To Play or Not To Play

by Emily Bow

  Britain probably didn’t even have the same competitive rules as an American internship. For photos, they probably sorted everyone by family name. Names mattered here. Names and class. I’d be nicely in the middle. I locked my phone without replying and turned to the guy beside me.

  He was one of those weird European contradictions. Pressed clothes, shiny shoes, un-showered body. Yep, greasy flat hair. Shower every day for work, dude. Every day. What was so hard about that? This wasn’t camping. “What’d I miss? Discussions on the weather? Soccer?”

  “Nothing that wasn’t in the packet.” He turned more fully toward me, and his gaze took on a gleam of interest as he checked out my legs. “We’re having a break before the Prime Family comes in.” His tongue snaked out of his mouth to serve as his lip balm, allowing a glimpse of his teeth. Geez. No tooth brushing either?

  “None of the assignments have been handed out, have they?” My sister’s words dug at me. “It’s not competitive, is it? Like who sits where for the group picture?”

  “Interns with three points are top interns. They get to be in the group photo.” His gaze dropped to my legs again, and he rubbed his hand along his own calf.

  That made me nervous. Not his leg-rubbing, but the fact that they were limiting who would be in the photo. I needed to be in that photo. I shifted away and thumbed through my phone, searching for an explanatory email. There. I scrolled through the text.

  Top interns were interns with three points. The all-important intern picture, the famous end of summer picture—the photo that would end up on my parents’ mantle for the rest of my life.

  Forever.

  No doubt the image would make the rounds on our Christmas card, too. Tainting Christmas. My hand tightened on my teal phone case and grew clammy. I had to be in it.

  My sister had forced me here; now she’d show me up. I rubbed my temple with my free hand. Breathe. No, she wouldn’t. Breathe.

  One. Two. Three. Four.

  Felicity in a photo on the top row, taken in the D.C. Rose Garden. Me, standing on wet London grass.

  Felicity preening from the top row. Me, behind a hedge.

  On the mantle.

  Forever.

  Or me, not in the photo at all. My pulse rose, and my intentions hardened. I could do this. I sat up straighter and read more from the email. No fraternization with the co-workers. Not a surprise. But it struck me just the same. No fraternization with Wythe. All summer. None. No touching. No…

  The microphone whistled, drawing me out of my head.

  Peppa stood on the small raised stage in front of us.

  I swung forward with a new fervor for my internship. I’d nail my assignment. I had to.

  Peppa adjusted the mic and centered her computer tablet on top of the wooden structure. “Now that the welcome is over, I’m in charge of handing out your summer jobs.” Peppa clicked on her laptop, and an image of eggs lying in grass appeared on the screen behind her. “This live Internet status chart shows how effective you are at assisting Her Majesty’s government.” Peppa tapped on her computer.

  A set of bleachers appeared. There were egg-shaped cartoon people on the yard in front of them. A cartoon egg rolled over to the platform and hopped up several bleacher rows until it was positioned below the top. “As head intern, last year I stood here beneath the Prime Family.” Pride rounded her vowels. “Maybe you’ll get the chance to stand beside me this year as the family celebrates their new term.” Eggs dutifully filled in the bleacher.

  A few suck-ups clapped.

  Some eggs remained on the ground.

  Peppa nodded in acknowledgment of her superior standing. “As you can see, there is not room for everyone. We reward successful effort.” She held up her hands. “Now. It is my privilege—nay, my honor—to introduce the Prime Minister and her family. Please welcome the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, the Right Honorable Vanessa Wise, of Her Majesty’s Government.”

  The middle-aged blonde woman, the one I’d seen at the door to the breakfast room, came in, followed by a middle-aged man with graying, dark blond hair. Both wore suits and practiced, political smiles. I should have known what the Prime Minister looked like.

  Everyone clapped.

  I had known her name was Vanessa Wise and that her husband’s name was Tom Wise. At least, I think I had known that. Okay, I hadn’t. I had thought his name was David.

  A small girl trotted out next. About six years old, she wore a pink dress with a blue satin ribbon tied at the waist.

