Round Table
Entering the Great Hall at Leoch feels like stepping back in time.
Again.
The smooth flagstone floor echoes under my footsteps, wide and cold and solid. I haven't been in a room of this size since Frank and the rest of Decon Team 7 received commendations from the Mayor. Town Hall is one of the great spaces of Central Township - a cathedral in white metal and copper plating, enormous staircases, and etched glass walls surrounding a central amphitheater and stage.
Leoch's Great Hall is nothing so grandiose, nor is it nearly as large, but it has a rough, timeless beauty to it that paradoxically dates it firmly in the Middle Ages. It is a place right out of a storybook. The walls are whitewashed stone, the roof great golden beams of wood. The deep balcony that lines three of the walls is made of rough wooden planks and unvarnished wood pillars. The upper railing there is of black wrought iron, as are the chains that hold aloft three great wheels of short, fat candles, to flicker below the sweeping wooden curve of the vaulted ceiling. I have no idea when this house was built, but if this room had been the first place I'd seen after coming though the stones of Craigh na Dun, I probably would have concluded I'd Traveled back to before Columbus discovered his few Caribbean islands.
If Leoch's dining room is all crystalline fairy elegance, then its Great Hall is the stern, functional beauty of the Kings of Men.
The wide middle space of the room is filled with two long columns of trestle tables. They are built of uncovered boards - they and the benches that surround them. All have been worn smooth by time, and stained with the signs of much eating and drinking, but I see no indication that they have ever been polished or painted, though each one has been scrupulously cleaned. They are lined up facing straight on, to give the best view of the stage at one end of the hall.
Actually, I don't know if I should call it a stage or a dais. Three shallow steps lead up to it, and a large draped tapestry covers most of the wall behind it. A High Table, or a throne or two, or a troupe of actors could reside on it equally well, but, at the moment, it is empty. Just in front of it, there is a wide gap left between the steps and where the tables begin, leaving a large empty space at this end of the room.
I have entered near this dais, or stage, and I quickly take in the large rectangle of what must be the dance floor. Then, I walk down one of the long sides of the room, staying underneath the large balcony overhang. This side is lined with couches and softly cushioned chairs, low tables, and here and there what look like huge pillar candles on massive bronze candlesticks over a meter tall. But, on closer inspection of one, I see that the candles are plastic facsimiles, and their flames are small flickering bulbs, hidden by the faux-wax walls. I veer closer to the supper tables for a minute, and look up at the three huge wheels of candles glowing in the air above me, and wonder if they are electric too.
They probably are.
Strange, the intersections of old and new in this place.
Across the room, the opposite under-balcony space is filled with a long line of tables already overflowing with food. Our supper, being laid out buffet-style. I can smell a great deal of it from here - sauces and stews, toasted bread, and roasted meat. There is occasional movement from that side of the room, as one or more of the kitchen staff bring bowls and trays and pots in and out, but other than this, the room is almost entirely devoid of life.
I'm early. Very.
The reason why is standing behind the long wooden bar-counter that takes up half of the rear wall's under-balcony. Or rather, not standing - bustling - mixing drinks, slicing fruit, filling trays with glasses, and filling glasses with finished drinks.
Jamie texted me an hour ago, saying that their usual bartender, Mr. Cooper, was sick, and that he, Jamie, had been asked to fill in for him. He apologized that he would not be able to pick me up at my door, and asked for me to meet him here, just as soon as I was ready. I texted back, teasing him about how unconventional all our dates seem to be. He sent back a glif of a man shrugging, and I sent him a glif of a cartoon cat saying 'U O Me, Mr. Fancypants'. He sent back a laughing face, the words "Oh, most certainly", and a winking face.
I had smiled at that, put down the info-screen, and went to take a shower, feeling something small, subtle and important shifting in my heart.
Here, now, in this room, I realize what it was.
For the first time, I feel like I belong at Leoch.
It isn't just that I have an info-screen again, nor that I can communicate with Jamie more easily, it's the timeless, yet certain nature of things here.
Am I in 2078? 1742? 1409? It doesn't seem to matter. Jamie's here, I'm here, and this room is about to be filled with people. Ordinary people, living the ordinary lives of their time, eager to be fed and entertained. And finally, I feel like I'm part of it all. Not one of them, not that yet - but at least equal to the task of getting to know them - no matter how much work it is undoubtedly going to be.
As I get closer to the back of the room, Jamie looks up from his blender and lemon-zester, and cheerfully waves me over. I take a seat at one of the tall stools, and smile at him while he fills a tray of glasses with something pink and frothy and fruity-smelling.
He grins at me, "Ah, there ye are, Sassenach. Be wi' ye in a moment, aye?" He puts the heavy tray on the bartop, and dings a hidden bell. A woman in kitchen-staff livery appears, and hoists the tray across the room to the long line of tables containing our supper.
He comes over to where I'm sitting, and sets a small bowl filled with strawberries in front of me, "Heer, have some. There isnae enough for another batch, we may as well eat them." He pops one in his mouth before turning back to his pitchers and bottles and measuring cups. He starts compounding something out of ice and mint and rum, and what I think may be limes, I'm not sure.
I follow his smooth, purposeful motions with my eyes, drinking in the sight of him. He looks simply astonishing tonight, in a cool grey formal jacket, black dress shirt, and grey and lavender striped tie. The colours vibrate next to the pale warmth of his skin and the deep red of his hair, while the rough texture of his stubble contrasts strikingly with the clean lines of the rest of him.
I could look at him for hours.
Or, preferably, kiss him for hours. . .
Three days apart is much more than I ever want to endure again. Slowly, I pick up a berry, and bite into it. I haven't tasted anything so good in a long while. Nor so rare.
He may have sent me gilded chocolates, but to me, fresh fruit is the real edible gold.
I doubt he'll ever know just how much his easy generosity with food means to me. He certainly can't understand what it means that I have sent him food - and frivolous, empty-calorie food, at that. On Skycity 15, sending someone anything edible is always significant. And sending someone sweets is just short of asking them to marry you. Even people who can afford it don't send such things to just anyone. He'll never know what a grand gesture it is, to casually hand someone a bowl of fruit, like it's nothing. That he lives in a time and place of abundance does not lessen the impact to me.
Jamie cares about me. I care about him.
We both know that much - each about the other.
And at the moment, that's enough.
When the tray of mint and rum drinks are finished, he hoists them to the bartop, and rings the bell again. As soon as a kitchen worker takes them, he looks over at me, smiles, scoops up one of my hands, and kisses my fingertips. My heart leaps at the touch.
