“Hey there,” he says, eyes barely flicking up from the tray. I don’t sense any disrespect in his manner, just a man whose priority is food. And yes, the man is familiar, but only through the medium of my TV screen.
Kennedy is going to be so bummed when I tell her I met Dylan Duffy. And that he’s hot with a capital H.
“What are these ones?” he asks, his finger hovering over the balls on the other side of the tray. His accent, I note, is American with a hint of something distinctly Scottish.
“Those are Scotch quail eggs, I think.” My attention flicks to the stunning brunette standing next to him. She’s familiar, too. Though only from celebrity magazines. “Honestly?” I lower my voice as I swirl my finger over the two types of offering. “I can’t remember which is which.” The brunette begins to giggle, covering her mouth with her hand. Wow. I think they’d be able to see the diamond on that ring from space.
“Well, I’ll give these a try,” he says, grabbing two skewered spheres and offering one to the woman who is surely his wife. Ivy, I think Chrissy said. “Babe?”
“No, you go on with your bad self.” She holds up a forestalling hand, her Scottish accent almost melodic, like the tinkling of a bell. “Fill your boots!”
“I think I might,” he says, turning back to the tray and grabbing another half dozen. “I’m kind of hungry. You don’t mind, do you?”
“Less work for me,” I answer happily. “But leave space for your dinner. There are six courses, so I’m told.”
“He’s got hollow legs,” his wife says with a laugh. I’ll take her word for it, nobly resisting the temptation to glance down.
“Want one?” he asks, seeming to remember the third of their party. “It was Portia, wasn’t it?”
The woman slides me an unimpressed and superior glance, her mouth pursed like a cat’s ass. “No. But thank you.” Then she does this weird thing with her head, which seems to be the upper-class English version on, “go on—git!”
So git I do. At least for another couple of faltering steps until I find myself, tray in hand, standing stock-still in the middle of the room. I feel my cheeks lift, a slow smile spilling across my face. Maybe this is the reason I’ve felt so much resistance to going to the pub this evening. The universe had other plans for my evening—the universe sent me . . . kilts!
I was beginning to think they were a Scottish myth, but it looks like I was wrong.
Lord be praised. Kilts are Scottish formal wear!
Blue with white plaid, blue with yellow. Green with red, green with blue, and black, and seemingly every other colour in between! Long socks and shiny shoes, jackets with sparkling buttons. Some men wear bow ties, others neckties, and almost all of them wear a vest. It’s not exactly a scene from Outlander, but it’s not something second best, either. The women in attendance look pretty cute, too. Evening dresses in every colour and design make me wish I could photograph the scene from above. I bet they’d look like expensively wrapped chocolates in a box.
“Mr McCain says move it,” hisses a passing voice as a laden silver tray moves in the periphery of my gaze. I suddenly recall the weight of the one I’m holding.
Welp, back to work. Best make the most of appreciating kilts and legs because in less than an hour, they’ll all be hidden under a tablecloth!
20
Alexander
A necessary evil, I remind myself as I smile at some anecdote or other the florid man to the left of me is telling. Hopefully, I’m smiling at an appropriate point. Was he the director or the producer? I can’t recall. Someone important to the success of the film, no doubt. Or movie, as he keeps referring to it. Either way, another blockbuster would be welcome. More visitors to the castle means money to repair the roof.
To my right, Isla forces a tinkling laugh, not that anyone else would see it as false. A subterfuge learned from living with a volatile father and a mother who didn’t seem to care enough. My eyes meet hers over the rim of my glass. Join us, her gaze seems to insist. Snap out of this mood and do your bit. But perhaps that’s the issue. Perhaps I’m tired of living for everyone else, living for crumbling buildings and failing lands and ancient titles. Tired of putting everyone else’s needs above my own.
Fuck it, there has got to be something to throw off this mood. Maybe I need a holiday. Or maybe I should just get it over with and propose to Portia, leave her to run the estates.
“That sounds like something our father would say, doesn’t it?” I register Isla’s hand against my arm before her words.