by Amy Daws
The room goes quiet as everyone stares at Vi, who’s just dropped some serious perspective on all of us. I shake my head, shocked and dismayed that all these stunning, strong, successful women have opened their souls to me and revealed dark parts of their inner fears that they believe to be true.
No one is perfect.
And everyone is a liar.
“Lying. Cunt.” I reach out and grab Vi’s hand.
She nods, tears slipping out down her cheeks as she smiles back at me. “Lying cunt.”
Allie lifts her flute of champagne and holds it out to all of us. “Let’s drink to all of us shutting up those lies we tell ourselves and going out there and living the lives we deserve!”
“Here, here,” I state with a smile.
“Cheers!”
Who knew my outfit for the Dundonald Highland Games would have made me this nervous? I fret to myself as I smooth out my flirty skirt while riding with the girls in a large van to the Royal Dundonald Castle, where the guys are meeting us.
They’ve been busy all morning with a 10km road race, that apparently ends with whisky drinking. I can’t imagine the state of them if they’ve been drinking since ten.
Although, if I’m being honest, I’m feeling a little loose myself. The ladies and I polished off several bottles of champagne while we got ready, and it’s just barely noon when we pull up in front of the castle, so we’re in for a long day ahead.
We make our way out of the car, and Sloan and Leslie smile knowingly at me.
“You look so damn cute,” Leslie says, shaking her head. “The pockets are a perfect touch.”
She’s commenting on the dress I made for the day’s festivities. It’s a full fifties-style swing dress with a flirty skirt, crew neck top, and three-quarter sleeves. It cinches in tight around my waist and has several large pleats at the hips and down the centre. It’s a classic design that isn’t necessarily a showstopper on its own, but I made it entirely out of the Clan Logan tartan left over from the bolt of fabric Mac brought into the shop. The gorgeous green plaid makes it a statement piece, to be sure.
I thought it would be a fun joke after Mac made such a big deal out of the kilts being perfect. The girls all ooh’d and ahh’d when they saw what I’d made and began making more assumptions about our relationship. But I assured them my dress was just made for a laugh.
We make our way through the crowd in the parking lot and head across the grass towards the castle. In the distance, I can see all the guys sitting at several picnic tables with plastic cups of what I can only assume is whisky. They’re surrounded by other men in kilts, and it’s clearly a big booze-fest happening.
Regardless of their varying states of inebriation, they all look seriously handsome in their various colours of kilts with rugged boots and socks on. I note mud splattered up around their legs and flecks of dirt staining their T-shirts, likely from the run this morning.
This look here is what Mac refers to as “casual kilt”, which is an apparently very different look from “formal kilt”. Having seen photos of formal kilts and now getting a good look at real-live Scots all mussed up and dirty from their day’s activities, I can say without a doubt that casual kilt is my preference.
I search the crowd for Mac and puzzle over where he could be when, suddenly, he comes around the corner with a couple of guys who must be local. They all have whiskies in hand and are sipping them while talking.
“Looking good, guys!” Allie shouts as we approach, turning everyone’s attention to us.
The men abandon their whisky to greet their ladies with big, proud smiles. Mac and I connect eyes, and I assume he’s going to start laughing once he sees my dress.
But he’s not laughing.
He’s not even smiling.
In fact, he’s frowning.
I look behind me to see if there’s someone else he could be shooting daggers at, maybe an old local flame that he hates? But there’s no one near me. The women have already abandoned me for their men, and now I’m left standing in the grass by myself while Mac gawks at me like I’m the Loch Ness monster.
My belly swirls with nerves as I hustle over to where he stands at the head of the table, passing all the happy couples and ignoring the guys who were talking to him.
I come face to face with him and rush out, “I’m so sorry. I thought you’d think this was funny.” I push my hands into the pockets of my dress and look over nervously to our friends watching the scene unfold with sympathy in their eyes.
Christ, what have I done?
I glance back at Mac who’s eyes are roving over my dress like it’s made of blood and gore. His nostrils are flared, and his entire body is standing ramrod straight as he crushes the plastic cup of whisky in his fist.
