by Karen Swan
Chapter Five
‘Callum ’fessed up then?’ Lochlan said scathingly, after a long pause. Closing the door behind him, he began shrugging off his coat, no apology forthcoming.
Rona, coming over to sniff her hand briefly and finding her to be friend again, not foe, quickly headed over to her water bowl in the far corner and began drinking.
‘Callum? Oh, I had assumed he was Torquil. But no, he didn’t.’
Lochlan turned to face her again. His expression was suspicious, resentful. As she’d gauged yesterday – hostile. ‘Then how did you know he . . . ?’
‘Was pretending to be you? Body language; and the profile didn’t fit, although the state of your desk almost had me fooled, but I sense your chaos may be down to trying to do too much rather than too little,’ she said carelessly, dismissing the prank and walking over to the small kettle she had refilled a few minutes before in readiness. Already, the distillery was waking up, the sound of the heavy unit doors being slid back on their rails, voices and heavy boots in the courtyard, the clatter of casks being rolled on the cobbles. ‘Tea? Or coffee?’
Lochlan stared at her. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Making you a drink.’
‘No, I mean, what are you doing? Why are you in my office acting the PA when we both know you’re nothing of the sort?’
She smiled, deciding he looked as though he needed a coffee and putting a heaped teaspoon into the mug. ‘I’m putting you at your ease, Lochlan.’
‘Well, it’s not working.’
She smiled as she poured in the boiling water and a splash of milk. It was just as Sholto had said: truculent.
When she didn’t reply, he added, ‘And I don’t recall giving you permission to call me by my given name.’ Behind her back, she heard him sink into his desk chair, assuming the perceived centre of authority.
‘That’s because you didn’t have the courtesy to either meet me or greet me, much less get on to given names at all,’ she said lightly. ‘But after yesterday’s shenanigans, I figure you owe me this at least.’ She walked over with the coffee and handed it to him, a smile on her lips, eyes directly locked on his and ignoring that irksome jolt in her stomach again. She would wear him down with kindness. ‘My time is expensive and I don’t like wasting it. I’ve travelled a long way to come to see you.’
He took the mug reluctantly. ‘I never asked you to come.’
‘No. Your chairman did.’
His eyes darkened. ‘Sholto is a dangerous old fool.’
‘Dangerous?’
‘Because he doesn’t know he’s a fool.’
Alex nodded. ‘Ah. Interesting. Well, that’s something we can discuss in the course of our sessions. I take it you’ve been informed that we’re going to be working together?’
‘Yes. But I hate to break it to you – you’ve come a long way for nothing. We’re not going to be working together.’
‘I’m afraid we are. Unless you want to give me a resignation letter and I’ll hand it to your chairman myself?’
‘And why would I do a thing like that?’
‘Because you’re in the Last Chance saloon and if you don’t work with me, I would hazard a guess his next step will be to call the board and raise a vote of no confidence against you.’
Lochlan smirked. ‘He can’t.’
‘Oh, there’s always a way. Once lawyers start digging they’ll find something he can use.’
Lochlan glowered down at her – an intimidating sight – but Alex held his gaze, keeping her expression neutral. He needed her reaction to feed his anger and escalate this confrontation, but the high feeling was all his; she wasn’t personally involved in this; it was just business.
‘And we could do with another chair in here,’ she said calmly as he continued to eyeball her.
‘What?’
The statement did as she had intended, breaking the deadlock.
‘Well, don’t you invite people to sit when they come in to see you?’
‘No.’ He almost spat the word on the floor.
‘But what if they have a problem? Something they need to discuss with you at length?’
‘A problem?’ he scoffed. ‘What kind of business do you think we’re running here? It’s not a counselling practice or a coffee shop. I’m not having people coming in here with their problems.’
‘Staff morale should be a priority for you. It directly affects productivity. Organizations don’t change, people do. Their welfare is your concern. You’re only as strong as your weakest link.’
‘Christ, is this how it’s going to be? You spouting corporate crap at me all week?’
‘Oh, I’m afraid it’s going to be a lot longer than that.’
