"This seems like a waste of time," Jamie said to Malcolm, his boss. "Why are we bothering?"
"Because," Malcolm said slowly, as if explaining to a child, "while it's
good
that the company has been nominated for an industry award, it is
bad
if we win and there's no-one there to collect it." He smiled as he spoke, to let Jamie know he was poking fun at Jamie.
"Yes, but why
me
? I mean, we're probably not going to win, and it wasn't even my project."
"The main team have that customer visit, Julie's on holiday, Morag will be working on the board presentation, and I'll be on paternity leave. Look at the bright side -- you get an overnight stay in London on the company." Malcolm slid a piece of paper across the desk -- a print-out of an email with all the details of the event.
"Assuming I even
make
it to London," Jamie muttered darkly. "You know what the Glasgow-to-London train line is like." He scanned the email. "Uh, this says 'formal wear' for the award ceremony. What's that mean?"
"Oh, you know, black tie, that kind of stuff," Malcolm said airily. "Just wear whatever you'd wear to a wedding, and you'll be fine."
***
"London?" his wife Amy said, when he told her. "Oooh, aren't
we
fancy?'
"
You
may be fancy," he grumbled, "I'm just losing a couple of work days, which means I'm probably going to be missing my own end-of-year targets."
"And you'll be missing me, of course," she said archly.
"
And
I'll be missing you." Which he would. They'd only been married a couple of years, and Amy was
gorgeous
. Classic Celtic colouring -- red hair and green eyes -- and pretty with it. Plus, clever, witty,
great
at sex and, for some inexplicable reason, somewhat fond of Jamie. She
did
like to wind him up, though.
"I dunno what I'll do with myself while you're away." She twirled a curl of red hair, eyeing him wickedly. "I guess I'll just pine away. Or console myself with half a dozen one-night stands to stave off the loneliness." She sighed theatrically.
"I'll be away for
one
night," he reminded her.
"Ah, well, then I'll have to make a careful schedule to fit them all in," she said, her eyes sparkling.
***
December in Britain. Christmas decorations everywhere. Biting frost in the air. Inescapable Christmas music blasting out of speakers set to "stupefy". Jamie spent the first half of the train journey trying to get some work done on his laptop, but the earlier train had been cancelled due to engine failure, and this train was carrying the abandoned passengers; they were crowding the aisle and complaining about the rail company and the lack of seat reservations. At least Jamie had managed to get his seat, since the service started at Glasgow. Eventually, he gave up on work, and stared out of the window at the admittedly beautiful scenery, and fretted vaguely about what he'd say in an acceptance speech if the nightmare scenario came true, and his company actually won.
***
The event was at a small, independent hotel near Mayfair. After a tube ride that showed Jamie the Glasgow-to-London train overcrowding was
nothing
, he checked in at the oak-panelled reception desk, and whizzed up to his room -- which turned out to be pleasantly fancy, compared to the budget hotels he'd normally use for work travel. There were even
drawers
and a cupboard with a
door
, instead of exposed hanging space. He smiled to himself, thinking of Amy's comments. "Oh, Ambassador, you are spoiling us!" he said, then felt regretful that Amy wasn't there to get the reference.
He unpacked, took a bath, and got changed for the event.
***
"Just wear whatever you'd wear to a wedding," Jamie muttered as he rode the lift back down to reception. He drew a few looks as he strode through the lobby, his kilt swaying around his knees and the tassels of his sporran bouncing with each stride. There were a number of different function spaces in the hotel, and they all had something going on in them -- A-frame boards with company names pointed this way and that, with different strains of Christmas music drifting out of each room, fighting with the background carols playing in the corridors. Company Christmas parties, Jamie guessed.
He came to a lobby area, between a couple of function spaces, one of which was for the awards event he was due to attend. An ornate bar ran down one side of the lobby. He debated whether to get a drink, but decided to check the lay of the land first. Strolling in, he found the room was laid out in cabaret style -- round tables with eight seats per table. Beside the door, a table was laid out with champagne flutes, and a pretty girl hovered with a silver tray in hand.
"Prosecco, sir?" she asked, smiling at him.
Jamie took one with a nod, grateful that he hadn't gone straight to the bar. Booze provided by the event was probably not the best quality, but at least he wasn't paying for it out of his own pocket. Still, he made a note not to have too many; It wouldn't do to get too steamed, just in case he did have to accept.
