerful throw, and the wind was behind her, so Colin drew back, hoping to turn her pass into an instant shot.

Instead Katie hurled it even farther, to where Evan was waiting just outside the penalty area. He chested it down, then dragged it away from the defender using his right instep, pivoting on his left leg to get free.

Colin moved into the box, calling for a pass. His own shooting angle wasn’t ideal, but he hoped to draw the other center-back toward him, thus giving Evan a clearer shot.

The plan worked. The defender was on Colin in an instant, leaving his keeper the only obstacle between Evan and the goal.

There came a loud, leathery thump, followed by a pale blur as the ball streaked past Colin into the net’s near corner.

“YAAASSS!” With a surge of joy nearly as electric as when he scored himself, Colin darted up behind Evan as the midfielder jogged toward the touchline to celebrate. He grabbed Evan’s shoulders and leaped onto his back, curling an arm around his neck to latch on.

Evan stopped short, his body a tense coil.

Colin let go instantly. “Sorry, mate.” He stepped back, a weird instinct telling him he’d nearly provoked a violent reaction.

Evan gave a brisk, almost spastic shake of the head. “No bother.” Then he turned to wave to the cheering crowd as a whooping Katie and Duncan swarmed him from either side, which didn’t seem to freak him out like being tackled from behind.

As they headed back for the kickoff, Evan patted Colin’s shoulder. “Great work. In my mind you get the unofficial assist, and not just for drawing that defender away. You won us the throw-in to begin with.”

Colin shrugged, though inside he was beaming. “I was trying to get past that fullback, but he was too fast.”

“His pace is blinding. But rather than try and force your will on the game, you did what you could to give us a chance to score.”

Colin wrinkled his nose at Evan’s impromptu lecture. “Okay, but this doesnae mean I’m growing up.”

Ahead of them, the referee blew his whistle, looking toward the benches. Colin turned to see Shona removing her bright yellow pinny, ready to come on as a substitute. The fourth official raised the board showing Shona’s number next to Colin’s.

“That’s me done.” Colin glanced at the game clock. He’d lasted nearly seventy minutes. Not bad. It was odd not to feel disappointed at leaving the game early. Normally he’d be obsessing over what he could’ve done with more time.

As Colin approached the bench, Charlotte and the substitutes surrounded him with hugs and back slaps. He sat down with a groan of relief and satisfaction, then hurried to put on his jacket to fend off the chill he’d barely felt out on the pitch.

Finally he turned to look up at Andrew in the stands. His boyfriend’s face was smooth and calm as he watched the match, but his hands were furiously twisting the belt of his long black coat.

Charlotte leaned down to whisper, “Away and sit with him before your neck freezes in that position.”

Colin stared at his manager. “The rules say I cannae do that unless I’m red-carded. You love rules.”

“I love rules enough to break them for a good cause.” She smacked his thigh with her clipboard. “On you go!”

In less than ten seconds Colin was standing beside a very surprised Andrew.

“What’s wrong?” Andrew scanned him as he slid over to make room.

“Nothing.” Colin took his hand and held it between his own to warm it. “You forget your gloves?”

“Yes. But I don’t need them now,” he said with a soft smile.

“Brilliant shift, mate,” John said as they sat down to watch the final twenty minutes. “Must feel good to play at home again.”

Colin nodded, thinking of the last time he’d played here, in mid-September. The space felt different now, and not just because the temperature was twenty degrees colder.

Andrew nestled against him. “Mmm, you positively reek,” he purred.

“Thanks.” He kissed Andrew’s forehead. “You’re not embarrassed I came up here to be with you?”

“I might have been before. I might’ve worried about looking pathetic.” He tugged his coat tighter around himself. “But now I know I need you more than I need my stupid pride.”

“Hm, that won’t last,” Colin teased.

Andrew didn’t laugh.

* * *

Shouldn’t this get easier? Andrew thought as he entered his therapist’s empty waiting room. It was not only his third visit, but his third visit this week . By now he should be good at it, whatever that meant.

He sat on the edge of a soft leather hunter-green chair. From here he could see both the exit and the door to the office of Dr. Thomson, his psychologist.

Colin had accompanied him on his previous two visits, to offer moral support—and probably to stop him running away. But he’d quickly noticed Andrew not only didn’t hate the experience, but almost looked forward to it.

“Knew you’d be keen on therapy,” Colin had said, “once you realized it was fifty straight minutes of talking about yourself.”

Dr. Thomson opened her door and beckoned Andrew in with a warm smile. He took a deep breath as he entered, inhaling the unique cinnamon/ginger scent of her afternoon coffee.

“How are you?” she asked as they settled into comfy armchairs across from each other.

“Do you mean ‘How are you?’ as in, ‘Hello’ or ‘How are you?’ as in, ‘How are you feeling?’”

“Either. Both.” She pulled her long blond hair behind her shoulders. “Whichever you prefer to begin with.”

“Ah. In that case, I’m well. How are you?”

After a half-minute discussion of this week’s unseasonably warm weather, they moved on to Andrew’s plans for the immediate future.