"Ye look bonny taenight," he says, going over to a washing basin and wiping down the three plastic cutting boards he's been slicing fruit on.
"Oh, this old thing?" I say, teasingly.
"Aye, that auld thing," he says, eyes twinkling, "It suits ye."
My dress isn't anything unique, and the style, Annie said, was from nearly ten years ago. Ancient, in her estimation. It had been crammed in the very back of her closet - a simple, high-waisted gown of some soft, stretchy material, with elbow-length sleeves, conservative neckline, and full, floor-length skirt. It's almost completely unadorned - one black satin ribbon around the waist, that knots into a bow at the side - that's all. But, it is a beautiful colour - a rich, deep, Merlot-toned crimson, purple-muted, mellow and smooth. I couldn't see it and not want to wear it, and, despite Annie's protests, after I had tried it on, we both agreed it should have a new home in my closet.
"Well, thank you. I do still love red, you know."
I reach out my hand, and he briefly tangles his fingers with mine, pressing our palms together. "Duly noted, Sassenach."
He meets my eyes, and the look in them makes me want to forget tonight, supper, concert and all, drag him to the nearest reasonably private location, and find out just how long we can go without oxygen. . .
That wouldn't help you learn how to be in public with him, now would it, Beauchamp? Get your mind out of the sugar-house!
"You're not looking all that terrible yourself, my lad," I say, deliberately understating matters to preserve my own sanity.
"Ah, what fulsome praise from my lady fair," he says, dryly teasing. He pulls his hand away, and continues to wash up, "How e're shall I find it in me tae speak more handsomely of ye than ye do of me, mo nighean donn?" He takes off his soiled apron, and puts on a clean one, "Did ye get my note?"
This last is said very quietly, with a waver of something deeper and warmer in his tone.
"I did," I say, in a similar tone, thinking of the small box sitting on my dressing table at this very moment, and the fact that it only contains three chocolates now. "The truffles are amazing, by the way. No one's ever sent me chocolates before."
He pauses in the middle of sharpening a knife, "Ye'er kidding. . ."
I shake my head, "Nope."
"No' even Frank?" He puts the knife down heavily, and looks slightly frantic with disbelief, almost as if there must have been something wrong with Frank for not sending me hideously expensive luxury sweets. . .
Oh.
Of course chocolate is easier to obtain here, but it hadn't occurred to me that it might be a common gift.
Oops.
I smile, a little uncomfortably, and put down a strawberry without eating it. I can't tell him that Frank could never afford so rare a commodity as chocolate. . .
"No. . . we. . . didn't generally give gifts like that."
He blinks, "Like. . . candy?"
"No, like any perishable food," I say, pointedly nodding at the bowl of strawberries, "I mean, he took me on dates, bought me dinner and such, dessert sometimes, but he never sent me sweets, or fruit or anything. He was more. . . practical, I suppose."
Jamie shakes his head, "An' nae'un else. . . ?"
"No," I run my eyes fondly up the taut lines of his neck, to the thick clusters of his curls, still dark from a recent shower, and barely tamed with condition-holder, "But I don't mind you being my first."
His eyes snap to mine at that, shoulders frozen, spine rigidly upright. Then, his posture softens, and he slides closer to me, gently smirking, "Ye'er jus' lucky my kind of girl is one who's impressed by chocolates, and no' even interested in where we got strawberries in November, an' in Scotland!"
"I assumed they were imported," I say, pushing the bowl aside. I suppose I should find it frightening, how I care less and less about anything else, the nearer he is to me. But as I lean as far across the bartop as I can, I get close enough to catch a whiff of him, and I find I cannot care even about fear. Tonight, he smells like fresh lemon peel, mulled spices, and the air after rain.
As if I needed another reason to lose my mind. . .
"Nae. They're from our oon kitchen greenhouse, jus' heer."
He pushes a long fall of curls off my shoulder as he points in the direction of the kitchens.
"Oh?" I say, absently, "I've been in the greenhouse almost every day since I got here, and I haven't seen any strawberries. . ." I run my eyes over his lips, over his chin, my focus mainly on remembering how his stubble tastes, and how different it is from the flavour of his freshly shaven skin. . .
His hand curls around the back of my neck, thumb lightly brushing my jaw just below my ear.
"Thear's a special room i' the back quartar. Gets th'most sun."
"Oh. . ."
It's been over three days and I've missed him and he looks delightful and smells edible and dammit, I don't need an excuse to kiss him, do I?
He certainly doesn't, and as he plays his mouth gently over mine, then nibbles on my lower lip, all I can think is that I'm so very, very glad I chose not to use that thing Annie called 'lip stick'. Ours stick very well without it.
He pulls back long before I want him to, but then I remember we're almost in public. . .
"Tha' table ower thear is whear me an' the lads from the stables usually sit," he nods behind me at the nearest table one column over, "We'er normally joined by a few o' Marc's boys, an' some of the hands. Now an' then Marc oor Murtagh too." He smiles, almost shyly, "I havetae stay heer for about another half-hour, but ye'er welcome to sit wi' them, an I'll join ye jus' a'soon as the first rush for drinks is over."
I sigh, and scan the truly impressive number of bottles lining the shelves behind him, "Well, I suppose it would be best to finally get it over with - heaven knows I've left it late enough as it is." I sit back on my stool and grin, "But you promised me whisky, my lad, and I'm not going to budge from here until you pour me some."
"Aye," he turns to grab a bottle and a glass, "But. . . what are ye on about? Get what over?"
"Oh." I shrug, "The ritual duel."
"The. . . duel?" He hands me my drink, eyebrows raised.
"Mmm, nice," I swirl the whisky in my glass and take a sip, "Well, it's Scotland, so maybe it will be a ritual fistfight? I don't know yet, exactly."
He blinks, a dubious look on his face, and a question in his eyes he doesn't want to ask.
"Yes, yes, you know," I gesture with my glass, "It'll be all, 'I don't know you, you don't know me, let's beat each other up to establish dominance.' That sort of thing." I shrug, as if I engage in such encounters all the time, when it's really only now and then. "It usually only happens with groups of men. Groups of women make you prove yourself totally differently. . ."
"Agch," he growls, "Are ye sayin' they willnae respect ye?"
I put my whisky down, more than half incredulous, "Really? Come on Jamie! I'm a stranger, and a Sassenach - in a time and place when that's not exactly a pretty word - not to mention a woman into the bargain? Of course they won't respect me! Not initially, anyway. They're going to make me earn it - you know they will!"
