Scot on the Rocks (17 page)

F
inally, some cocktail franks. Kosher or not, those things always hit the spot.

The cocktail hour was amazing. Now I know the meaning of “rubbing elbows.” The room was filled with Hollywood’s best and brightest, and there was little old me, rubbing elbows with them. Literally. Brushing by them elegantly and then smiling to say “hello.” Or, I should say, bumping into them very ungracefully and then checking my boobs to make sure that they were still in my dress, but you get my point. Glamorous actresses, brilliant directors, rich producers, the most successful agents and even a few sports stars had turned out for the wedding of the season. And I seriously doubt that it was the sushi bar that brought them there. Even though that was where my date had parked himself all night, I was sure that for the Hollywood folks, it took more than a spicy tuna roll to get them excited.

Vanessa and I, on the other hand, had parked ourselves at the caviar station. It was perfectly situated to the right of the vodka slide, but to the left of the kitchen doors, so that as the waitstaff came out with hors d’oeuvres, we missed nary a shrimp skewer, vegetable dumpling or smoked salmon on toast points between the two of us.

I left Vanessa over at the caviar station with a football player who had mistaken her for a famous model while I met Jack at the prime-rib carving station. He was being quizzed by old family friends of Ava’s parents.

“Where in Scotland are you originally from?” Mr. Martin was asking Jack.

“Who me?” he asked in a perfect Scottish accent. “Ah, yes, Perth. Perth. Lovely Perth.” He looked at me for approval, and I stood beaming from ear to ear. I was so happy I could have kissed him right then and there. In a platonic way, of course.

“Ah, yes, Perth! We’ve heard that it’s so beautiful there,” Mrs. Martin said.

“Beautiful,” Jack said as he sipped his drink.

“We were just there!” Mr. Martin said.

“You were?” Jack said, his vodka straight up practically coming out of his nose.

“Why yes!” Mrs. Martin explained. “We just got back from Scotland last week, you see.”

“You did?” Jack asked. I signaled for the waitress. This was going to be a very long cocktail hour.

“Yes,” Mrs. Martin explained. “But I’m afraid we never made it to Perth.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Mr. Martin chimed in. “Is Perth near Edinburgh?”

“Edinburgh. Edinburgh, uh…no?” Jack guessed as he brushed his hand through his hair. I could tell he was trying to visualize the map from www.visitscotland.com in his mind, but I didn’t know how much that would help, since the map wasn’t drawn to scale. I offered nothing to the conversation as I stood next to him smiling like an idiot — I hadn’t studied where cities were in relation to each other, either, so I really couldn’t be mad at Jack for not knowing the answer himself. “Uh, well, Edinburgh is where Paris ought to be. Yes, that’s what I always say.”

Where was that cocktail waitress? Can’t she see that we’re thirsty over here?

“Oh,” Mrs. Martin said.

“Ever played St. Andrews?” Mr. Martin asked. Jack nodded and shrugged knowingly so as to say: “Don’t I always?”

“So, what’s your favorite part of Scotland?” Mrs. Martin asked.

“Ah, yes, well, that would be my own hometown,” Jack said. I put my hand on Jack’s shoulder as a show of support. He was recovering from the Edinburgh incident quite nicely.

“Well, isn’t that sweet?” Mrs. Martin asked.

“Yes, it is,” Mr. Martin agreed. “But come on, there have to be some other places you could tell us about. Tell us about some of the places that the tourists miss.”

“Uh, yes, of course,” Jack said as Mr. and Mrs. Martin looked on with anticipation. “Well, there’s Aberdeen, also known as the City of Roses, did you see that? It’s beautiful. And then there’s Stirling, the smallest city in all of Scotland, that’s quite beautiful, too. And then, of course, there are the famous lochs. Did you know that Loch Ness is actually the second largest loch? Not the first?” He was spewing off information quickly and in short snippets, as if he were a contestant on a game show.

“We did not know that!” Mrs. Martin said, clapping her hands together with excitement.

“What else do the tourists miss?” Mr. Martin asked, a big smile on his face.

“What else?” Jack said. “Did you know that over 790 islands make up the country of Scotland?”

“Yes, our tour guide told us that,” Mrs. Martin said. “What else?”

“Did you know that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, author of the
Sherlock Holmes
series was a Scot?” He was sounding more and more like Alex Trebek with every tiny fact he offered.

“Yes,” Mrs. Martin said, eyes wide with anticipation for Jack’s next tidbit of information.