She looked him up and down. "I like your kilt," she said admiringly.
"Thanks," Jamie said. He glanced around the room. The crowd was mostly men, with some in DJs and bow ties, but mostly they appeared just to be wearing suits. Here and there, Jamie could see some more guys more casually dressed, in check shirts, jeans and trainers. Maybe they hadn't gotten the memo, he thought. Or just didn't care.
The women were a mixture: some were wearing smart business suits, while others wore elegant evening gowns.
Jamie felt somewhat overdressed in his kilt and Prince Charlie jacket with its matching waistcoat. Jamie himself was twenty-five, clean-shaven, and with a head of hair that looked like he washed it in Irn-Bru each night: it was a light orange, leaning towards blonde in the right (or wrong) light. He had a narrow face with a nose that was overly long in his opinion, but his wife Amy claimed it was handsome ("Aye, yer scrub up well for such a dork, ma bonny boy!"). Well, in this outfit, he reflected, at least it won't be his nose they'd be looking at.
Glass in hand, he self-consciously wandered over to the tables and glanced at the place settings; there did not appear to be any kind of allocated seating. Around the room, small groups of people chatted, their eyes widening slightly when they took in Jamie's attire.
***
Dinner was an ordeal. Finicky but over-cooked turkey was served and the waitresses poured red and white, keeping the glasses topped up. Jamie tried to avoid doing more than sipping his glass, but with the wine level never dropping far before being refilled, it was hard to tell how much he'd had. There were two guys to his left who were colleagues, and the same was true on his right. The remaining seats were taken by a man and two women who also worked together, and each pair mostly talked among themselves, leaving Jamie to stare at his phone.
And there were speeches by invited guests.
Long
, droning speeches.
The only relief came when Jamie headed back to the bar area, to the lavatories there. Walking between the tables, he drew yet more double-takes as his kilt swished by. He used the facilities, all gleaming marble and shining chrome and brass, with Egyptian-cotton flannels instead of hand-towels at the sinks, then returned to the lobby space with the bar. In the bar area, the music from the function room opposite had cranked up a level; glancing in, Jamie could see a full-on disco in progress, with lots of people dancing. It looked a lot more fun. Regretfully, he turned back to his room just as the awards process started.
The good news was that Jamie's company did not win. As soon as that news had been revealed, Jamie decided that he'd had enough, and he was now off the clock. He tossed back the remains of his wine, and headed back to the bar.
"Highland Park, please," he said to the barman, who duly poured him the dram and passed over the bill for him. Jamie blinked at the cost -- not just
hotel
prices, or
London
prices, but
London hotel
prices -- but then thought, fuck it, he was spending a night away from his amazing wife to be at this thing -- the company could buy him a good drink.
While he was putting the drink onto his room tab, a group of four women emerged from the other function room and made a bee-line for the Ladies, somewhat raucously. They were all youngish, 20s or 30s, and dressed in spangly party wear. The woman at the back spotted Jamie as he leaned back against the bar and looked admiringly at them. After a quick double-take, she took a few quick steps forward to catch up her friends and say something to them. They all looked over at Jamie, then looked at each other and giggled, before continuing to the toilets.
Ah
, Jamie thought, taking a sip of his whisky and letting it warm him and relax him.
This was better.
Another drink or two -- though, perhaps, not another single malt, no point pushing his luck with Accounts -- then he'd crash out. No way was he going back for the rest of whatever that event had to offer. He felt the tension draining out of him, and he spent a while playing Christmas Single Bingo with the music coming from the disco room, while watching people stroll past.
The girls came out of the toilets and, instead of going back into their function room, came over to the bar. Jamie was leaning an elbow on the bar, facing one way, so he was facing away from them as they placed an order for four pornstar martinis. There was some whispered conversations and giggles for a bit, then Jamie felt a tap on his shoulder.
"'Scuse me," said a pretty blonde girl in a red mini-dress, "Can we ask you a question?"
Jamie shrugged. "Sure."
"Are you a true Scotsman?"
Jamie blinked, wondering how to answer that. Nothing appropriate came to mind so he settled for a simple, "Yes".
One of the other girls, in a white tank-top and tight jeans, whooped.