"But. . . ye'ev already earnt it - ye'er a guest! Aye, an' a woman! It must count for somethin'."
I smile at his instinctive chivalry, "But it doesn't, Jamie. And I'm hardly a guest when I'm on this side of the High Table. To an ordinary resident here, at best, I'm their boss's boss - an outlander hired over their heads, who has only been here two weeks, and has spent most of that time ignoring them. At worst. . . well. . . let's not go there, shall we? And now I'll be sat in the middle of their special table, demanding to be instantly respected? There's isn't an ice cube's chance in hell they'll make it easy for me. And the fact that I'm a woman will just make everything more awkward."
He sets his lips, grim and hard, "Eatin' in the kitchen doesnae mean ye were ignoring them."
"No, but it probably feels that way to a lot of them. They're family here - almost all of them. And as official Guest, I've only eaten with them once? How would you feel about me, if you were them?"
"They dinnae even ken ye. . ."
I scoff a bit, "And that's supposed to stop them? If I was meeting each one of them individually - or even two or three at a time, like I did with Willie and Geordie - it would be different. But in a group? In public? It will probably fall short of hazing, but most likely only just."
"But. . . they. . ." he sighs heavily, and pours himself a drink.
Inwardly, I shake my head. There's no way this man is the royally-cloistered, court-bred ingénu he's affecting at the moment. I wonder what the hell he's playing at. . .
"I'll be fair to them and say they've hardly been given the chance to know or respect me yet - most of them - but if they're anything like the majority of men I've worked with, as long as we're at this party, it'll take a bit of doing just to be accepted as an expert in my field - pun fully intended."
He exhales gustily, "I dinnae ken about any of this, Claire."
"Well, that's because you didn't need me to prove anything to you before you treated me like a Human being."
He stares, almost bewilderedly, "Because. . . ye are a Human being. . ."
I bark a hard little laugh, "Oh no I'm not, Jamie! I'm a woman! Tits and everything! There's really only one thing I'm good for. . ."
He gapes at me, "Ye dinnae really think that. . . ? That. . ."
I sigh deeply. "Men, Jamie. They aren't all the same, but too often society thinks they are. And when in groups, too often they live up to what society expects - exactly that, and no more. Club mentality and mob mentality are far more closely related than most people ever realize, and if I want to end tonight with more friends than I started with, I have to do this."
I nod solemnly in the direction he indicated, "I'll have to sit at that table like I'm in the middle of a lion's den - eyes wide open, sword drawn, shield up. You know it. And I know it."
He shakes his head.
And that's quite enough of that, my lad. . .
I huff at him, "You may be young, and very sweet, but you'll never get me to believe you've been that sheltered, James Fraser."
"Ifrinn!" he pounds the countertop, "It isnae that, Claire!"
"Then what. . .?"
"It's too true, alraight? Ye ken them too well, an' ye havenae even met most o' them yet." He kicks back his whisky and grimaces sharply. ''Ye'er right, dammit."
I feel a painful flush cover my cheeks. I've misread him. He wasn't playing the ingénu - he was sincerely facing up to the fact that caring about me will mean defending me sometimes, not just from Dougal, but from people he considers his friends.
It isn't the first time I've misread him, far from it, but it feels worse now. Perhaps because we're friends. Perhaps because we're a bit more than friends. . .
I should know him better.
"I dinnae hate that ye'er right, Sassenach, but I do hate that ye'er right about this," he says, hastily, possibly himself misreading my blush as indignation. "An' ye were right in my workshop that day, too. It's two different ways of livin'. Two different lives, or more. One here, wi' me, and half a dozen over there, wi' everyone else. It will no' be easy tae blend any of them - for ye tae live one life here. I'm sorrae I ever doubted it. Doubted ye."
I didn't know he had, but it is immeasurably reassuring to know that I'm not the only one still feeling awkward in this new relationship of ours.
He holds out a hand, and I take it in both of mine.
"I'll go talk tae Mrs. Fitz. She'll find som'un else tae mind the bar, an' we'll go-"
I shake my head, "Actually, it's ideal for me to go in alone, at least at first."
His his jaw drops a little, and his eyes go wide.
"They won't respect me until I've fought them, Jamie. Until I have fought them. I, Claire Beauchamp. Not 'Jamie's Girl'."
"Ye. . . dinnae wantae be my girl?" His voice is a strange mixture of sadness and shocked curiosity.
I squeeze his hand, and he turns his wrist to lock fingers with me again.
"You know I do. Very much, Jamie. But I don't want to be just that, and if you're there the whole time, that's all I'll be. Because you'll jump in to protect me every time someone shows their teeth - you know you will. And that would only derail the whole process. It'd be fine if I was anyone else - or trying to accomplish anything other than what I'm trying to do here. But by the end of the night, they have to be willing to work with me. It's a delicate balance, my lad, and a fine line to walk. I have to fight them, but without drawing blood."
Funny. I've never thought of these sorts of encounters in such precise terms before. On Skycity 15, they were just something I had to do sometimes. Annoying, usually. Unjust, always. But now, here, the concept itself seems so. . . formalized. As though my whole way of thinking about it has crystallized into something new.
It must be the surroundings, and the fact that underneath it all is a slow, creeping dread that I won't be able to avoid an encounter with Dougal tonight. Warrior Claire is wide awake, and something in me feels ancient, courtly and fierce.
My Central blood is up. Woe betide any man who underestimates me!
Jamie's jaw clenched when I said the word 'blood'.
I raise my chin, "You've just apologized for doubting me, Fraser. So you'd better not be doubting me now."
"Ye'er sure? Ye cannae want tae do it alone?"
I pick up my glass and take a sip, enjoying the dark, energizing heat of the whisky, "Of course not. But, the term 'ritual duel' wasn't a mistake. I've done it all before. And yes, alone."
Though, for all that, I did usually have Frank along with me most of the times this sort of situation cropped up - at Sanitation Worker's Union meetings, or Farm Labourer's Council dinners, etc. And after several such experiences, we got so good at communicating what we needed from each other in specific circumstances, we could silently let each other know what was happening, even from across a crowded room. A glance, a gesture, a mouthed word, and we would come to each other's rescue. I sigh a bit. I wish Frank was here now. . .
But, he isn't, and there's no way I'm going to throw Jamie into the deep end, expecting that sort of connection or support from him, not now. Not yet. Not against his friends. Let me deal with the first few rounds of attacks, and let him join in after the worst of the fighting is over.
