True Scotsman Pt 06B

Brighton in late summer on a sunny Saturday afternoon was still busy. The high season was over, but the town was still packed with tourists. Or, at least, Jamie assumed they were mostly tourists. Perhaps the town was always this busy? He considered wandering down the hill to the promenade to look at the sea, but he was more interested in exploring the Lanes, Brighton's famous old quarter: a quarter of a square mile of eighteenth century streets laid out as if someone had taken a pile of leftover scraps of ribbon, scrunched them up and dropped them on the floor, and then built a town based on where they'd fallen. Besides their quaint twists and turns, their frontages were also very much still in the historical style, and they were mostly franchise-free, being packed with unusual and idiosyncratic stores. It wasn't long before he was strolling aimlessly among the Lanes, his sense of direction completely lost. He considered getting another coffee, glanced at the blue skies above, and treated himself to an ice cream cone instead.

He was still dressed as he had been for the train ride down from Glasgow, in polo shirt, kilt and boots; Amy had insisted that he keep the kilt on while she was occupied elsewhere in town with Nuala's hen-night activities, and to let her know if anything "interesting" happened. Jamie attracted some interest, but nothing over the top:

- Some lads sitting outside a pub with pints called out to him. "Way-hay, Scot

laaaaand

!" and "Och aye Jimmy."

- An ageing punk, with green mohawk, tattoos, weathered walnut skin and a pierced face like someone had hammered chainmail into a tree stump, came over to give him a fist-bump.

- An overweight black guy, in shades, backwards baseball cap and Red Sox shirt, insisted on a selfie. "Yo, ma

man!

You are, like, the baddest mo'fucker on the

planet

, dude!"

He was standing, appropriately enough, outside a boutique scented candle shop when two elderly queens, in pinstripe suits and silk cravats, approved of his tartan while bemoaning the general lack of style.

"That's for later," he assured them. "This is just casual daywear."

"Then we shall be on the lookout for you later, dear boy," one of them purred.

"Oh good," Jamie thought to himself. "Foreshadowing

."

He drifted in and out of the tat shops and "bespoke silverware" sellers, hoping to find a simple gift for Amy. He was looking in one of the shop windows with more ice cream, considering a pair of earrings in the shape of red squirrels, when his phone rang.

***

For Nuala's hen party, the first event of the day was a cocktail-making class, in a swanky venue that operated as a restaurant throughout the day, then converted into a glitzy bar to catch the post-work evening crowd as the sun went down, before finally ripping off its rubber face-mask at midnight like the villain in

Scoobie Doo

to reveal the nightclub it had been all along. After making enquiries of the restaurant staff, Amy was directed through some closed doors to a separate bar area that wouldn't otherwise be open for several hours yet. Nuala's party had it to themselves for the next hour.

"Amy!" Nuala said, rushing towards her with open arms as Amy was ushered into the room. "Yeh made it!" Amy returned the crushing embrace enthusiastically.

"Like there was any chance I'd miss this!" She held her friend at arms' length, admiring her. "Look at you! You're positively

glowing

."

"I know! Disgusting, innit? Come and meet everyone!"

Amy was the last to arrive. The rest of the party were all gathered around a couple of tables in the bar that they'd pulled together.

"This is me big sister, Maeve," Nuala said, indicating a competent-looking woman in her mid-twenties. Her hair style spoke of professionalism. "She's the Responsible One," Nuala added, "by which I mean she's the only one of us reprobates who can find her arse with two hands after we've been on the piss for a while."

"Hence

Matron of Honour

," Amy acknowledged, shaking hands with Maeve.

"Oh, god, please no," Maeve replied. "

Head Bridesmaid

, maybe. Or perhaps

She Who Must Be Obeyed If Yer Feckin' Know What's Good For Yeh

, perhaps. But

Matron

? I'm only twenty-five, for god's sake."

"Ah, that's practically over the hill, so it is," one of the other girls said, as she leaned in to embrace and air-kiss Amy.

"That's true," said another of the sisters coolly. "If this were a Jane Austin novel, Maeve, yeh'd be considered left on the shelf by now, if yeh weren't already married." She too embraced Amy.

Amy blinked as she realised the two girls were identical twins — though the one who'd spoken first was noticeably more busty than her slimmer sister. The two girls were a bit younger than Nuala.

"An' these two sarcastic wee feckers are the twins, Siobhan and Saoirse," Nuala informed Amy.

All the sisters had Nuala's classic Irish colouring: pale skin, green eyes, red hair. As did Mary, Nuala's mother, though her red was now streaked with white. Amy wasn't surprised, after raising not just four daughters, but four

Irish

daughters.