  “Her daughter, Caroline.”

  The intern on my left murmured, “Ahh. So precious.”

  “And their son, Wythe.”

  Wythe?

  Chapter 4

  My head shot up. That got me.

  The hot blond guy from the closet and the scone buffet strode across the stage.

  Wythe was not an intern. He wore a sure, confident expression. He waved at the crowd and moved into place with his family. Their positioning seemed well practiced. Everyone was in perfect view; no one blocked the other.

  The blonde lady on my other side clutched her purse to her chest. Her gaze never left them.

  My gaze flew back to Wythe.

  Liar, liar, British pants on fire.

  I should have done my research. Heat ran under my skin. No. He knew I thought he was another intern. He should have said something. Hot guys with hidden secrets. They were the worst kind of guys. And the best kind. My insides fluttered, and my weakness surprised me. I was so going to find him after this.

  No. No, I wouldn’t. There was a no-touching rule. I could look though, and I did.

  I wasn’t the only one who appreciated the sight of him. The women in the audience mumbled pleased yet restrained noises. So upper class. Enthusiasm was so middle class.

  This hadn’t been my morning. For an intriguing moment in the closet, it had been… Where had my mind gone? I think I’d already paired us up for the summer. Because of one unzipped dress and a scone.

  Now he was on the other side of the line. A member of the family.

  A family of four. Two kids. I swear, I thought there were three. Maybe the other one was the baby in diapers. Standing together, they formed a perfect family, posed with the lights glinting on their blond heads like halos. Ha. No one in politics wore a halo.

  Two professional photographers squatted at the base of the stage to capture the moment. Wythe had gotten his build and square jaw from his father and his cut cheekbones from his mom. His eyes were all his own.

  After a moment for pictures, the Prime Minister got behind the microphone and grinned at us. Her open palms and relaxed posture showed her welcome and appreciation. “Thank you for your service.”

  The Prime Minister motioned, and her husband stepped forward. He placed his hand on his wife’s back, fully supportive, and leaned toward the microphone. “Your help over the summer will be invaluable to us, and it is our genuine hope it has some value to you.”

  Wythe stepped up next. “Thank you.” His voice was deep, but it lacked the warmth he had used when he’d spoken to me directly.

  Caroline walked forward and patted the side of his leg with one hand. Wythe bent and lifted his adorable sister with one arm, high so she could reach the microphone. She beamed a dimpled smile at us and leaned forward. “Thank you, everyone.” The microphone amplified her high, endearing voice.

  They were a gorgeous family.

  The crowd laughed and clapped. “Well done,” the guy beside me said.

  Commentary on the family filled the room. “So cute. So charismatic.”

  I saw it, too. One hour in, and I was already leaning in favor of the scone. Who knew what working here all summer with these charmers would do for my take on Britain? Maybe my annual three-week-long trips to the grandparents’ Midlands farm hadn’t shown me all that Britain could be. Maybe I’d discover more over these next six weeks.

  I joined the clappers until the Prime Family ex
ited from view.

  Peppa retook the microphone. “Now for your placements. Take these and go through the main door to meet your groups and proceed with your team meetings.” She ran through names, in no order I could discern. It wasn’t alphabetical and only somewhat by category: public relations, security, business development… Maybe the order was by arrival, because by the time she got to my name, there was only me and a slim lady with beautiful dark blonde hair remaining in the audience.

  I envied her hair. Loose curls a mix of dark and light, contained, perfect outfit, slim wristwatch. She hadn’t been late. Beside her, I must’ve really looked a mess. She joined me in the first row. Her hands were clenched in her lap, and she breathed rapidly. Like hyperventilation rapid. Like get a paper bag or call the paramedic rapid.

  At least I could breathe. In. Out. Yep. I was high functioning. Breathing and thinking. I’d throw in some talking. “You okay?”

  “Yes,” she squeaked. “I wonder where Zane was.” Her voice sounded American Southern but less twangy than mine. Not East Coast Southern. Texas, maybe, but not my part. Her robin’s egg blue gaze darted to me.