"Wi' rough, suspicious Scots, set in their ways?" he asks, mournfully, "As a Sassenach, which as ye well say isnae exactly a pretty thing tae be 'round heer? Ye've done that afore? Alone?" His hand grips mine, hard.
My mouth twitches, remembering two weeks ago with the Rover. But that was an emergency, and this is a planned social event. Two very different situations.
Then again, there was that one time. . .
"No. I did it alone with Oxford professors." Gently, I separate our hands, "And if you think Scottish clansmen are a rough bunch, married to outdated traditions, and highly suspicious of outsiders, then you've never met a table full of senior Classics dons." I take a sip to hide my smirk, remembering one infamously cranky professor. . .
Jamie shudders a bit, "No. An' I dinnae care tae, thankee verrah much!"
"But I have. And I won them all over, in the long run."
"Why, a'coorse ye did, but. . ."
I sigh, sharply, "Look, how about this? If anyone gets handsy, you can swoop in, alright? I promise I won't be mad if you derail things while stopping someone from trying to cop a feel. Okay?"
He stares at me, either horrified or disgusted, or both, "They'd bettar no'. . ." he trails off into a string of fierce curses I'm very glad I cannot translate.
"Well. . . I wouldn't entirely dismiss the possibility. . . but they probably won't." I run a fingertip along the rim of my glass, "If Angus and Rupert are any sort of gauge, it will all be just talk. Rough talk, but still. . ." I shrug, "I'm good at keeping things verbal."
"Words," he says, softly, "That are quick and shallow? Like leaves fallen 'cross exposed roots, full meant, but wi' many purposes?"
"Yes." I purse my lips. "You'd be surprised what a weapon words like that can make. And what a shield they can be. What effective armour. Remember all those things I said to Dougal?"
He snorts, gently, "This is different. . ."
"Yes." I nod, "Yes, it is. Very different. But it's still within my skill set. Okay?"
He glowers at the countertop, "Noo. Nothin' aboot this is 'okay'."
"No, but the saying is 'Lord give me the strength to deal with what I cannot change', not 'Lord give me the strength to change the world'."
He looks up, his expression hard and closed off, "The direct quote is - 'God grant me the serenity tae accept the things I cannae change', mo ghràidh."
Yes. And grant me the courage to change the things I can. . .
"Oh, picky picky," I say lightly, trying to tease that stony look off his face. It takes a minute, but eventually his eyes soften, and he gives me a pale smile.
I finish my whisky, and hand him the glass.
"Can I give ye one word of advice?" he asks, carefully.
"Please do. I need all the help I can get."
"Dinnae underestimate them, Sassenach. In either direction. Ye'er right, they arenae goin' tae make it easy on ye, but. . . they might surprise ye, all the same." He rinses my glass and sets it upside down on a nearby unfolded towel, "After all, we live and learn when it comes to our fellow men, do we no'?"
"Yes. And I hope they do."
At that moment, seemingly dozens of doors open, both on this level, and above us on the balcony. Crowds of excitedly chattering people begin to fill the Great Hall.
"Well, my lad. . ." I smile, half-heartedly. For all that I've just convinced him to let me do this, and no matter how much I know I need to, I still would rather not. Or, more truthfully - I wish I didn't have to. "That's my cue."
I slide off the barstool, and am just about to make my way to the line forming next to the buffet tables, when I remember something important. I turn back to him.
"Oh, Jamie? Could you do me a favour?"
He smiles thinly at me, half indulgent, half worried, "Anything, Sassenach."
"Just for tonight. . . don't call me that?" My hands knot into fists, hoping desperately he will understand. . .
His expression darkens, but he nods, firmly, "Aye."
I nod back, wordlessly thanking him, and turn away.
The line going past the buffet tables is moving slowly, but steadily. I take a plate and utensils from a table filled with them, and watch to see what the people around me are doing. I know what a buffet is, but I've never seen one so varied or immense - I'm a bit overwhelmed. At the start are salads. These do not seem very popular, but I take a portion of one that appears to be made with raisins and grated carrots. On the next table is a huge pile of steaming hot baked potatoes, split open, but still wrapped in long twists of foil. Next to them are twelve large bowls filled with a variety of toppings. This table is much more popular. These must be the 'loaded potatoes' Jamie mentioned - and the term makes complete sense now. I take one, and fill it with butter, grated cheese, minced onion, and what I am almost certain are chopped pieces of bacon.
The next three tables are extremely popular. Two of them are filled with round baking trays with disks of flattened bread on them, covered with sauces and chopped meat and vegetables - all embedded in what looks like melted cheese. Each has been divided into wedges - one wedge apparently being a portion. The third table is covered in oddly shaped cardboard boxes, with the logo of one of the local caf's I've heard Willie mention printed on the top. These boxes also contain round, flat bread, with cheese and toppings, cut into wedges.
I listen carefully to what people are saying around me, and conclude that this is pizza. It smells appetizing enough to me, and so I take two portions of one that came from the caf. The ingredients and a title are printed on the cardboard box. Apparently this kind of pizza is called 'deluxe vegetable', and it is covered in sliced courgette, heirloom tomato, red bell pepper, mushrooms, red onions, pickled artichoke hearts, broccoli florets, garlic, spinach, four kinds of cheese, a cream sauce . . . and olives.
'Deluxe' indeed. Olives are extinct. . .
And even excluding that, I've never seen so many non-hybridized specialty vegetables crowded onto one piece of bread in all my life.
I feel like that is enough for now - my plate is full, and if this is like the buffets my mother used to throw on special occasions, then I can come back for more later, if I wish. I walk deliberately past a half dozen more tables filled with things I don't try to see, but as I walk by the last one, I recognize the of smell Mrs. Fitz's famous lamb stew. Beyond that, there are the tables full of drinks. I take a glass from a tray still nearly entirely full - plain water, but with a generous serving of ice, and a lemon slice stuck on the rim.
Olives. Meat. Water. Ice. Lemons.
There is no end to the luxuries available here. It is very odd to be the only one in the room who fully appreciates that.
When I make it back to the rear of the room, the bar is swamped with people ordering drinks, and so far there is no one sitting at Jamie's regular table.
Well. Here goes. . .
I slide to the middle of the bench facing the stage, and calmly await my fate.
I'm halfway though a piece of the vegetable pizza, and very much enjoying it, when a plate containing a huge stack of breaded wedges is slapped down on the place next to me, and a familiar voice says,
"If I said ye had a beautiful body, would ye hold it against me?"