“I’ve decided to take a sabbatical from uni,” he told her. “Just until September. As you said, hopefully between now and then I’ll know what I want to do with my course. In the meantime, I’ve got a new passion—or rather, a new twist on an old passion.”

“What’s that?”

“Food,” he said. “I’ve always been into what Colin calls ‘that crunchy shite,’ by which he means healthy eating.”

“Yes, in our last session you said you’d researched the best foods to help him heal from his injury.”

“I did.” Andrew marveled at how much his therapist remembered, considering she rarely made notes in front of him. “So now I’m studying the best foods to help me…you know.”

“Heal?”

“Heal,” he repeated, with some effort. “Anyway, I might start a blog or do a few videos. Perhaps it could help others. If nothing else, it’d give me something to do all day whilst Colin’s at uni.” The thought of sitting alone in his flat made Andrew’s skin shimmy.

“That’s an interesting idea.” Dr. Thomson uncrossed and recrossed her legs, smoothing her brown suede skirt. “Talking of Colin, how are things at home?”

“They’re quite…calm.” He chuckled. “I never thought that would be a good thing.” Without going into detail, he told her how he and Colin had kept things low-key in the bedroom since his second panic attack, to avoid triggering a third. Andrew was surprised how easy it was to open up to his therapist, knowing his secrets would never leave this room.

Of course, the fact of his treatment was no secret. “Also,” he continued, “Colin helped me work out how to share with the world my, erm, struggles.” It was still difficult to even think words like anxiety , depression , and PTSD , much less say them aloud.

“What form did that take?” Dr. Thomson asked.

“A short statement on my Tumblr, a paragraph or so. Which I then screen-capped to share on Twitter and Instagram. It was all rather drama-free—by my standards, at least. I usually do things with a bit more fanfare.”

She nodded. “And how did your followers respond? I remember you were worried about the ‘hordes of haters,’ as you put it.”

“There were some of those, though not even enough to qualify as a single horde. And the others…” Andrew paused. Thinking of those who’d shown him support made it difficult to breathe, much less speak. “Others were much kinder,” he managed to whisper at last.

“How did that feel?”

“Honestly?” He put a hand to his aching chest. “It felt…I feel…unworthy.”

“I see.” Dr. Thomson thought for a moment. “What do you think would make you worthy of their kindness?”

“If I’d suffered some sort of injury, or if my ordeal had lasted longer. Or if I weren’t a fucking lord. I’ve got everything, and only a tiny piece of me’s been stolen. Other people who’ve been hurt, they never had as much, so when that bit gets taken away, they’ve got much less left of themselves.”

“Which people? Do you mean Colin, or are there others as well?”

“Yes, here.” Andrew pulled out his phone. “This girl my age from Hartlepool tagged me on Instagram. Her father used to beat her and her mum on a weekly basis.” He brought up the post and handed his phone to his therapist. “She went into foster care when she was fourteen. Her mum died shortly thereafter.”

Dr. Thomson put on her glasses and scanned the post. “May I read the first part aloud?”

“I’ve already seen it. I know what it says.”

“Just humor me.”

“Suit yourself.” Andrew flicked his hand at her, already nervous at the sight of someone else holding his phone.

She cleared her throat and began. “‘Thank you, Lord Andrew, for telling the truth about how hard it is. When someone like you has the courage to be real, it makes all survivors stronger.’”

“What does she mean, someone like me?”

“What do you think she means?”

He shrugged. “Rich and powerful, I guess.”

“Have you felt powerful since your attempted abduction?”

“I—” He gave an exasperated sigh. “No, of course not. But it’s not how I feel which matters. How I feel doesn’t match with reality, and that’s why—” He gestured to the room. “I guess that’s why I’m here.”

She furrowed her brow. “Explain.”

“That’s what madness is, right? When you experience things which aren’t real?”

Dr. Thomson held up Andrew’s phone. “This girl used the word ‘real’ to describe you. She saw something in your post that felt genuine to her. Are you claiming she’s mad?”

“Of course she’s not mad. She’s just been through hell.” He stopped, wondering if he’d been tricked into admitting something. “Give me that.”

He took back his phone and looked at the selfie of the girl from Hartlepool. She stood barefoot on a wooden floor, wearing what looked like a white karate kit cinched at the waist with a black belt. In the mirrored wall behind her he could see her dark ponytail hanging between her shoulder blades. For the photo, she’d struck a stance of defensive power and strength.

“I’m in awe of this lass,” he said.

“I think the feeling is mutual.” As he started to shake his head, Dr. Thomson continued. “Andrew, the two of you have something in common. She sees it. You see it. Would you tell her she’s not earned the right to feel pain?”

“Of course not.”

“Based on her post, do you think she’d say you’ve not earned your feelings?”

He scrunched up his face, feeling on the verge of an uncomfortable truth. “I don’t follow.”

“This girl sees in you a fellow survivor, even though your experiences were different and by most measures hers were worse. Even though, if this were the Great British Adversity-Off, she’d win in a landslide.”

He scoffed. “It’s not a competition.”

Dr. Thomson fell silent, letting Andrew’s words hang in the air. He replayed them in his mind, where their echo told him all he needed to know.