"Amy," Mary said warmly, taking Amy into her arms. "Lovely to see you again." They'd met when Nuala's parents had travelled to Glasgow to help their daughter move in at the start of university.

There were three more women in the party. Niamh was the baby of the bunch at just eighteen. She was husband-to-be Eoin's sister, with a beautiful face and a head of golden curls. Despite her age, she introduced herself with confident calm, projecting effortless charisma. At the other end of the scale, Charlie was almost Mary's age. but still looked amazing despite that. Her hair was ash-blonde, big and straight, screaming hair-metal at Amy. The biker-style jewellery and tattoos didn't do anything to dispel that impression. Charlie, it turned out, was Nuala's landlady in Coventry, and the two of them had really hit it off and bonded. Finally, there was Simone, a statuesque young woman with dark hair, who Nuala had known since her school days.

"God, Amy, yeh look smashing," Nuala said, admiring her.

"Er, I think you mean we

all

do," Amy said in response. Amy, like the rest of the party, was dressed in a white blouse tied under the bust and a mini-kilt. Less like an American high-school uniform, and more in the Scottish style, unsurprisingly. The kilts varied in choice of tartan, but each woman had chosen tights to coordinate. They'd finished off the outfit with heels — either pumps or boots. Mary, a little more restrained, had a longer kilt on — though it still stopped above the knee. The mini-kilts had been Nuala's idea: if she couldn't convince her fiancé to wear one on their wedding day, kilts were going to be involved

somewhere

. Amy heartily approved. "The outfit made quite the impression on Jamie," Amy said, quietly just to Nuala. She smirked. "Good job I made sure to shag him before getting changed, or he'd have torn it straight off again." She leaned into Nuala conspiratorially. "He has a thing for a pretty girl in a mini-kilt."

"Speaking of," Nuala said to Amy in a lower tone, pulling her to the side a little, "Where's yer man, right now?"

Amy waved a hand carelessly. "Oh, around and about. Wandering, I think."

"But yeh brought him, right? An' his kilt?"

"Oh yes," Amy said, with feeling. "And I have

got

to tell you about the train journey when we get a chance." Amy had managed to arrange

shenanigans

on the journey from Glasgow down to London, meaning Jamie had had quite a few young women investigating whether Jamie was a "true Scotsman" — in a rewardingly

tactile

fashion.

"Ah, Jaysis, girl!" Nuala said, admiringly. "But listen — the other girls don't know, yet."

Amy was gobsmacked. "You haven't told them? Not even Maeve?"

"Ah, I love Maeve to death, but she wouldn't keep it a secret. She'd stick it on the feckin' itinerary, or something."

Amy's eyes narrowed. "

Why

haven't you told them?"

Nuala shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure. I just kinda get the impression yeh'd rather see what kind of reception he gets if the girls don't know that his wife is standing there watching him."

Amy blinked. She hadn't considered that. "You make a good point," she said thoughtfully.

"Don't I always?" Nuala said. "So, just keep it quiet for now, yeah?"

At that point, the doors opened and their bartender arrived to start the class, so Amy and Nuala rejoined the group. The bartender introduced himself as Mike. He was late twenties, with a bald head and a well-trimmed beard. His black t-shirt was tight across his chest showing a well-developed, muscular physique, and his tattooed biceps bulged. As he moved behind the bar, they could see that his tight black jeans showed off a taut posterior, too.

"Ooh, yummy!" Siobhan said in appreciation.

"Try not to drool on the furniture too much," her twin sister told her.

The class was fun. They got to make (and drink) four separate cocktails: a Margarita, a Mojito, a Bellini and a Porn Star Martini. There was much giggling, ogling of Mike, and stage-whispers between the girls; he seemed to enjoy their lustful talk behind his back, and leaned into it, flirting outrageously with all of them. All the drinks were made from shots already measured out for them, and they each received a paper "booklet" with the recipes in it.

"They do this for stag nights too," Maeve said to Amy in an aside while Siobhan pretended to be confused and Mike stood close behind her, guiding her hands with his in an intimate fashion as they assembled a cocktail shaker. "I bet they have a hot girl running that one."

"I wonder whether the drinks would be the same?" Amy mused. "I can't see guys getting into pink fizz with a slice of strawberry."

Maeve acknowledged the point. "They'll probably go for things like Screwdriver and Rusty Nail. Mind you," she said with a tilt of her head, "I don't think that's what's driving the choice here. They're going for the ones that have fewer shots of alcohol, and more mixer. Keeps the costs down, and the clientele less rowdy."