“There was fabric left over, and I was feeling crafty,” I ramble, my voice high-pitched and uneasy. “I must have blacked out while I was making this, though, because clearly it’s too much. And I must have blacked out while I was putting it on today and matching my stupid lipstick to the red tint because clearly, I realise now that I look ridiculous.”
Mac’s friends begin to back away slowly only furthering my panic.
I step closer. “And the new heels I bought to match the dress pinched my toes, so I’m wearing my wellies instead because I had no idea Scotland would be this muddy. But honestly, I should have taken that pain as a sign that this was a bad, bad idea. I’m probably breaking some sacred Scottish tradition or something. I should have asked you first because clearly, it’s not funny, and it’s way too much. Way, way too much.”
“It’s not too much,” Mac croaks, his voice deep and gravelly.
“Sorry?” I pant, barely catching my breath from the anxiety shooting through me.
“It’s not too much,” he says again, his gaze lifting from my dress. His eyes are intense on mine as they swim with an emotion I don’t think I’ve ever seen on Mac’s face before. He steps forward, coming within centimetres of me, and a hard, sharp flash of desire overwhelms his expression. “In fact, it might not be enough.”
And then, he reaches out, cups the back of my head with both his big hands, and pulls my mouth to his.
When our lips touch, I squeal softly in protest, my hands splaying out against his broad chest because all of our friends are watching. And these guys I don’t know. And bleddy hell, maybe half the village of Dundonald.
What is Mac doing? We’re not kissing-in-public friends. We’re supposed to be keeping our arrangement a secret! We have an end date, and if he’s kissing me in front of all of our friends, this is going to get very complicated! Maybe I want it to get complicated.
But then Mac catches my lower lip between his teeth, parting my lips before his tongue reaches out to touch mine, and my focus narrows. Suddenly, everything else around us and all my thoughts disappear, and the only thing that exists in this world are his lips and mine.
I don’t know how long we stand there in our matching tartans kissing like our lives depend on it. It feels like hours and seconds all at the same time. It’s too much and not enough…just like my dress.
Eventually, an obnoxious whistle breaks through our little bubble, and we pull apart to the riotous catcalls of the people around us. Mac’s eyes refuse to leave mine as he ignores our friends and tenderly strokes his thumbs along my cheekbones with a smile that makes me weak in the knees.
I don’t know if I’m smiling back at him or not. I think my jaw might still be on the ground, but I do know that what I’m feeling inside my chest is utter, sublime happiness.
“I knew it,” Allie says, disrupting our embrace and grasping my arm to pull me away. “You’ve been acting weird, and this is why!”
I roll my eyes as the girls swarm me, and the guys swarm Mac. They clink their cups of whisky to him, and you’d have thought we just got engaged by the way they’re all going on and on about how happy they are for us.
Are we an us?
Are we a couple?
I suppose Mac and I
should have a talk.
Before I have a chance to pull Mac aside, a gruff voice calls out in the distance. “Is that my wee Macky home at long last?”
Our focus turns to a man walking up the grassy knoll. My jaw drops because if I didn’t know better, I’d swear it’s the grandfather Jack Bartlett from Heartland striding right towards us.
The man is tall and broad and kitted out in the Logan tartan. His hair is white and unruly, and he’s sporting a thick caterpillar mustache across his upper lip. Alongside him is an older couple and a young woman who I recognise instantly as Mac’s parents and his sister.
“Grandad!” Mac exclaims, leaving the guys and jogging towards them.
His grandfather cups Mac’s face and stares at him for a moment before pulling him into his arms for a back slapping hug. He ruffles Mac’s hair playfully before Mac turns to embrace his mother, sister, and father. The five of them stand there talking for a moment before Mac turns and leads them up to our group.
“Everybody, this is my grandad, Fergus Logan. My father, James Logan, my mother, Jean, and my wee sister, Tilly.”