  “No clue.” I didn’t know who Zane was. He must’ve been the third kid. I’d been right. I felt some satisfaction at that, since my being right hadn’t happened much this morning.

  “Georgiana Harper,” Peppa said, her voice booming through the mic for an audience of two.

  Georgiana, beside me, popped up. “That’s me. I mean, call me Georgiana. I have my confidentiality agreement ready.”

  That reminded me to dig mine out.

  Peppa clicked on the tablet and Household appeared on the screen behind her, though now there were only three of us in the room. She could have just said it. Peppa arched her eyebrows and her lips curved down.

  Georgiana breathed faster, and her eyes grew glassy. “I’d hoped. I mean, I was counting, and I didn’t think all the slots had been filled.” Her gaze flew to me, and her breath broke. “Both guys are so gorgeous, and I’ll be working for them.”

  “Yeah, sure.” If thoughts of toting Wythe’s laundry had her this unsteady, the poor girl wouldn’t survive the week. And if the women in this country responded to Wythe with this kind of passion, his ego must’ve been deeper than the Atlantic. That was not a plus.

  A picture of Caroline appeared beside Georgiana’s name. “Oh, okay. I can help watch Miss Caroline.” She squared her shoulders. “They live in the same house, you know. I will get to meet the guys. The whole perfect family. See them interact.” The screen changed, showing her goals. “Get three frame-worthy photos of Ms. Caroline at charity events. I can do that.” She smiled at me.

  I smiled back. Georgiana was out of breath and overeager, but I liked her anyway. Peppa, not so much. How did I know who I’d like so quickly and who I’d dislike? Shouldn’t I give Peppa more of a shot? I certainly needed a second shot after this morning’s epic display of lateness. I’d make more of an effort.

  More effort would hopefully mean more success. I’d match my sister’s efforts and win a shot in the photo, like she would. I wished I had doubts about that, but a lifetime of competition let me know my sister would be on top. We were fraternal twins. I knew her. Now my head was in the game. I knew what mattered this summer.

  Georgiana rose on her toes. “Charity events. The whole family could be there.” She flushed. “I will get to meet Zane in person. Zane must be studying now. That’s why he’s not here. Both the sons. Engineers. Masters programs. So clever.”

  Yeah. Wythe had managed my tangled shirt and zipper. I could see the engineer in him.

  Georgiana went up and exchanged paperwork with Peppa.

  Feeling stupid, sitting there in the empty auditorium awaiting my fate, didn’t work for me. I was the last one. I had to be next. I strode up on stage and joined the duo.

  Peppa ignored Georgiana’s chatter and smiled dismissively at her enthusiasm.

  Georgiana’s fervor made the confidentiality agreements we’d had to sign make even more sense. Basically, if I breathed a word of my summer to the press or in a tell-all book, I’d owe the British government a debt that would at minimum bankrupt me and at maximum involve me handing over my first-born child, along with the top half of my right foot. Or maybe it was that my future children would not be eligible for this program or something like that. The other rules weren’t as harsh. But if I broke them, I’d be kicked out. I’d never live that down, so I’d never let that happen.

  Georgiana must not have read the bolded “no talk, no touch” rule in the email. Or she wouldn’t have been quite so excited to meet the Prime Brothers. Interns couldn’t date anyone who worked or lived at Downing Street. Working here meant she and Zane wouldn’t be holding hands over a lukewarm milkshake. Not this summer, anyway.

  Holding onto the form, Peppa clicked the tablet and my name, Kira Kitman, and my super attractive passport photo appeared on the screen. The screen flickered.

  A picture of Wythe appeared. My stupid heart jumped.

  “Wythe.” Georgiana stared at me with envy-glossed light-blue eyes.

  I shrugged. But inside, there were happy tingles, and I know my mouth curved up. Wythe could hand-feed me scones each morning. Welcome to Britain.

  Peppa frowned. She turned back to her tablet, muttered, and tapped on the screen. “That’s a mistake. Someone erred. You are not with Wythe.”

  Again with using his name. I hated the sound of his name on her lips.