Rupert sits down on the bench, heavily.
Another, similar plate thuds down on the table to my other side. The deep-fried batter looks disturbingly like skin, but coloured an unnatural brown, too flat and eerily hairless, like an eggshell. And on such inorganic shapes like the irregular wedges, it looks offensively creepy.
"What. . . is that?" I recoil from both their plates.
Angus sits down, more delicately than Rupert did, but with a wide, triumphant smirk on his face. "Och, sae ye'll eat haggis wi' nae questions asked, but look warily at a piece o' crunch pizza?" He takes a huge bite, and mumbles around it, "Tha's goo tae ken." A few crumbs spray out of his mouth in my direction.
I make a disgusted noise, and shake my head. "Ew. Chew your food Angus."
I've seen these two most days this week. More often then not, whenever I get back from lunch, they'll be in the lab break room, lounging about with old magazines, or fooling with their info-screens. I can't decide if they're still surveilling me or not. Their actions suggest not - I could be doing almost literally anything in the lab, for all the notice they take. We've barely exchanged more than ten words total this week, I'd say. But then, why do they always appear? They didn't show up at the lab today, and they weren't on the list of people Jamie mentioned that regularly sit at this table, so I didn't expect them here right now. An oversight. . .
Rupert swallows noisily, "Ye didnae anser my question, Sassenach. . ." he says, in a flat sing-song, batting his eyes and giving me a mocking smile.
I snort. I really was hoping for better than a preschool level game of naughty rounders tonight. . . so far, neither of them is surprising me at all, and they are wasting my time. . .
"Thank you, for boldly engaging in the lowest and most unimaginative form of flirting, Rupert. I don't even rate a 'What's a girl like you doing in a place like this?', huh? Typical."
Angus chuckles, but Rupert tries again.
"Wha' s'matter, Sassenach?" he leers, "Annoyed?"
"No," I scoop up a bit of my loaded potato, "Bored."
Though, I will admit, as I chew contemplatively, if I had better company, I think this might be my new favourite way to have potatoes. . .
"So. . . ye'er sayin' I. . . bore ye?" says Rupert, in between gnawing on his slice of deep-fried pizza.
Nope. My favourite way to have potatoes is still vodka.
And the Ruperts of the world are the main reason why. . .
Inwardly, I sigh. Fine. Down-and-dirty rounders it is, then.
"No, I'm saying you're boring. What, is of no consequence to me at all."
Angus laughs loudly, and claps me on the shoulder, almost making me stab myself with my fork.
My 'Hey, watch it!' is lost behind Angus's overloud, "'What', no' 'Who'! Aye, she kens ye, Rupe!"
"As long as it's Biblically, I dinnae mind, Sassenach," says Rupert, winking lewdly, but elbowing me in the ribs surprisingly gently.
Huh. That's interesting. Perhaps I've made more progress with Rupert than I think I have, and this is actually the best place for the evening to have started.
Let's test that theory out, then. . .
I sigh, over-theatrically, "If you must be lame, Rupert, could you at least try to be interesting?"
"Ye mean, 'If ye'er goin' tae suck, at least suck hard'?" he says, significantly, grinning at Angus over my shoulder.
Well. That's promising. I'm not certain of Angus yet, but Rupert is, somehow, in a backhanded way, on my side.
They have managed to surprise me after all. I never expected to be gifted allies like this, perilous allies though they may be.
"Exactly," I nod, "And if anyone knows anything about sucking hard, it's you, Rupert."
Whatever his response would have been to that, it's cut off, as suddenly, Angus leaps to his feet. A small crowd of men are approaching our table, and clearly Angus intends to do the honours. . .
Yes. Angus is on my side too.
For whatever strange reasons of his own, and on his own terms, but still. . .
He gestures at each man as they approach and sit down, "Gilbert Mackenzie, Leonard Mackenzie, Tory MacTavish, Gerald Campbell-"
He isn't halfway through before I'm extremely thankful I have an almost freakish memory for names and faces. . .
"-Arnold Fitzgibbons, Harold Mackenzie, Alain Mackenzie, Edan Campbell, and Peter Harris." He gestures at me, "May I present Mrs. Claire Beauchamp, our new Farm Manager." Angus sits down, grinning, clearly quite pleased with himself.
I nod, and let my sweeping glance take in the entire table.
"Gentlemen," I say, formally.
Then, I turn my attention back to my supper, wondering how long it will take befor-
"Och, I was wondering hoor ye were," says Harold.
Ah. Not long at all.
"Nae Har," says Gerald, "Shee's nae hoor - her hands are tae small, look-"
I hold back a sigh. The opening move of this type of duel is always the same.
I'm very glad Jamie isn't here right now. Even my calm, self-possessed Frank once punched a man who was 'flirting' with me like this - I can't imagine what two-plus meters of emotional, bull-headed Scot would do.
Or rather, I can. And it isn't pretty.
And then, my most effective opening move has always been passive aggression. I'm surprised how glad I am that Jamie doesn't have to see me in this situation, either. . .
This is down-and-dirty rounders, and nothing about it is pretty.
The ugly, suggestive comments have their full momentum now, but I notice that Angus and Rupert, though they are laughing as much as any of them, haven't volunteered any remarks of their own. Tory hasn't either. Alain and Arnold have, but only half-heartedly.
I make a mental note of that, but outwardly all I do is thoroughly ignore every comment directed at me for at least five minutes. By that time, a great deal of the initial nastiness has burned itself out, most of them learning that I cannot be stung into a reaction by mere lewd commentary. And sitting here, behind the twin shields of Angus and Rupert, there was almost no attempt to shift into lewd physicality either.
Thank you, my strange, strange guard squad. I appreciate it.
"Well," I say into the awkward, slightly helpless lull that usually follows the opening word-dump, "Now you've taken the low road, and you're all in Scotland before me. Congratulations."
I take a sip of water, and wait to see what the reaction to that will be.
I've seen groups turn on me completely at this point.
Ideally, they'll either change the subject, or ignore me entirely.
"Did ye bring a bottle, Gil?" says Peter.
"Aye. Two." He takes two bottles of whisky out from the bag beside him, and slides them to the center of the table, "Wha' did th'rest of ye bring?"
Change the subject, ignore me entirely, or both.
I breathe a tiny sigh of relief. This type of duel is always the most dangerous during the opening volleys. Now, I can breathe a bit before deliberately re-engaging. This time on my terms.