We all shake hands, and I watch Mac as he stands back and lets everyone make their pleasantries. Fergus makes a big show of all the men wearing the tartan kilts, inspecting the work like he’s a tailor himself. Nerves niggle in my belly because with my luck, one wrong stitch could be some sort of Scottish smite.
“Christ, this is good tailoring,” Fergus says, grabbing the pleats on Roan’s kilt and elbowing his son, James, to have a look. “Look at this wee detail. We need to have ours redone, son.” Fergus then turns his inspection to me, eyeing my dress with great interest. “And who is this tartan-wearing lassie?”
“This is my…lady friend…Freya,” Mac says, appearing between us with a nervous look on his face. “She made all the kilts and…her dress. She’s very talented.”
Mac frowns as if he’s not sure he said the right thing, but his grandad doesn’t seem to notice as I catch a hint of a smile beneath his giant mustache. “Are you Scottish, lass?”
“Cornish, I’m afraid.”
Fergus blanches. “How did you get past Hadrian’s wall? It’s meant to keep folks like you out of our country.”
I fight back my smile and school my expression to be serious. “Didn’t you hear? Hadrian’s wall is actually just a giant dog kennel used to keep the wild Scot’s like you inside.”
There are a few seconds of awkward silence before Fergus bursts out laughing. “Where on earth did you find this one, Macky?”
Mac smiles proudly at me. “I wish I knew.”
Fergus wraps his arm around my shoulders. “Lassie, I’m going to call you Red because you’re fiery just like my late wife. Are you sure you don’t have any Scottish in your blood somewhere?”
I laugh and shake my head. “No, I’m not sure actually. You Scots are a fertile breed, so it’s quite possible a stray dog snuck in somewhere in my lineage.”
Fergus laughs again. “Scots are a fertile breed at that.”
“I like your handbag there,” I state, pointing down to the furry, round waist bag strapped around Fergus’s waist.
“Red, this here is called a sporran.”
I wink playfully at him. “And here I thought it was just a hairy muff.”
“Goodness, she’s a cheeky lass!” Fergus states, turning us to face his grandson. “If she can drink whisky, too, we might have to keep this one around, Macky!”
Mac’s velvety green eyes flicker back and forth with a mixture of surprise, disbelief, and dare I say, pride? It’s the type of look I could spend hours dissecting and a lifetime staring into.
Our attentions are once again disturbed when a horn blows, indicating the beginning of the next event, which apparently is whisky-tasting. Mac directs us all over to the tents that are full of various whisky makers, and everyone spreads out to begin sampling.
I decide that Mac should have some time alone with his family and step away to join Sloan and Leslie when a strong hand grabs onto mine. “Come with us.”
I frown up at Mac. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure I want to continue watching you bewitch my grandad,” he says with a smirk. “I’ve only ever seen him laugh with a woman like that around my gran.”
My nose scrunches. “I worried the hairy muff thing was going a bit too far.”
Mac’s shoulders shake with laughter. “There’s no such thing as too far with the Logans.”
Suddenly, I whack Mac on the arm. “Why didn’t you tell me that your grandfather had a caterpillar mustache and looks like Jack Bartlett from Heartland?”
Mac smiles broadly. “Because I wanted to see this look on your face. You look as though you’ve just wee’d.”
“That’s because I have.” I grab Mac’s arm and drag him back towards his family while murmuring out loud, “God, I hope he gives me a life lesson just like Grandpa Jack!”
The group of us make quick work of tasting a lot of whisky in a very short amount of time. There’s loads of football chatter going on between Mac, James, and Fergus. They seem very keen to discuss Mac’s upcoming contract negotiations and their expectations for Bethnal Green F.C.’s season. It’s evident they’re all very invested in Mac’s career and wanting him to succeed. His grandfather especially.
I watch in fascination because so much of what they are discussing are things I’ve never heard Mac breathe a word about. And just watching his face as he listens to his grandad makes me feel the amount of pressure he puts on himself to please them. It’s…heavy. It’s funny how I’ve become best friends with a footballer, and the one thing we never talk about is football.
