Dinner had been eight courses of something tiny and unpronounceable. No bacon, no haggis, definitely no fried Mars Bars. There wasn’t a funny speech in sight. Stephen’s old man had droned on for a thousand years about expectations and pride, and had thrown more than one dirty look their way. The entertainment appeared to be that bagpipe-playing geezer, and some traditional Scottish dancing.
“If they were going for traditionally Scottish,” Mike said to Stephen over the sixth course—a globe of paste on an insipid bit of fish—in a confidential whisper, “then why not the dwarf-tossing?”
“Caber tossing, you bellend.”
“I dunno, dwarf-tossing, we could chuck the father of the groom.”
Stephen snorted into his sleeve, but it was the first smile he’d cracked since the ceremony, and it smoothed a