His eyes narrowed; he had a masculine energy that was forceful and unapologetic, his presence filling up the room with every minute that passed. ‘And what the hell are you wearing? How am I supposed to take you seriously, looking like that? Is this your attempt at going native?’
‘These are my landlady’s daughter’s clothes,’ she said calmly, checking the pointy collar was still tucked under the round neck of the jumper, even though the comment stung, her vanity pricked. She had been hoping she could pull off a seventies redux, à la Inès de La Fressange, or Alexa Chung. Clearly not. ‘My bags are stuck on the mainland.’
‘And there’s no ferries for at least another day?’ Lochlan smirked, getting the picture immediately. ‘How terrible for you. I imagine you must feel pretty ridiculous if yesterday’s glamour-puss get-up was anything to go by.’
‘It’s just for a day or two. Hardly a disaster.’
‘It is from where I’m standing.’
In spite of herself, Alex shot him a look, instantly regretting it; she couldn’t let him rile her. If he found a single way to undermine her, she knew he would use it. She walked over, adjusting her tone. ‘Look, Lochlan, I’m not the enemy.’
His eyes flashed like the swipe of a sword. ‘We’ll have to beg to differ on that.’
‘I’m here to help,’ she said, perching on the end of the desk.
He in turn sat back in the chair, hands clasped behind his head – a classic power pose, taking up room. ‘Not needed.’
She stared at him, locking him in a gaze again. ‘You cannot lead this company and continue to behave as you have been doing. In case you hadn’t noticed, you are walking a tightrope at the moment and there’s a long way to fall.’
‘I have excellent balance.’
‘But for how long? For as long as you continue to antagonize the board, you are isolated, and that makes you vulnerable.’
‘The moon’s none the worse for the dogs barking at her,’ he sneered.
She blinked, unfamiliar with the aphorism. ‘You need me.’
‘No.’
‘Okay then, I need you.’
He frowned. ‘Unlikely.’
‘What if I told you the money from this commission is to help someone in my family who’s in desperate need?’
His eyes grazed over her, prickling her skin slightly. ‘I’d say that’s a lie.’
‘Why?’
‘You clearly don’t need the money.’
‘How do you know that? You don’t know anything about me.’
One eyebrow arched slightly, mockingly. ‘You’re wearing a Jaeger-LeCoultre watch, those diamond studs must be three quarters of a carat each, you’re tanned – which at this time of year means you’ve been somewhere tropical – and hair doesn’t fall like that anywhere north of Kensington.’
‘Very good. So then you’re an astute observer,’ she smiled. ‘Now shall I share what I’ve observed about you?’
Realizing he’d walked into a trap, he put his feet on the desk, bigging up the pose even further and throwing in shades of disrespect and contempt to boot. ‘I have a feeling you’re going to anyway.’
‘You’re instinctive, confident, dynamic, commanding and I suspect – when it suits you – charismatic.’
There was a paus
e. ‘And the bad news?’
‘You’re reactive, arrogant, insecure, distrustful and isolated.’
‘Surely arrogance and insecurity are mutually exclusive concepts?’
Alex was impressed by his refusal to be distracted by such a brutally direct assessment, overriding any reflexive anger to debate a point of logic.
‘You’d think so, wouldn’t you, but arrogance usually presents as a deflection to vulnerability; it’s a tool that manipulates other people’s perceptions of you, so as to protect the ego.’
Lochlan rolled his eyes. ‘Jesus, spare me,’ he muttered.
‘A case in point,’ she said. ‘Eye ro—’
In a flash, he whipped his feet off the table and got up, coming to stand over her. ‘Look, this has been fascinating,’ he said with sarcastic stress. ‘But I’m afraid I am going to have to ask you to leave now. I have work to do.’
‘Yes. With me.’
‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Goodbye, Miss . . . whatever your name is.’
She stood up too. ‘Hyde. Alex Hyde. And I’m not going anywhere.’
‘And I’m not taking instruction from someone dressed as the Milky Bar kid.’ With that, he took her by the arm and frogmarched her to the door. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’ And he set her outside before she could so much as get a word out, slamming the door in her face and bringing their first so-called session to an abrupt and unequivocal close.