It is only a few seconds before a half dozen more whisky bottles have joined Gil's two at the center of the table. Tory goes over to the bar, and brings back an entire tray of empty glasses. Edan picks up the bottle Leonard contributed, and sneers at the label.
"The bloody shite did'ye bring Irish whiskey fer, Leo? Taenight? Of all nights?"
Leo shrugs, nonplussed, "Aye. Wha's wrong wi' it, then?"
"Ye bring flavourless crap like that tae the table an' ye'er askin' wha's wrong wi' it?" He pushes the bottle away from him in disgust.
Ah, good. An ideal opening for me.
I snort.
"Och, aye? Wha'sae funny, Sassenach?" says Edan, rounding on me, liked I hoped he would.
"Oh, nothing," I gesture casually, "It's just that. . . well, if you must drink crap, wouldn't flavourless be the way to go? I mean, the alternative is. . . flavourful. . ."
Most everyone at the table halts for a second. Then, Leo chuckles, and a great deal of the underlying tension relaxes into a much more open feeling.
Not friendly antagonism, not yet. But perhaps cheerful antagonism.
We all manage to focus on our supper for about ten uninterrupted minutes.
I'm just trying to figure out what is in the cream dressing on the carrot salad, never having tasted anything like it before, when a loud disagreement breaks out around the table - Gil, Peter and Edan arguing that we ought to drink the best whiskys first, and Leo, Gerald and Alain arguing that we ought to start with the lesser ones, and get them out of the way.
I do nothing to conceal my outright laughter at such a dispute.
"Ahgch!" grunts Gerald, "Ye'ev made th'Sassenach laugh at us, Gil!" He turns to me, "Sae what's yer opinion, then? Where would ye start wi' this lot?" He gestures at the bottles, his facial expression saying he expects my opinion to be the worst of its kind.
I just smile. "Oh, start with the good stuff, by all means," I take up the bottle nearest me, twist off the cap and give it a sniff, "That way if you pass out later on, you'll only forget the cheap whisky."
"Ha! I like this one!" Gil elbows Angus hard, "I'll play ye for her!"
"You'll do no such thing!" I say, grabbing a glass from the tray and pouring myself a dram, "You'll play me for me. And I give you fair warning now - I cheat."
Angus grunts, pushing an empty glass towards me, "Aye, that she does, shamelessly and constantly."
I put my nose in the air, "And also better than everyone else, so stick that in your pipe and smoke it, baby." I pour Angus a portion from the bottle I've opened.
"Heh. I'd let ye smoke mah pipe any day, lassie," says Gil, smirking.
I take a sip, draw my sword, and wade into battle.
"Oh, my wee lad, I'd burn it right off. . ."
"An' what if I was inta that?"
I shrug, "I wouldn't be surprised. Most men need a good castration before they're tolerable anyway."
"Ooophf! Cheetin' indeed!" he clutches his shirt around the left side of his chest, "Ye doo fight hard an' dirty!"
"Pff!" I scoff, "What do you want me to say? I like to win. Get over it."
"Och, I want tae be over it, all right. . ."
"Uh-huh. And do you really think you could ever make me win?"
Gil opens his mouth to reply, then registers a double take. Angus splutters into his drink.
Leo shakes his head, "Tha' wasnae castration, lassie, tha' was execution."
"So what? He has another head. What's the problem?"
Half the table blinks, and chuckles uncomfortably.
"I towld ye!" Angus says, laughing freely, "Shameless!"
I snort a laugh, "No, that's what's called followthrough. And it's a talent most men need to learn, let me tell you."
Gerald grunts, "Whoe'er gave ye such an opinion o' men, lassie?"
So, we're all at 'lassie', are we? That's progress, at least.
"Why, no one! I'm perfectly capable of forming my own opinions." I finish the dram I poured for myself, and with a gesture ask Rupert for a refill from the bottle he just opened.
"Aye, an' we all ken ye'ev been 'formin' an opinion' of oor wee Jamie, heven't ye?" he says, mischievously.
Perilous allies, my bodyguards. But it's alright, I'm prepared for that one.
"Well, rumour also has it that I'm a lioness, and a Dryad, and that you, Rupert, are a rose. I have no doubt Geillis Duncan has put it about that I've been seen in the same general vicinity as the tallest and most red-headed of Castle Leoch's resident MacTavishes, if that's what you mean."
"An' eef ye have," says Tory, "It's nae wonder th'rest of us mere mortals pale in comparison. There's few can match our wee Jamie." He grins at me, "I'm gay, ye ken."
I grin back. "My condolences."
I hope my smile covers my start. In my time, the word 'gay' is a horrible slur. But Tory says it so casually, it's clear it is no such thing here. I wonder what the word means in 2078. I doubt it's anywhere near the same thing as what it means in 2279. . .
"Thankee," he chuckles, then pours a round for himself, Arnold, and Harold, "Life wi' this lot is a constant trial by fire."
"Really? I'd have thought it'd be more a comedy of errors. . ."
He laughs as he shrugs, "Aye, t'is tha' too, more often than no'."
I look up from our table and scan the room for a minute. I need some mental space. The rapid-fire nature of this sort of encounter is not good for my brain. . .
For a few seconds, the room slows, the murmur of conversation becoming the long, sub-bass groan of a Skycity changing course. . .
Keep it together Beauchamp! Now is not the time for a dissociative episode!
A familiar face some meters away snaps me back to reality.
"Willie!" I call, waving, "Come sit with us!"
There is some scattered snickering around the table.
"Ye said Willie," says Arnold.
I blink. Yes, I did. There must be something about the name, but I have no idea what.
"Astute observation," I say, blandly.
Harold chuckles, "An' now ye said 'ass-toot'."
"Almost revolutionary, isn't it?"
He sneers at me, but then his attention is distracted as Willie himself sits down between Alain and Gerald.
Almost at once, I discover what the name "Willie" is a euphemism for. I sit silently for a few minutes, listening to the lot of them harshly tease the poor lad, getting angrier and angrier the more they jibe him.
It isn't that they're being ugly to one of their own - I rather assumed they would be. It is that, in this time period, what sort of parent would give their child a nickname like that? It's unfathomable to me.
"Agch! Jus' ask the Sassenach, laddie!" says Gil, laughing at Willie, but gesturing at me, "She c'n tell ye a dirk is'no a claymoor!"
The entire table turns to me, as does Willie himself. He's not particularly upset, but there is a stung look in his eyes that I despise these men for putting there.
