‘You have to dance with me,’ she told me, sounding very serious and looking at me from under her jet-black fringe. She had glossy black fingernails, white make-up, kohl-black eyes. ‘You’d better not say no; I’m thinking of becoming a witch.’
‘No problem, Gree,’ I told her. I surveyed her black-crêpe, long-sleeved, polo-necked dress, black tights and black suede shoes. The heels were breathtakingly high. Thought she looked taller. ‘Like the gear,’ I told her. ‘Very ninja.’
‘I don’t want to be called Gree any more.’
‘Back to Grier?’
‘Yes. On pain of death!’ She waggled her black fingernails at me.
‘Fair enough.’ I looked round. ‘Where are you sitting?’
‘We have a table at the back of beyond, in the far wilderness, by the doors to the kitchen,’ Grier said, pointing.
‘Right. So.’ I frowned. ‘A witch? Seriously?’
She waggled her fingers in front of my face again. ‘I have powers, you know,’ she announced. I suspected her eyes had narrowed: hard to tell with the fringe. ‘Powers you know nothing of!’
‘Jings.’
‘Don’t mock me, puny man,’ she growled.
‘Okay … impressive teenager,’ I growled back, leaning forward and doing some magic-trick-distraction hand waving of my own.
‘A dance,’ she told me, eyes flashing. ‘Don’t forget.’ She stalked off, teetering on her high heels.
She missed my probably inappropriately sardonic salute of acquiescence.
At the welcome drinks tables, covered in glasses of whisky, bubbles and Tropicana, I met Ferg, resplendent in full kilty outfit. I wore dark-blue suede shoes, a perfectly serviceable pair of black M&S trousers, a so-dark-blue-it’s-black velvet jacket picked up for a pittance from a charity shop on Byres Road (worn ironically, obviously) and a cheeky red shirt with a bootlace tie.
‘Gilmour,’ Ferg said, ‘you look like the croupier on an Albanian cruise liner.’
‘Hilarious! Epic! Yeah. And you finally found a tartan to compliment your vacuity: Clan Thermos. Well done. Evening, Ferg.’
‘Anyway, enough. Who or what was
‘That? That was Grier. Grier Murston. Going to be my sister-in-law in a week.’
‘She’s quite … severe,’ he said, drinking from the first of the two whiskies he’d picked up. ‘I think I quite like her.’
‘She’s still a kid, Ferg. Grier’s a late developer. Always has been.’
‘What? She’s not even legal?’
‘She’s seventeen. She’s legal but she’s probably best left alone.’
We were strolling towards the tables now. I looked round to make sure none of Grier’s brothers was overhearing Ferg talk like this about their kid sister.
‘Ooh, am I being warned off?’ Ferg asked.
‘Yes. Seriously, pick on somebody your own gender.’
‘Hmm. Probably. But I feel I need to keep my hand in. I say hand.’ He looked at me and shook his head. ‘Really. Did you get dressed in the dark again?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘Wait a minute; your parents are away, aren’t they? You got dressed by
‘It’s their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary? They’re on a cruise in the Med.’
‘And are those
‘They are indeed.’
‘Christ! I trust you’re thinking of something a little more formal for your own be-shackling next week.’
‘Full Highland hoo-ha. I shall be dressed like a shortbread tin.’
‘Can’t wait.’
‘You started that speech yet?’ Ferg was, slightly against my own better judgement, my Best Man.
He looked thoughtful. ‘I thought I’d just extemporise, do it as a sort of stand-up gig?’
‘Dear God, please say you’re joking.’
‘Holy piss up a rope, who’s
‘Who?’
‘There, in the red.’
‘Where?’
‘There! Good grief, did you see her already and wank yourself blind?’
‘Ah. That’s Jel. Anjelica MacAvett?’
‘Ay, caramba,’ Ferg breathed, ‘I leave the place for three years to get a proper education and the bumpkins suddenly all turn luscious. Look at her! If I wasn’t bi already I swear I’d turn, just on the chance of getting nuts deep into
‘Ever the romantic,’ I sighed.
Actually Jel was looking pretty fabulous; she wore a stunning red dress, high-necked but with a shoulder-to-shoulder window cut across the top of her breasts, and split from ankle to mid-thigh. Long red satin gloves stretching to above her elbows. Waist narrow enough to be wearing a corset. We were not the only guys looking at her as she stood by one of the tables, smiling as she talked to some white-haired oldies. Her hair was the colour of champagne, and as bubbly: a cascade suffused with ringlets.
‘Wasn’t she the dumpy bairn that used to jump on your lap and tell you she loved you? Usually at a crucial point in Doom, as I recall.’
‘I missed a few high scores that way.’
‘Fuck me,’ Ferg muttered. ‘You wouldn’t push her off and give her fifty pence to go away now.’
I looked round for Ellie, who’d stopped to talk to some old school pals as we’d entered the hotel foyer. El was as tall, elegant and cool in electric blue as Jel was small, curvaceous and, well, blisteringly sexy in red. No sign.