  The next screen popped up. It listed my goals. Wythe must attend three charity events this summer.

  Georgiana flushed a dark pink. Peppa paled.

  “Looks like I am with Wythe,” I said to dig the knife in. A skill honed by having a competitive sister. Plus, I wanted to say his name.

  Peppa blew out a breath. “I did not assign you to Wythe. That is not correct. Someone is about to be on the hot seat.” She threw her shoulders back and her chest out. “That phrase originated here, you know, because of the coals under the night watchman’s chair.”

  A little less jetlag and a little less Peppa and I could appreciate that fact. But something about her didn’t make me want to toss back a tequila shot and yell for more trivia.

  Peppa made a snort-huff sound when I didn’t respond quickly enough. “Shall we go get your real assignment sorted? I did not assign you to Wythe.”

  Repeating it wasn’t going to change things. Peppa wasn’t as in charge as she thought. I clung to that happy thought, but a twinge of annoyance made me roll my shoulders. Get out of my business, Peppa.

  Maybe my annoyance this morning hadn’t been hunger. My opinion was now cemented. I did not like Peppa. How did I know that already? Wisdom honed from childhood? Probably that. Peppa wore some micro-expression that I’d learned about during kindergarten. Maybe Felicity had worn it when she’d outrun me to the highest swing on the swing set, leaving me with the lower one.

  “Come along, you two. The family lives upstairs.”

  “Upstairs.” Georgiana breathed a low whooshing breath and fell into step. “We are close to them.”

  The family. Wythe. Yeah. Let’s go there. I followed. “Shall we have a look behind the curtain?”

  Chapter 5

  Prime ministers’ portraits hung along the stairwell wall in chronological order, marking decades of minute fashion changes: a narrower tie here, a wider lapel there, and one daring striped suit.

  We ascended the marble, carpet-lined steps, and Georgiana muttered details about the leaders who caught her eye until we reached the portrait of Prime Minister Wise.

  Georgiana flushed, which seemed to be her thing. She had that skin that didn’t tan. I was fair, but my skin took on a Texas tan in the summer. Not this summer though. I’d be as snow-pale as her by August. Georgiana said, “They’re perfect.” Her voice was soft.

  “No family’s perfect.” She’d know that if she had a sister like mine.

  She didn’t argue with me—just clasped her hands together and continued up t
he stairs. We went up one more flight to the third floor.

  I showed my ID badge to the two guards protecting the private quarters. They checked Peppa’s and Georgiana’s, too.

  Peppa pointed to the paneled door. “You two go in and make yourselves useful but unobtrusive. I’ll get the assignments sorted.” She continued down the hall.

  Georgiana waved both hands in front of her face and stopped.

  Inside, the Prime Family stood amid strategically placed couches and potted plants. Wythe sat in a blue overstuffed armchair, which was large enough that I could have curled up in it perfectly—me and a book. My unicorn shapeshifter erotica book. Me and him and my novel. There was a dream. Was he looking at me? He was.

  No touching.

  Georgiana muffled a moan.

  “No family’s perfect,” I said again and gave Georgiana an encouraging look.

  Georgiana wobbled on her heels. “The Wise family really is perfect. I don’t have siblings. They are so lucky. Such a perfect unit. And we get to meet them.”

  “Breathe.” I gave her a pat on the shoulder and then pushed her through the doorway.

  Inside, the Prime Minister had her arms folded over her chest and was staring at her son and daughter as if she could will them into doing her bidding like she did Parliament.

  “It’s not happening,” Wythe said without looking up from his computer tablet, firm dispassion in his voice.

  We’d interrupted something. Georgiana paused. I kept walking.

  “It’s like the Salvador duck incident all over again. I won’t have it. Mind your obligations.” The Prime Minister took a step toward him and was blocked by her daughter.

  Caroline, the six-year-old, cut in front of her and spun in a circle, chanting, “Never. Never.”

  I rather admired Caroline sticking to her position. If I’d done that more with my sister, maybe I wouldn’t have been stuck with so many second choices.