I'll be damned if I add to it. . .
I grab two of the bottles of whisky, and balance my palms on top of their cork and cap, hands flat, showing the almost ten centimeter difference in the height of the bottles.
"Height. . ." I say, very seriously, ". . . is almost completely irrelevant."
Everyone at the table gasps, and Willie's jaw drops.
I shift my hands, deliberately grasping each bottle around the middle.
"Circumference, now. . . that's much more relevant."
I pick up the shorter, wider bottle, yank the cork out with my teeth, take a long swig directly from the bottleneck, and slap it back on the table.
"Get the picture?"
After a blink and a heartbeat, the table erupts in the friendliest laughter I've heard from them yet tonight.
"Fer that, Sassenach," says Gil, hooting magnanimously, "Ye deserve a shot o' th'best." He takes up a bottle no one has opened yet, and pours me a generous dram.
Everyone raises their glasses, and Gil says, "To all cheetin' lasses, who fight hard an' dirty. Slàinte mhath!"
"Shlan gevah!" I respond along with everyone else, and take a sip of the new whisky. This one is much more heavily smoky, spicy and overpowering. I only take a small sip.
There are a few mocking snorts at my mangled salute, and Angus kicks back his drink with a grimace, then hisses at me, "Tha' was terrible, lassie."
I harrumph, and deliberately deepen my Central accent, "Shows wot you know! I have it on very good authority that my Gaelic accent is hilarious."
I carefully watch the faces around me as I say this, and can read pretty much exactly the thought process they all go though - What? The Sassenach is going to brag about this? Oh, 'good authority', eh? Well, we all know who told her that. Poor wee Jamie. . . oh! Oh, hilarious is it? Well, we can all get behind that! Maybe Jamie isn't so poor after all, lucky bastard. . .
The laugh that follows is entirely genuine, not mocking at all.
Finally, we're all on the same level. Time to reinforce that. C'mon Rupert, don't fail me now. . .
"I mean, if you're going to suck. . ." I prompt.
Rupert raises his glass again, and crashes it into Leo's, yelling, "AT LEAST SUCK HARD!"
Everyone guffaws, and takes up the salute, as if each one of them had thought of it themselves.
I smile, almost fondly.
There we go. Thanks Rupert. . .
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jamie leave the bar enclosure, carrying a tray of full glasses over his shoulder.
I only catch glimpses of him as he walks down the line of buffet tables, his lower half periodically obscured by the expanse of people and tables between us. But he's definitely wearing a kilt.
I am completely unprepared for the effect this has on me. My stomach swoops, fluttering, my heart speeds up, and my cheeks warm in a way that has nothing to do with whisky.
All the time I was talking to him at the bar, he was hiding that behind it?
The man can do absurdly alluring things with just a pair of jeans and flannel shirt.
He's astonishingly beautiful in a dress shirt and tie.
He could take over the world in a kilt.
As he reaches the drinks tables, I notice it's not an ordinary kilt either. It's also got this hip-cape thing going on that is doing more unfair things to my insides.
If I thought he was stunning in a formal shirt and jacket, adding this just puts him right over the top. I can't take my eyes off him, from his fiery-red hair, to his deep, broad chest, to his slinky, tartan-framed hips, to his sexy knees - how can anyone have sexy knees, isn't that a contradiction in terms? - to his rugged, high-top boots.
He's almost back to the bar when my brain catches up with me.
Stop staring, Beauchamp! The man may be your boyfriend. . . and insanely pretty. . . but that's no excuse to be rude!
"Hmm." I swirl the whisky in my glass, mind racing almost as fast as my heart, "This one needs some soda water, I'll be right back."
"Aye, shee jus' got a wee keek at Jamie in 'is plaid, an' has tae goo settle 'er stummik!" roars Rupert.
I roll my eyes, "You're not wrong, Rupe - you're just an asshole."
"The Dude Abides!" he raises his glass to me, grinning.
I barely hear him.
I spend the entirety of the few meters back to the bar trying to calm my breathing. . .
Jamie comes right over to me as soon as I sit down.
"Can I help ye, Mrs. Beauchamp?" he asks, smirking.
"I don't know, Jamie, but I do know you can help this poor fellow. . ." I hold up my glass.
He takes it, sniffs, and rears back in surprise, "Wha' doo they have ye drinkin' ower there? Tha's no' sippin' whisky."
"I don't mind it, it just needs some water. And I wouldn't exactly say they're 'sipping' it, either. But. . . I, uhm. . ." I lean forward and whisper, "I thought you didn't wear your kilt. . . in public?" I squeak a little bit on the last word. It sounds as though I'm implying he only wears it in private. . .
Stop it Beauchamp! You aren't in any shape to be going there right now!
His smirk broadens to a grin as he sidles up to me, "Weel, it's the MacKenzie tartan, soo, it's no' exactly mine - it's a belted-plaid, so it's no' exactly a modern kilt - an' this is a private concert, so. . . it's no' exactly public." After a glance behind me to make certain no one is watching, he leans down close, and whispers into my ear, "An' I didnae think ye'ed object."
"Oh, I'm not. . . not that, no. . . no, not objecting. . ."
No, I'm shamelessly babbling.
The things this man can do to me, without even trying. I'd be embarrassed, but it feels far too good to be ashamed of it.
"Sae how'er things goin'?" he asks, adding water in tiny spoonfuls, swirling and sniffing after each addition.
"We're at the most delicate stage right now. They've accepted that I'm their equal - most of them have, anyway. But they still don't like me much. We aren't on the same side yet. . ."
I quickly run through most of what has been said.
"Ye'er only encouragin' them, wi' comments like that. . ." he snorts, handing me the glass to taste.
"Well, good. My goal isn't to shut them down - it's to open them up."
I sip, shake my head, and hold it out for some more water.
He adds just a few drops this time, and motions for me to taste it again.
"I have to engage with them on their level, but on my own terms. A fight, Jamie, but with no blood. You see?"
I swirl it around, and take a sip, and this time it's perfect. All the notes softened and refined, with the rich spiciness easing itself into the heady scent of smoke, neither one overpowering the other.
"I see that my half hour is up. I'm goin' tae join ye." He whips off his apron, and goes to wash his hands.
"Is that. . . wise?"
He shrugs, "Dinnae ken. But I'll go crazy if I stand heer any longer, doin' nothin' while ye'er ower thear going though this alone. Besides, I'm starvin'."
"You. . . you won't. . . I mean. . ."
