Page 122 of Men in Shorts

Some of the reporters looked impressed, but the blogger lad made a twisty-face. “Did you think politics was ever a noble calling? Did you believe in some mythical age when virtuous leaders cared about the people?”

“I don’t know.” Andrew shook his head sadly. “Perhaps it’s always been this way. Perhaps I’m being naive when I look to the past and see politicians who fought for the power of ideas rather than power itself.” He sighed. “In any case, I’m through.”

“What’s next for you, then?” asked the tall ginger lady. “Besides attending university and fabulous parties, of course.”

“Of course.” Andrew tried to return her smile, but his own faltered, and his eyes went distant for a moment. Then he blinked and said, “Perhaps I’ll write a book. That’s what famous people do, yeah?”

“God save us all,” George muttered as he sidled past Colin and Lady Kirkross to stand next to his brother. “The family has no more statements at this time,” the earl announced before putting an awkward arm around Andrew’s shoulders. “My brother deserves a bit of peace.”

“What about your sister?” asked a stick-thin blond man edging his way to the front. Colin remembered him from Reggie’s sentencing as a reporter for Scotland’s biggest tabloid. “How’s she feel about her husband getting sent down?”

Andrew’s mother stepped forward. “What kind of idiotic question is that? How do you think she feels?”

“It’s not my job to speculate,” the tabloid reporter said with wide-eyed fake innocence.

“That is precisely your job.” Lady Kirkross stared him down. “It’s all you ever do. You speculate, you gossip, you treat our lives like they’re storylines in a soap opera. But we’re as real as you are. So if you can, please reach down to the bottom of your twisted little heart, scrape together some basic human empathy, and use it to imagine how we feel. Then have yourself a strong cup of tea, as you’ll no doubt be exhausted after such exertion.”

Everyone gaped at her—the reporters, the family, and Colin himself. When no one moved, Lady Kirkross said, “Go!”

With scattered grumbles, the journalists dispersed, casting sullen looks back at the Sunderland clan.

“That was brilliant, Mum.” Andrew leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You realize it’ll be on YouTube in five minutes, right?”

“I’m counting on it.” She wrapped her red tartan wool scarf about her neck with a flourish. “Shall we depart?”

“What about Elizabeth?” George asked.

“She’ll be waiting for us in the car by now.” Lady Kirkross pulled on her gloves. “I gave her a wig and a hat so she could sneak out behind us whilst we distracted the reporters.”

They headed for the stairs to leave the building, but as soon as they rounded the first corner, Lord Kirkross stopped and turned to Andrew.

“Son, I’ve been wanting to say something.” He took a pause bordering on the theatrical. “Jeremy failed you as a brother-in-law and as a friend. But I failed you as a father.”

Andrew shook his head. “Dad, don’t?—”

“I pressured you to fit a mold you’d outgrown,” his father said. “It shouldn’t have taken me twenty years to realize you’ve got your own mind. You certainly proved that after the referendum result.”

Colin glowed inside, remembering how Andrew had posted a video of himself voting Yes for Scottish independence as he proclaimed his love for Colin, a video Andrew also tweeted at the Tory Prime Minister and his Conservative Party. Lord Kirkross then disowned him via a bizarre telegram-like message—which of course Andrew promptly Instagrammed, fanning the flames of family discord.

“Instead of accepting your independent thinking,” his father said, “I reacted with shame and fear. I’m sorry, and I hope one day you can forgive me.”

Eyes wide, Andrew wavered, and Colin worried his boyfriend would be the next Sunderland to make a dash for the toilets.

Instead Andrew opened his arms and embraced his father. “I’m sorry too, Dad. I never meant to embarrass you.”

Lady Kirkross pulled out a handkerchief and delicately dabbed it behind her glasses. Even George seemed moved, bowing his head and shifting his weight.

As they all moved toward the exit again, Andrew slipped a warm, steady palm against Colin’s. “Everything’s going to be okay now,” he whispered.

Colin squeezed his hand as hard as he dared. Perhaps all they needed was to put this incident behind them. Maybe they’d healed themselves by telling the judge how Jeremy had fucked up their lives. Thanks to their frank words, justice had been done.

Perhaps that was enough, and they’d soon be whole again.

Chapter10

Andrew’sfellow dream-zombies rampaged about him in the supermarket aisle, their crooked limbs pinning down screaming shoppers, their rotting jaws gnawing at pink flesh. One victim was trying to bludgeon the zombie atop her with an economy-sized can of baked beans.

Not keen to join the feast, he shuffled into the organic food section, where he found his gray Shetland pony, Gretchen, with her muzzle deep inside a bulk bin of jelly beans. A very-much-alive Colin stood between Gretchen and an approaching horde of undead, wielding a barbecue fork in one hand and a mobile phone in the other.

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