By our third tasting, I get the sense that Mac is football-talked out, so I decide to change subjects and share with them the time Mac and I were coupled as dance partners together. I have them all in stitches when I tell them about the number of times Mac stomped on my feet and how he had to carry me out of the dance club in order to take me home.
“I thought it was your heels that murdered your feet!” he exclaims, a look of disbelief written all over his clueless face.
“Heavens, no,” I retort with a laugh. “My heels were fine. It was your big mule feet that did all the damage.”
Mac scowls at me as though I’ve just betrayed him, but Fergus nudges him in the arm. “Don’t pout, Macky. Not all Logan men are smooth with the ladies like your dad and me. I’ll teach Red some moves later.”
His reply seems to puzzle Mac as he stares at his grandfather curiously. Just then, a pipe band contest begins in the distance and while the men head over, Mac’s sister Tilly asks me if I’d like to walk over to the pet show with her.
“There’s a pet show?” I shriek, my jaw dropped. “Where?”
Tilly laughs, her stunning blue eyes a gorgeous contrast to her long strawberry blond hair, which is the same shade as Mac’s. “It’s just on the other side of the castle.”
“Lead the way!” I exclaim and wave goodbye to Mac, who’s watching me with a tender look in his eyes that I feel directly on my ears. Maybe a little space is a good idea.
“I take it you like pets?” Tilly asks as we make our way down the winding path.
“I do,” I reply a bit too excitedly. I think that whisky is starting to hit me. “I only have a cat right now because I’m in a flat, but I’d love to own some property and have dogs and maybe even horses someday.”
“You’ll have to get out of London for that, I expect,” she says knowingly.
“Yeah,” I reply sadly. “It’ll probably never happen because God, I love London so much, but it’s fun to dream about. You live here in Dundonald, right?”
Tilly nods. “Aye. My flat is just around the corner from my parents.”
“Do you like living so close to them?”
She shrugs. “It’s fine, I suppose. I just never really expected to end up here. Life is pretty good at forcing you down a path.”
Her reply gives me pause. “Where did you want to end up if
life hadn’t got in your way?” I ask, carefully wording my question so I’m not prying too much.
Tilly smiles. “I love London as well.”
I tsk and shake my head. “Then you should get off your current path and make it happen. Your brother is there. Surely, that’d make the transition easy.”
“London is not an option for me anymore,” Tilly replies with a hard look in her eyes. She then clears her throat and says, “Speaking of my brother, what’s going on with you two exactly?”
I press my lips together nervously. “What do you mean?”
She huffs a small laugh. “Unless there was another woman here today wearing a custom-made tartan dress, I’m pretty sure I saw you snogging him at the top of the hill.” Tilly pins me with a look. “And this is the first moment he’s let you leave his side, so I’ll ask again. What’s going on with you and my brother?”
I exhale heavily and chew my lip, trying to figure out how to reply to a question I don’t know the answer to.
“Relax,” Tilly says with a wink. “I’m not the Logan you should be afraid of.”
I look over at her. “Which one should I be afraid of?”
“Most would think it’s my grandad,” Tilly replies, stepping to the side so a woman with a pram can walk by. She rejoins me and adds, “He’s the one who acts like women are the devil. But behind closed doors, he’s a big old softy.”
“I can see that.”
Tilly’s brows lift. “He’s quite taken with you. And he’s never taken by women that Mac brings around.”
“That’s good to hear,” I say, and then curiosity niggles in the back of my mind. “So which Logan should I be afraid of then? Your dad?”
Tilly shakes her head. “It’s actually Mac.”
“Mac?” I ask, my stomach sinking. “We’ve been friends for over a year. I don’t think he’s scary at all. Dense sometimes, yes. Maybe a bit inappropriate on more than one occasion. But he’s sweet. A really generous friend.”
She nods and gets a serious look on her face. “Aye he is, but he’s a people pleaser at the expense of his own desires. And he will do absolutely anything to make our grandfather happy. Mac and Grandfather are extremely close.”