I can't have him derail things now, it would waste all of tonight's efforts.
"Trust me, Claire. Please?" He looks at me imploringly, eyes wide and clear, expression soft and pleading. . .
Dammit, I can't resist him.
"Alright."
He grins, and turns to take a bottle off the highest shelf behind him. I catch a glimpse of the label - Lallybroch 14 Year. He proudly escorts me back to the table, nudging Angus to move over, and briefly sits down next to me.
"Mrs. Beauchamp here says ye'er drinkin' nowt but shite, sae I brawt ye sumthin' bettar," he says, putting the bottle down as he slowly stands up, "Bu' thear had bettar be moor than a nip left when I gi' back, sae help me, oor I'll skelp th'lot of ye. . ."
There is a good bit of chuckling as he goes over to the buffet, but no one makes a motion towards the bottle when he's gone.
A mischievous notion sprouts in my brain, and I act on it at once.
Miming to everyone who notices to be quiet, I take the bottle, and place it carefully on the floor, holding it steady between my shoes. There are many conspiratorial smiles exchanged between me and most of the rest of the table, which is what I hoped for.
It's too much to hope that after tonight they'll think of me as one of them. But maybe, just maybe, we'll reach non-aggression. A bright, secretive glance between me and Gil confirms that this was absolutely the right move to make.
Suddenly, it dawns on me why.
They all respect Jamie. And more than that - they love him. Chances to tease him like this, without fear of any repercussions, must come along terribly rarely. They have to trust me with this, and so far, they all are.
After tonight, I think, I'll have no objections whatever to being 'Jamie's Girl'.
He comes back a minute later, plate heaped with pizza, potatoes, meat, and several things I don't recognize. He sits, and begins to eat with such boyish gusto, it takes him almost a minute to realize his bottle is gone.
He rounds on Angus, "Alrigh', what hev ye dun wi' it, ya wee gomeral?"
"I?" says Angus, all too clearly trying not to laugh, "I didnae. . ."
"Dinnae lie tae me, ye ken I c'n allus tell. . ."
Valiantly holding back laughter, I bring the bottle up, twist off the cap, and pour Rupert a drink.
Jamie turns at the sound, and all the righteous indignation he was directing at Angus now re-focuses on me.
"Ahgch! I might'a knoon!" he grabs the bottle from my hand, "Treachery, thy name is-"
"And, is there more then a nip left?" I interrupt, saucily.
"Aye," he eyes me darkly, but with a glimmer that lets me know he's teasing.
I wave him off, "Then you're welcome."
Finally, the table relaxes into warm, wonderful laughter.
After a moment, Jamie gives me a smirk, and a long look, and then goes back to his meal.
There is a few minutes pause. I finish my supper and sit back, stomach content. Then, as Harold reaches for a bottle, he half-smiles at me, "Sae I herd ye'er a farmar, Mrs. Beauchamp. Is tha' soo?"
Huh. It is actually quite surprising how little I've been asked to talk shop about being Farm Manager. Perhaps because this is a party, and they just want to forget work?
I shrug mentally. Deal with the question, Beauchamp, and don't quibble!
"Botanist, actually."
"Mm. I suppose tha' means ye like appels?"
Shit.
I've heard this one before - many, many times - but usually near the beginning, when I can just deflect it. At this stage of things, doing that would be less than useless. I have to engage with comments now. But, playing this particular comment out means I need a middleman, someone to set up my response. . .
I wait what is probably a heartbeat too long, giving Rupert or Angus every chance, praying that they'll give me what I need. . .
"Did ye ken that the word 'apple' use'tae mean any kinda fruit?" says Jamie.
"Oh really?" I say, trying desperately not to let my relief show.
"Aye. From almonds tae oranges, 'tis appels all th'way doon. Makes translatin' some o' the really ancient stories a right fruit salad."
"Oh." I look Harold directly in the face, "Well. How do you like them apples?"
I see a bit of conflict in Harold's eyes for a minute, but then he smiles, raises his glass to me, and nods.
It's either a concession or a truce, but I'll take either one. I raise my glass to him, and return his smile.
Jamie looks up from his plate for a second, giving me a sidelong glance, and a tiny smirk.
I close my eyes for a moment, and let the noise of the room wash over me.
Even Frank and I needed practice to become as good of a team as we were. What Jamie just did. . . I never knew it was possible. It wasn't just support, it was instinctive support. From a man. Against his friends. After having known me less than a fortnight, and this being the first time we've faced this sort of situation together.
He didn't read my mind, but, he may as well have. And here I originally thought he was neither wily nor subtle! We do indeed live and learn when it comes to our fellow men!
I've liked Jamie from the start. I've been attracted to him from the start. I've grown to respect and care for him. But this is the first time he has thoroughly impressed me. For the first time, I'm proud of him. Not because he helped me, but because he has now made it clear he knows how to walk the knife-edge between two sheer cliffs, with a toss of the head and an airy smile, as though it isn't an ordeal or a struggle. He knows how to deduce, infer, take chances, jump at opportunities, and how and when to throw a spanner in the works.
He knows how to play this game that is no game.
Agonizingly slowly, I am realizing that Colum and Dougal aren't my only options when it comes to formidable allies in this world.
If only Jamie was a Laird, and wasn't on the run. . .
"Soo," he asks the table, "Have ye finished choosin' teams fer the shinty match taemorrow yet?"
Leonard and Alain lean forward and start telling him all manner of things about a sporting event they apparently have planned.
Oh, this is too perfect. My best finishing move, and Jamie just set me up for it. There's no way he knew - but the coincidence is extremely welcome.
"Shinty?" I say, wonderingly, "I've never heard of that sport. Would you explain it to me?"
In my experience, there is nothing more endearing to a man than a woman being truly curious about a pastime he loves. I don't have to fake being interested, either - I really do want to know what this shinty thing is.
I smile as the entire table enthusiastically throws itself into ensuring that I know every last detail about the game before the night is over.
From chess, to skysurfing, to paintball, this move works every time. . .
Somewhere in the middle of a very loud discussion of the origin and proper use of the caman - which is a stick, I think - I lean over and murmur, so only Jamie can hear.
"Game, set, and match, my lad."
He meets my eyes, and smiles knowingly.
The electric candles above us suddenly dim, a spotlight shines on the dais, and a man leaps up from the crowd, speaking into a palm-mic -
"Ladies an' gentlemen, if ye would all put yer hands together, for The Cuckoos In The Grove!"
If Jamie says anything in reply to me, it's lost in the applause.