Then he escorts us into a little room-empty except for a desk, some shelves with nothing on them, and a chair-in the back of the Job Centre office.
On the way there, I can feel the gazes of everyone else-both in line and working behind the counter-burning into the back of my neck. Some people are whispering. Some of them are laughing.
It takes a good five seconds before I finally realize why.
And when I do, my cheeks go as red as Andrew’s had gone pale a minute earlier.
Because that’s when I know that I’ve done it again. Yes. Opened my big, fat, stupid mouth when I should have kept it closed.
But how was I to know that a Job Centre is where British people go to sign up for unemployment benefits?
And what is Andrew doing, anyway, signing up for unemployment benefits when he ISN’T UNEMPLOYED?
Except that Andrew doesn’t seem to see it that way-you know, as illegal. He keeps opening his mouth to bleat, “But everybody does it!”
But that’s not how the Job Centre people seem to feel, if the look the man gives us before he leaves to find his “superior” is any indication.
“Look, Liz,” Andrew says to me the minute the Job Centre man is out of the room, “I know you didn’t mean to, but you’ve completely cocked things up for me. It’ll be all right, though, if, when the bloke comes back, you just tell him you made a mistake. That we had a little misunderstanding and I wasn’t working yesterday. All right?”
I stare at him, confused.
“But Andrew-” I can’t believe this is happening. There has to be some mistake. Andrew-MY Andrew, who’s going to teach the children to read?-can’t be a welfare cheat. That’s just not possible.
“You were working yesterday,” I say. “I mean…weren’t you? That’s where you told me you were. That’s why you left me alone with your family for the whole day and most of the night. Because you were waitering. Right?”
“Right,” Andrew says. He is, I notice, sweating. I’ve never seen Andrew sweat before. But there is a definite sheen along his hairline. Which, I notice, is receding just a little. Will he be as bald as his father someday? “Right, Liz. But you’ve got to tell a little lie for me.”
“Lie for you,” I say confusedly. It’s like…I realize what he’s saying. I understand the words.
I just can’t believe Andrew-MY Andrew-is saying them.
“It’s just a white lie,” Andrew elaborates. “I mean, it’s not as bad as you’re thinking, really, Liz. Waiters make SHIT here, it’s not like back in the States, where they’re guaranteed a fifteen percent tip. I swear to you, every single waiter I know is on the dole as well-”
“Still,” I say. I can’t believe this is happening. I really can’t. “That doesn’t make it right. I mean, it’s still…it’s kind of dishonest, Andrew. You’re taking money from people who actually NEED it.”
How could he not realize this? He wants to teach underprivileged children…the very people that welfare money he seems to feel so entitled to is actually for. How could he not know this? His mother is a social worker, for crying out loud! Does she know how her son comes by his extra cash?
“I need it,” Andrew insists. He’s sweating harder now, even though it’s actually quite pleasant, temperaturewise, in the little office. “I’m one of those people. I mean, I’ve got to live, Liz. And it’s not easy, finding a decent-paying job when everyone knows you’re going to be leaving in a few months to go back to school, anyway-”
Well…he’s right about that. I mean, the only way I managed to work my way up to assistant manager at Vintage to Vavoom is because I live in town year-round.
Also because I’m so good at what I do.
But still…
“And I wasn’t doing it just for me, you know. I wanted to show you a nice time while you were here,” he goes on, darting a nervous glace at the open office door. “Take you nice places, have some nice meals. Maybe even take you…I dunno. On a cruise or something.”
“Oh, Andrew!” My heart swells with love for him. How could I have thought-well, what I was thinking about him? He may have gone about it the wrong way, but his intentions were in the right place.
“But Andrew,” I say, “I have tons of money saved up. You don’t have to do this for me-work all these hours, and…um, collect the dole, or whatever it is. I have plenty of money. For the both of us.”
Suddenly he doesn’t look quite so sweaty.
“You do? More than what you changed today, at the bank?”
“Of course,” I say. “I’ve been saving my earnings from the shop for ages. I’m happy to share.” I really mean it, too. After all, I’m a feminist. I have no problem supporting the man I love. No problem at all.
“How much?” Andrew asks quickly.
“How much have I got?” I blink at him. “Well, a couple thousand-”
“Honestly? Brilliant! Can I borrow a bit, then?”
“Andrew, I told you,” I say. “I’m more than happy to pay for us to go out-”
“No, I mean, can I borrow a bit in advance?” Andrew wants to know. He’s stopped sweating, but his face has taken on a bit of a pinched look. He keeps looking at the doorway where the man behind the counter’s supervisor is due to appear at any moment. “See, I haven’t paid my matriculation fees for school yet-”
“Matriculation fees?” I echo.
“Right,” Andrew says. Now he’s grinning sort of sheepishly, in the manner of a child with his hand caught in a cookie jar. “See, I had a bit of a cock-up myself just before you got here. Did you ever go to any of the Friday poker nights, back at McCracken Hall?”
My head is spinning. Seriously. “Poker nights? McCracken Hall?” What is he talking about?
“Yeah, there was a whole group of residents who played Texas Hold’em every Friday night. I used to play with them, and I got to be quite good…”
The British guy, Chaz had said about someone…someone I now realize was Andrew. The one who was running the illegal poker ring on the seventh floor.
“That was you?” I’m staring at him. “But…but you’re an R.A. Gambling in the dorms is illegal.”
Andrew shoots me an incredulous look.
“Right,” he says. “Well, maybe, but everybody did it…”
If everybody suddenly started wearing epaulets, would you do it, too? I start to ask…then stop myself just in time.
Because, of course, I know the answer.
“Anyway,” Andrew says, “I got involved with a game here not long ago, and…well, the stakes were a bit higher than I’m used to, and the players a bit more experienced, and I-”
“You lost,” I say flatly.
“I told you I was a bit overconfident and thought I could clean up at that game I got into…but instead I got my arse kicked, and lost the money for my matriculation fees for next semester. That’s why I was working so much, see? I can’t tell my parents what happened to their money-they’re dead set against gambling, and they’d probably kick me out of the house…I’ve barely got a bed there as it is, as you well know. But if you can spare it…well, then I’m golden, right? I won’t have to work, and then we can be together all day”-He snakes out an arm, wrapping it around my waist and pulling me to him-“and all night, too,” he adds with a suggestive wag of his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t that be brilliant?”
My head is still spinning. Even though he’s explained, somehow none of this is making sense…or rather, it is…
But I don’t think I like the sense it’s making.
I blink at him. “A few hundred? To pay your matriculation fees?”
“Two hundred quid or so, yeah,” Andrew says. “Which is…what, five hundred dollars? Not so much if you consider it’s all going to my future…our future. And I’ll make it up to you. If it takes me the rest of my life, I’ll make it up to you.” He lowers his head to my neck, to nuzzle it. “Not,” he adds into my hair, “that spending the rest of my life making it up to a girl like you will be such a hardship.”