‘He sounds like an arse,’ Louise said in a low voice, flicking her eyes up to make sure the woman sitting by the water cooler couldn’t hear her. ‘No, I can’t believe it.’ She waited again for Alex to draw breath. ‘You’re so right.’
She nodded as her boss’s stream of fury kept on coming down the line like a pyroclastic flow. She examined her nails.
‘Uh-huh.’
Searched for split ends. (As. If.)
‘I mean, who does that?’
Watched a man bend down to tie his laces outside the window.
‘He sounds like a classic Gamma.’ She had been working here long enough and had typed enough reports to know the main principles of the Graves model of the change state indicator and this guy – angry, defiant, rebellious, destructive and symbolically throwing himself against the barriers – was a Gamma if ever she’d typed one.
‘Oh, absolutely. He deserves everything that’s coming to him. You have nothing to feel bad about . . . No, I do mean that. You’re just doing your job. You’re a professional. Unlike him, from the sounds of things.’
The tirade dwindled to a stop – or Alex ran out of breath – and Louise straightened to attention, knowing her boss’s mind would be straight back on point again. These rants never lasted for more than a few minutes; that was one of Alex’s great strengths, the ability to forgive, learn, move on. She didn’t fester in bitterness or wallow in regret. She always kept moving, always wanted to be facing the light.
‘Yes, I texted the tracking number to you but I’ve already chased them up: the bags are at the port. I did enquire into getting them choppered over but they’re saying the winds are too strong for anything but a Sea King.’ She paused. ‘Unless you want me to look into that?’
She stared at her own reflection in the screen, narrowed her eyes, pouted.
‘Yes, I agree. It does seem a little . . .’ She’d been about to say ‘extravagant’ but in Alex’s world, if something was needed, then there was simply no excuse for not moving heaven and earth to make it happen. ‘So then they’ll be on the first ferry that leaves the port. They’ve promised to call me the second they slip anchor.’
She could tell from the breathlessness of her boss’s voice that Alex was walking again, the wind smacking intermittently against the mouthpiece. It sounded savage up there and more like she was trekking the Antarctic tundra than pacing a Scottish island.
‘Yes, I’ve booked it in for a week today. I explained to his PA you were out of the country on an emergency consultation and would dial in for a Skype session.’
She watched a bus stopping outside, caught in the heavy traffic; the roadworks on Piccadilly were causing long tailbacks all the way to Hyde Park Corner and even up Park Lane and all the cut-throughs in between – including this street – were becoming gridlocked.
‘No, everything else is fine. Carlos had to cancel his nine o’clock; I think his car was towed again . . . I know. But Jeanette’s been back to back with her clients all day and I’ve rearranged all yours till the New Year.’
She frowned as the connection crackled, Alex’s voice becoming robotic and sporadic. ‘What? A haggis?’ Her frown deepened. ‘No, I’ve no idea what a haggis looks like in the wild. Are they dangerous . . . ? Alex?’
Alex stared back at the wild creature. Or rather, the goat. She’d never seen one at such close quarters before and certainly not one with such long or wild hair as this. (It seemed it wasn’t just her that the wind was wreaking havoc upon.) It had given her quite a fright, sneaking up to the wall like that and nibbling her ear with its rubbery lips.
It took a moment for her heart rate to slow again and she was still eyeing the interloper when a door to her left opened and a young woman peered out.
‘Is everything okay?’ she asked, looking around before settling her gaze on Alex – or rather, Alex’s outfit. ‘I thought I heard a scream,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, that was me.’ Alex grimaced as the wind wrestled with her hair again, her New York blowouts a far-off memory now. She pushed her hair back and held it in place with one hand, feeling harassed and humiliated. Exactly how many people had seen her being thrown out by their CEO? she wondered. His office was set slap bang in the middle of the courtyard. All the work houses and units surrounded it, with the maltings, mill house and kiln house at the back, turning to the still house, cooperage and warehouse on the return. Not to mention the long, low canteen on the other side of the square, opposite the maltings. In other words, everyone could have seen.
