Scot on the Rocks

“It’s not a waste of time,” I said. And I didn’t think that it was. I was quite certain that in my quest to get back Douglas, random facts about his homeland would be helpful. I bet that Beryl didn’t know the first thing about Scotland. “And anyway, this information will make you a more informed New Yorker.”

“I’m informed enough,” he said, putting his fork down to leaf through the pages upon pages of research. “I’d like to be a New Yorker with all of his discovery requests drafted.”

“Did you know that April 6 is National Tartan Day?” I asked, as Jack turned to the section of the outline dedicated to history.

“No,” he said, “I did not. Do you think that someone’s going to quiz me on that at the wedding next week?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “The Scottish Declaration of Independence was signed that day. The Declaration of Arbroath. Remember that.”

“No one’s going to ask stuff like that. They’ll ask me about where I’m from and things like that,” he said, grabbing the map I’d printed out from www.visitscotland.com that I’d clipped to the front of the outline. “What city should I pick?”

“Douglas is from Perth,” I said, “So, let’s stick with that. The less lies, the better.”

“Perth?” he asked. “Isn’t there a Perth in Australia? Hey, it’s located right near Dundee! Check that out!”

“Keep your eye on the ball, Jackie,” I said. “We’re only trying to master one country here.”

“G’day mate!” he said, smiling like a little boy who had just told a little girl that her epidermis was showing.

“Don’t say that at the wedding.”

“What is this about the St. Andrews Society?” he asked, his finger on the Arts and Culture tab.

“Oh!” I said, excited that Jack had found the pièce de résistance. “It’s a Scottish society, right here in New York!”

“I’m not joining a Scottish society,” Jack said. “First of all, I’m not Scottish. I’m Jewish.”

“Scots can be Jews. Anyway, you’re not going to join,” I said with a laugh. “We’re going to go to their Cocktail Reception. Every year they have a reception just before the parade for Tartan Day.”

“What?” Jack said. “Are you actually serious?” I could have sworn I saw him looking around my office for a hidden camera.

“Well, I really wanted to go to the Kirkin O’Tartan Ball, but there’s no time. The St. Andrew’s thing is tonight!”

“We have to work late tonight,” Jack said.

“We’ll stop by this thing, we’ll meet a few people. You can totally learn about Scotland and brush up on your Scottish accent. Think of all the Scottish people who will be there!”

“You can tell me about it,” Jack said. “I’m going to be drafting those discovery requests you neglected all week.”

Oh, please. Was he trying to give me guilt? Was that his plan to get out of this? Rookie mistake.

A few hours later, Jack and I, against Jack’s better judgment, were walking into the St. Andrews Society Cocktail Reception. Or, crashing, I should say, but no one seemed to mind. Vanessa was running late because she went home first to change. Even though I’d run to the cheap hair place around the corner from the firm to have my hair blown out straight on the off chance we’d run into Douglas, I was still back at the firm in time to walk over to the St. Andrews Society with Jack.

The Society was housed in an old prewar building with original marble and various Scottish artifacts encased in impressive-looking glass armoires everywhere you looked. The ceilings seemed to be three stories high, and various flags and tartans hung from sconces all along the walls. Douglas had never taken me to Scotland, but I presumed that the whole place was very Scottish.

“Gaelic name for Scotland?” I asked Jack as we grabbed two glasses of wine from a passing waiter.

“Alba,” Jack said.

“Where is the stone of destiny?” I asked.

“Edinburgh Castle,” he said. “What time did Vanessa say she’d be here?”

“Are you not enjoying my company?” I asked.

“No, I love being quizzed when I’m out at night,” he said. “Did you bring the index cards, too?”

I knew he was making fun of me, so I said no even though I had stuffed them into my pocketbook before we left the firm.

“What Scottish sport is similar to the sport we know here in the States as hockey?” I asked.

“In the States?” Jack said.

“I’m very international,” I said. “Do you know the answer?”

“Shinty,” Jack said. “Here comes Vanessa.”

Vanessa walked in, making an entrance as she did. Jack and I had, in the short time we were at the reception, realized that there were no actual Scotsmen at the St. Andrew’s Society, rather, it was a society comprised entirely of Scottish Americans. So much for our evening of research. Vanessa was clearly as unaware of this fact as Jack and I were: heads turned as Vanessa walked in wearing an immense Vivienne Westwood skirt — layers upon layers of bright red tartan with strands of gold — with black platform Jimmy Choos that had a long satin ribbon that tied around her ankles.

“I’ll have a water of life,” Vanessa said to a passing waiter. Then, to us she whispered with a smile, “That’s what the Scots call whiskey.”

“Are you trying to pass yourself off as Scottish or something?” I asked.

“I’m just trying to embrace the culture, Brooke!” she said. “Are you getting good research on your accent, Jack?”

“Everyone here’s American,” he said.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” Vanessa said.

“Look, guys,” I said, “let’s just have a drink, have a quick bite to eat, and then we can go home.”

“So, Douglas isn’t here?” Vanessa said.

“Try to look Scottish American,” I said, ignoring her and taking a spin toward the buffet.

“Hi, I’m Duncan,” a man said to me in line at the buffet as I tried to remember from my outline what haggis was made from.

“Brooke,” I said and smiled. He smiled back, followed by an uncomfortable silence. We both reached for plates. I never did well with the whole uncomfortable silence thing. I’m not the type of girl who can just let the silence lie and be quiet. It always seemed to make me talk more, whether or not I actually had anything to say. “You know, Aberdeen is where Paris ought to be,” I said, quoting Robert Louis Stevenson. He nodded without smiling and then muttered something about having to tend to his girlfriend.

“Do you want me to throw pearls like that into conversation at Trip’s wedding?” Jack asked me over my shoulder.

“Robert Louis Stevenson said that,” I said.

“Ah,” he said.

“He wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” I said, defending myself with Stevenson’s literary pedigree.

“And Treasure Island,” Jack replied. “I know. I read your outline while you were getting your hair done. I also know that the thistle is the symbol of all things Scottish. Actually a weed, the thistle is both a legend and a symbol —”

“Alexander Graham Bell invented the telephone,” Vanessa said, coming from the opposite end of the buffet, “and Alexander Fleming invented penicillin. Both Scottish born.”

“What?” I said.

“Oh,” she replied. “I thought we were just quoting random bits of information from your outline.” I sighed as we took our plates of food and found a little place to stand around and eat.

I hate when people at parties stay clustered together with only the people they came to the party with, but really, what are you supposed to do when you don’t know anyone but your two friends? Vanessa, Jack and I wound up standing in a corner, balancing our plates filled with various Scottish delicacies (and also some cocktail franks) and glasses of wine in the other hand.