“Yes, of course, what else? What else, indeed. It’s just, goddamn. I’m sorry. I’m afraid that I can’t really talk about it. It’s times like these when you really think of family, you know. I just miss me mum so damn much!” And with that, he started to cry. While I stood in wide-eyed horror, it looked as if Mr. and Mrs. Martin really bought it. I guess he really is a pretty decent actor.

“Let’s make a toast,” Mr. Martin cried out, throwing his arms around Jack’s shoulders and walking him toward the bar. “A toast to Scotland!”

“Yes, of course!” Mrs. Martin said. “A toast to Scotland. To your mum! I’m sure she misses you as much as you miss her!” Mr. Martin put his arm around Jack and Mrs. Martin took my arm. They walked us to the bar as if they were our chaperones.

“We should get some sort of traditional Scottish drink,” Mr. Martin said to Mrs. Martin.

“Douglas, what should we get?” Mrs. Martin asked as we caught up with Jack and Mr. Martin at the bar.

“Traditional Scottish drink, ay?” Jack said. “Well, of course — that would be — Scotch!”

“Yes, Scotch!” Mrs. Martin cried as if it were the most natural thing in the world. “Of course! Bartender, four glasses of Scotch on the rocks, please!” We all lined up at the bar as the bartender set down our drinks.

“The water of life,” Jack said as he grabbed his glass.

“To Scotland!” Mr. Martin cried out.

“To your mum!” Mrs. Martin said, tipping her glass to Jack.

“God save the queen,” Jack said, downing his Scotch. Not knowing what else to do, I downed mine, too. It burned my throat, but I was careful to stay cool, as if I downed Scotch all the time with my handsome Scottish fiancé. “Now, if you good people would excuse me, I should be spending some quality time with my fiancée now.”

“Well, yes, you should,” Mr. Martin said. “Lucky girl.”

Jack turned to leave and, like the gentleman he was pretending to be, put out his arm for me to take.

“Close call,” I whispered to Jack, just as we were approached by a waiter.

“My fellow countryman!” the waiter called out in an accent I couldn’t quite place.

“Excuse me?” Jack asked in his American accent.

“I don’t meet too many fellow Scotsmen out here in La La Land. This is a real treat for me!” the waiter told Jack. Jack nodded his head, clearly doing his best not to speak, for fear of the real Scotsman hearing that his accent was a fake. “Do you run into many Scots in New York City?” the waiter asked Jack. Jack nodded again and used some hand gestures as if to say so-so. “That is where I heard you were from, isn’t it?” he asked, looking at Jack’s kilt. Jack vigorously nodded yes.

“May I please borrow my date?” I interjected. I felt it best to get the fake Scotsman away from the real Scotsman.

“Why, of course,” the waiter said. “Right then. I’ll see you later.” Jack and I both nodded and smiled and walked away.

“Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” Jack said to me, once we were safely out of the Scotsman’s earshot.

“Oh, my God,” I said. “I had to get you away from that guy. He’s Scottish.”

“I’m aware,” Jack said.

“But you’re not,” I whispered back.

“Again, duly noted,” Jack said.

“But you’re pretending to be,” I whispered.

“Okay, Brooke, where are we going with this?”

“So, I just wanted to get you away from him. You obviously don’t want to be speaking in front of him.”

“That’s why I was nodding a lot in lieu of speaking.”

“Good move,” I affirmed, adding a thumbs-up signal for emphasis.

“So, what’s our plan?” he whispered, brushing his shaggy brown hair from his eyes.

“Plan?” I asked. Didn’t he just see me deftly get him away from the real Scotsman? How much more of a plan can a girl be expected to have?

“Yes, plan. I mean, I can’t keep nodding all night and you certainly can’t keep excusing us every time he comes by.”

“That
was
my plan,” I said.

“Oh. Works for me.”

“I really had no idea that all of these guests would be so well traveled and educated,” I said. “I mean, I thought that Americans were supposed to be ignorant about other cultures.”

“Well, I think that it’s clear that you and I are the only ones who are ignorant about other cultures.”

“True,” I said. “Okay, I think that it’s safe to say that we should drop the whole title thing. I mean, if we can’t even handle the basics of being a Scotsman, we certainly can’t take the pressure of pretending that you have a title.”

“Agreed. Okay, do you know where Edinburgh is in relation to Perth?” he asked me. I looked back at him blankly. “Well, then, did you bring the outline?” he asked me, eliciting yet another blank stare. My outline was fifteen pages long. Did he really think that it would fit into my tiny evening purse that could barely fit my lipstick and gloss?