"I'm just glad they've gone for simple ones," Mary said. "Who's got time for all that faff?"

"You're not wrong, Mam," Maeve said. "They want something the punters can make at home, too."

It was educational, too. Niamh asked about Vespers, from

Casino Royale

. Mike told the group that those were originally made with a mixer that was no longer manufactured. "But apparently it tasted bloody awful anyway, so that's no bad thing," he said. "I hear that Ian Fleming just made it up without actually tasting it."

"What about Vodka Martini, then?" Charlie wondered. "Shaken, not stirred, and all that?" Which got Mike onto the subject of "bruising", "perfect" and "dirty" martinis, and so on.

"You know the easiest Martini to make?" he asked them at one point, standing behind the bar. As one, they all shook their heads. "Churchill Martini." He paused, then plonked a bottle of London Dry Gin on the counter. "Done," he said. "Winston Churchill wasn't one to waste time with mixers."

At the end of their hour, the entire group was comfortably lubricated; Amy herself had a nice buzz going. They all took the opportunity to hug Mike before they left; Siobhan grabbed a double-handful of arse in the process. There was much hilarity as they emerged onto the street, blinking in the afternoon.

"God, I love a liquid lunch," Mary said as they toddled along the street, following Maeve. "But I'll be asleep by four if we keep this up."

"Not to worry, Mam," Nuala told her. "We've got some physical exercise next to wake you up."

Simone looked up, surprised. "We have? I don't remember that."

"That's what passes for humour in our family," Saoirse explained. "She means the massage session."

"Oh, in that case, I'm

definitely

going to be asleep by four," Mary said. "A massage always puts me right out."

"No, Mam," Saoirse continued. "It's a massage

class

; we're not

getting

a massage."

"Oh." Her face fell a little. "Pity. I wouldn't mind drifting off under a massage, right now."

"Could be worse," Niamh said. "Siobhan wanted it to be a pole-dancing lesson."

"Really?" Amy said. "That sounds cool!" She thought about what she could do to Jamie if she learned how to pole-dance.

"I know, right? But Maeve wouldn't have it."

"Too feckin' right I wouldn't," Maeve said, from the front of the group. "I'm not spending all night in A&E 'cos one of you pissheads managed to drop yehself on yer head."

After four cocktails, Amy felt that Maeve had a point. "...massage sounds good."

"I think you mean

lame

," Siobhan said.

"Trust me," Maeve said.

In fact, Siobhan brightened up considerably when they got to the therapy centre, and it turned out that they'd booked something called an "Erotic Sensations" class. All the ladies liked the sound of learning how to get their men more turned on, with some essential oils and a little hands-on technique. Siobhan speculated about who they'd get to practice on.

"I hope he's like Mike," she said, her eyes glazed over at her own private dream.

"Maybe it's like nude models in art classes," Simone wondered. "You know, where you get representatives from all sides of humanity."

"Maybe you'll be groping some wrinkly old geriatric," Saoirse said, grinning evilly.

"Oh, yuck!"

Things came a little unstuck when their instructor, a middle-aged brunette called Tracy, explained that this was designed to be a couples class. As such, it was expected that the participants would be practicing on each other, and no "model" was provided.

"I thought you understood," Tracy said. "Though I did wonder, when I saw that there were nine of you on the booking. Still, it's a modern world and who am I to judge? So I didn't like to ask. Well, you don't, do you?"

This put a damper on the mood, despite all the booze from the previous class. Nuala wasn't going to let it ruin her day, though. "I have an idea," she said, getting everyone's attention. "Maybe we can get a model after all?"

"I'm sorry, dear," Tracy said. "But I don't know anyone who could do that kind of thing. Not at short notice."

"Nor do I," Nuala said. "But

Amy

does."

"Me?" Amy squeaked in surprise.

"Sure," Nuala said. "There's.... that guy you were telling me about."

Amy looked blank. "Guy? What guy?"

"You know." Nuala gave Amy Meaningful Looks, with all the subtlety of a head-butt. "The one who you think is in Brighton right now, somewhere around. Perhaps you could call him?"

"Oh," Amy said, the penny dropping. "

That

guy. I...could try, I guess."

Nods from the assembled group convinced her to try.

***

Jamie looked at his phone. It was Amy calling.

"Hi," he said, answering it one-handed. "I didn't expect to hear from you for a while. Everything okay?"

"Och, everything's grand," Amy said. "Where are you, right now?"