‘I was sitting on the wall, making a call, and I’m afraid this . . . fellow decided to sneak up on me.’
The woman laughed, the action transforming her face from rather wan and serious looking to playful and approachable. ‘That’s Wet Lips Wendy. She’s known for her kisses and absolutely appalling halitosis.’
‘Oh.’ Alex took another wary look at the creature, its long fringe blowing in the winds, its pale pink, fleshy lips rolling gymnastically as it chomped on the grass.
The woman came further out of the building and offered her hand. ‘I’m Skye, by the way. I’m one of the blenders here . . . I think I saw you yesterday, didn’t I?’ She winced, pushing her glasses back up her nose.
‘Hi, yes – I’m Alex Hyde. I’m a management consultant.’
Skye pulled a face. ‘Uh-oh. Did we do something wrong?’
‘No, no, nothing like that,’ Alex smiled.
‘What do management consultants actually do?’ Skye asked, crossing her hands over her chest. ‘Are you . . . like a counsellor?’
‘No, but I suppose my job does involve a lot of observing and listening. I tend to highlight and translate my clients’ actions and feelings, rather than dictate. I’m a bit like a mirror, reflecting them back to themselves; the most I do is to sometimes angle the light.’
‘And are you here for a while or . . .’
‘That most annoying of things, I’m here for as long as it takes. It could be three days, could be three weeks. But I definitely have to be home for Christmas,’ she said, wishing she could be back there this time tomorrow instead. It had been weeks since she’d last had a night at her apartment, running a bath with her favourite Miller Harris oil, relaxing on the sofa in her Bella Freud cashmere tracksuit, watching Pillow Talk and sipping a glass of Puligny-Montrachet.
She wondered how old Skye was; she looked only a little younger than her, maybe twenty-seven or so? She had mid-brown, mid-length hair, pale freckled skin, and her fine-rimmed glasses gave her a delicate bookishness. She was wearing a white lab coat and Alex r
emembered her as the pony-tailed woman she’d seen talking to the group in the visitors’ centre yesterday afternoon. ‘How long have you been working here?’
‘Oh, in various capacities since I was knee high to a grasshopper, really, but I joined the labs formally after uni. My father’s the master blender here. He’s been training me up since I was wee.’
‘I see, so it’s not just the Farquhars for whom Kentallen’s a family business then?’
‘No. My grandfather was master blender here too, and there’s plenty other folk like us in the town doing the same jobs as their fathers and their fathers’ fathers.’
‘Do you enjoy it?’
‘Aye. Dad always says the best thing about being a blender is if you make a mistake, it’s another generation before anyone finds out.’
‘How funny,’ Alex grinned, feeling her upset at Lochlan’s behaviour towards her begin to wane. ‘I wish it was the same for me. Unfortunately, my mistakes tend to be very public.’
‘I bet you don’t make mistakes, though,’ Skye said.
‘Everyone makes mistakes.’
‘Well, you don’t look like you would. In fact, when you came into the visitors’ centre yesterday, one of the tasters asked if you were famous.’
‘Really? Why?’
‘I don’t know, I guess you had a very “international” air about you.’
‘Heavens. I don’t think they’d be asking the same thing today, do you?’ she said, motioning to her get-up with a wry smile.
‘You do look quite . . . different,’ Sky said diplomatically.
‘Needs must. My bags are stranded at Tarbet. These are my landlady’s daughter’s clothes.’
‘Oh. Where are you staying?’
‘Crolinnhe Farmhouse.’
‘Oh my God!’ Skye screeched, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘Mrs Peggie? But her daughter’s my mam’s age!’
‘Well, welcome to her childhood,’ Alex said, self-deprecatingly holding her hands out. ‘1976 called. Apparently it wants its clothes back.’
‘I cannae believe it,’ Skye laughed. ‘She must have been just a teenager when she wore that?’
‘No idea,’ Alex sighed. ‘But I do know reputations have been broken on lesser sights than this. I had been hoping I could pull it off as a Chloé/Marc Jacobs retro/ingénue vibe but I don’t think it’s working, do you?’