“How long did you date this freaking guy that you have no idea where he is from?”

“I know where he’s from,” I said. “He’s from Perth.”

“Yes, I’ve got that part.”

“Well, I’m sorry that I didn’t spend more of the relationship brushing up on my Scottish geography!”

“I just can’t believe that you know nothing about where this guy is from,” he said.

“Where was Penny from?” I asked.

“Penny?”

“Yes, remember her? The woman you were dating that summer I met you?” I was quite certain that he couldn’t have forgotten Penny. No man could forget Penny. All long legs and pouty lips, even I couldn’t forget Penny. All she ever wanted to talk about was her so-called love of sports and how much she hated shopping. As if she could fool me. Please! I made up that whole “I love sports” trick! Not like I was jealous of her or anything.

“Yes, I remember her,” he said. “Cleveland.”

“Cleveland, Ohio?” I asked.

“Yes,” Jack answered, as if I had just asked him if the capital of the United States was Washington, D.C., or something equally as obvious to a big-time lawyer like him.

“Cleveland, huh? And, how close is that to Columbus, Ohio?” I asked. Didn’t I tell you that sometimes it’s annoying when all of your friends are litigators? My razor-sharp wit and amazing sense of irony was completely lost on Jack.

“Are we at a wedding pretending that you are from Ohio?” he asked me.

“Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be,” I said through clenched teeth. “Aberdeen!”

“What are you talking about?” he asked.

“You said Edinburgh,” I said, “but the quote is Aberdeen! The quote is ‘Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be!’ I told you to study your cards!” Jack looked back at me and began to laugh. It made me begin to laugh, too.

“Well, I didn’t attribute it to Stevenson, so maybe the Martins just think that I feel very strongly about Edinburgh,” he said, still with a chuckle in his voice. “Anyway, how did you know that I needed rescuing?” he asked.

“You looked a little squirmy in that skirt of yours,” I said. He shot back a look. “More so than before,” I clarified.

“This was much easier last night with the girls, you know,” he told me.

“Brooke, my dear!” I heard calling from just a few feet away. I could practically hear the theme song to
Jaws
as the voice got closer. “Why, hello, Brooke.”

“Hi, Aunt Muffin,” I said, putting on my fake country-club smile that I reserved strictly for my opposing parties in tough litigation and members of Trip’s family. It was Trip’s aunt and uncle. Decked out in South Sea pearls the size of golf balls and a ball gown the circumference of which rivaled any Southern debutante’s, Trip’s aunt very much looked every bit like you would imagine a “Muffin” would look. Blond hair arranged like a football helmet and heavily made up so that you could barely tell whether or not there was an actual face underneath, she matched Trip’s uncle perfectly, with his capped teeth and cheeks that were red from one too many prewedding martinis. I used to joke with Trip that the only reason they called her Muffin was that Buffy had already been taken.

I could barely lean over and air kiss her because of the massive amount of floor space her dress was taking up. Uncle John, clearly drunk since picture taking earlier that afternoon, had his crisp white dinner jacket already wrinkled and looked as if he was mere minutes away from being ready for a nap.

“John, you remember Brooke, don’t you?” Aunt Muffin said to Uncle John. “The one who dated Trip during law school?” She was speaking very loud, as if he couldn’t hear her.

“The Jewish girl?” he asked Aunt Muffin. I wondered if he thought that I couldn’t hear him, or if like his sister, Trip’s mother, he simply didn’t care.

“Shalom,” I said, which gave Jack a bit of a laugh.

“Oh, yes, Brenda!” Uncle John said. “You were the funny one, weren’t you? You were very funny, right? This new one’s not so funny. Very nice, though. But not funny.”

“Brooke, dear,” Aunt Muffin said. “It’s Brooke.”

“What?” Uncle John asked. I was certain that he would be calling me Brenda for the duration of the evening.

“Aunt Muffin and Uncle John, please let me introduce you to my date. This is my fiancé, Douglas.”

“Nice to meet you,” Uncle John hiccupped.

“Fiancé? You’re not married?” she said, glancing down at my hands. Her eyes immediately flew to my left hand and she took a quick peek at my faux engagement ring. Thankfully, her dress took up so much square footage that she was unable to get close enough to me to realize that the ring was fake. She nodded her head. “Oh. Well,” Aunt Muffin said, grasping her hands together in a way that I was pretty sure she thought showed that she cared, “this must be a very hard day for you. No offense,” she said, turning to Jack. And then, turning back to me, she asked: “Does he speak English?”