He turned in a circle, phone to his ear. "Erm, Ship Street, I think. Or near to it, anyway. Why?"

"Close enough," Amy said. "Are you busy?"

He took a slurp of his ice cream. "I'm engaged in serious scientific investigations as to whether Raspberry Ripple ice cream is better than Rum and Raisin. It's critical research."

"The defining question of our age, some might say. Can you do me a favour? Can you come and meet us?" She gave him the address of the therapy centre she'd mentioned as part of the activities she'd described during the train journey south that morning.

"I think I know where that is," he said, dubiously. "I can meet you there. Should I ask why?"

"Certainly not," Amy told him firmly.

"Ah. Right."

"Quick as you can. See you soon."

"Love you too," Jamie said, but Amy had already hung up.

Following his phone, it didn't take long for him to find the location. Amy was waiting outside.

"Thank you for coming so quickly," she said, giving him a quick hug and then grabbing his hand, pulling him inside. "Just one thing," she told him as she hurried him along a short corridor, "I'm going to introduce you as my friend."

"What?" Jamie said, as they went through yet another set of double-doors and then Jamie was in a room full of some of the sexiest women he'd ever seen, in equally sexy outfits. His jaw dropped.

"Hey, everyone," Amy said as the group turned to look at them. "This is...

Jim

, someone I know who conveniently happens to be in Brighton right now. He's agreed to help us out."

Jamie waved a hand feebly. "Hi," he said.

They all looked at him. And then at his kilt. And then Siobhan spoke for all of them: "Feckin'

magic!

"

Amy made a quick round of introductions — though he'd already met Nuala, of course. The instructor was clearly identifiable, being the only one not dressed in the mini-kilt outfit. Amy introduced her as Tracy, and Tracy immediately drew him off into a smaller room.

"Thanks for volunteering to help us out here, Jim," she told him. "You can get undressed in here." She handed him a large, fluffy white towel.

"I'm happy to help," Jamie said. "Er,

why

am I getting undressed, exactly?"

Tracy looked surprised. "Did your friend not explain?"

He shook his head slowly. "She just said she needed a favour, and asked me to come here as soon as I could."

Tracy blinked. "Of course. Silly me! I was standing right next to her when she called you. I'm sorry. So, this is a massage class, and the girls wanted someone to practice on. So you'll be getting a free massage. Well, lots of them." She beamed at him.

"Right," Jamie said. "That makes complete sense."

"So..." Tracy said. "If you'd just like to pop your togs off — love the outfit, by the way — we'll see you back outside in a mo." She laid a comforting hand on his forearm. "You can leave your undies on if you like; couples usually do, during these classes."

That caught his attention. "Couples?"

Tracy already had the door half-open. "Oh, yes, didn't I say? It's a class designed for couples. Right, see you in a minute. Toodle pip!" And she closed the door.

Leave your undies on. Right.

When he emerged a few minutes later, Jamie was clad only in the towel around his waist. There were cheers from the ladies, and more than a few wolf-whistles. Thanks to a regular training regimen for rowing, Jamie had muscles to be proud of, and now his abs, pecs and biceps were on display.

Tracy led him to one of four massage tables that were set up, and asked the hen party to gather on the other side of the table, so that they could observe. There was another towel laid over the bed, and Tracy held it up like a curtain so that Jamie's modesty was protected as he clambered onto the bed — much to the party's disappointment. He discarded his own towel as he got onto the bed.

Tracy asked him to lie on his front, and draped the towel over him. "Normally, for a full body massage, we'd start with the patient lying on their back so that we can work on their front," she told the group as she moved around to the other side, "but since this is an

Erotic Sensations

class, obviously you want to build up to working on their front."

It's a

what-now

class?

"Now,' Tracy continued, "I don't wish to be presumptuous here. It is a modern world, after all. Normally, I teach the ladies how to massage men. Is that what you want, here, or would any of you like to cover massaging other women, too?"

Maeve looked around at the others, and then confirmed that they wanted to focus on the male massage.

"That's a relief," Tracy said with a wry smile. "It means I can drop half the material which is good because we don't have a lot of time and there are a lot of you to have a go. Now then...."

Tracy covered several areas on the back of the body: the shoulders and upper back, of course, plus the soles of the feet and the nape of the neck, and Jamie felt all kinds of sensations as several members of the party attempted to replicate what Tracy was showing them. He didn't know their voices, so he couldn't tell whose hands were on him at any given time. Tracy moved the towel around, revealing different parts of the body and then re-covering them when she moved on.