Scottishy

This rugged Scottish actor had introduced himself to me at this fancy Hollywood Christmas party and I tried not to gush.

"Locchh,” I said, dragging it out, pointing to my throat, enunciating the Celtic. He should be able to get this, he’s from Scotland. “You’re putting too much Wilshire Boulevard on it.”

“You can blame Jerry Bruckheimer for that,” Bran Barclay laughed. This rugged Scottish actor had introduced himself to me at this fancy Hollywood Christmas party and I tried not to gush. He was here with a beautiful woman who I assumed was an actor as well. Or possibly a model. I was here with my husband who was a former actor and was…somewhere, I wasn’t sure where. I had wandered into the art gallery/garage without him, lured by exotic cars and fabulous works of art.

Bran's date was named “Tenifer” with one ‘n’, she informed me as if I were interviewing her and I were going to write that down. She was leggy, blonde, too young for him and seemed very possessive of Bran, even when he was chatting with a fan such as myself. She also seemed a little dim but who am I to judge? Honestly, Bran could do better but I’m certain deep, philosophical conversations were not why they were dating. I talked to him about one of his movies that I loved, from many years ago and before I started to ugly cry thinking about it, we said our goodbyes.

I wandered out of the garage and found my husband across the enormous living room. Joining him, he fetched a glass of wine from a server and Gerry handed it to me as I was pulling myself together. He could tell I looked a little teary.

“Is Mare Loch your wife?” I heard a Scottish voice behind me ask. Bran had joined us – without Tenifer.

“Mare Loch Frey,” Gerry corrected the actor. “Did you make my wife cry?” he asked so solemnly and I coughed a little wine through my nose.

Shocked and embarrassed, I pulled at Gerry’s arm. “No,” I hissed, shaking my head as Gerry scowled and Bran smiled.

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