The Christmas Secret

by Karen Swan

  ‘Ummm . . . some, perhaps. Maybe.’ Definitely.

  ‘You must work with a lot of powerful men.’

  ‘Yes, I do. And women too. Thirty-five per cent of my clients are women but I wish it was more. I’d love to see more women occupying the roles I’m currently coaching men in. Sometimes I almost feel like I’m part of the patriarchal conspiracy – I’m helping keep those men in those jobs. It’s frustrating.’

  ‘But if you’re working that closely with that many men, don’t you ever—?’

  Alex was already shaking her head, already anticipating the question. ‘I never mix business with my personal life. Ever.’

  ‘But surely there must have been a time when you were tempted? Just once?’ Skye pushed, eyes brightening with the turn into gossip.

  ‘No. I don’t even let the thought enter my mind. And besides, powerful men may respect an equally powerful woman but they don’t necessarily want to marry one. I’m sorry to say that precious few of my clients have wives whose careers match the heights of theirs.’

  Skye sighed. ‘God, I’m one of those women. I always mean to put my career first, but somehow I still end up following my men. I came back here after uni because of my ex, even though all my friends moved down to Glasgow; and now, when I’m all set up here with this house and my job and my friends, I’m leaving again because of my fiancé.’

  ‘Well, you’re lucky that your job allows it. I’m not saying we should sacrifice our love lives altogether for our careers; it would just be nice to think it didn’t have to be one or the other.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘So where are you moving to?’

  ‘Oh, not far. It’s a place called Killearn, just outside Glasgow. Al works in the city centre and I’ve managed to get a new job as master blender at the Glengoyne distillery not far away.’

  ‘But that’s great news. Master blender is a promotion, isn’t it?’

  ‘Aye. I’ll be stepping into my dad’s shoes. Just not here.’

  ‘So then you haven’t sacrificed your career for a man after all. You’ve got both,’ Alex shrugged. ‘I think that’s what’s called “hashtag winning at life”.’

  Skye chuckled. ‘Maybe. I guess it’s just ironic that after resisting coming back, now I don’t want to leave.’

  ‘Irony’s like that; it likes nothing better than to bite us on the bum.’

  ‘That’s a technical term, is it?’ Skye grinned.

  ‘Absolutely.’ Alex shrugged her eyebrows playfully, surprised that she was having such a good time. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d socialized, as opposed to networked.

  She watched as Skye brought her glass to her mouth, but before sipping, inhaled it deeply, her eyes closed. She pulled the glass away and then brought it back again, repeating the deep breath in.

  ‘Is that how you’re supposed to drink whisky?’ Alex asked, fascinated.

  ‘Oh,’ Skye said, pulling an embarrassed expression. ‘Occupational hazard. I forget not to do it.’

  ‘Well, could you show me how? I’ve never done it properly before.’

  ‘Sure,’ Skye replied, looking delighted and pouring them each a little more. ‘The first – or most important – thing to remember is that whisky’s not something to be rushed, but rather savoured. It takes a long time to make and it should take a long time to drink, to really allow the flavour to come out.’

  ‘Right,’ Alex said, adjusting her grip so that it was the same as Skye’s, her fingers on the stem, away from the bowl of the glass. She realized she’d never seen whisky served in a stemmed glass before either – only ever tumblers.

  ‘Now the first thing you want to do is introduce yourself to it. So you bring it to the nose and say hello,’ Skye said in a sing-song voice, swirling the glass only slightly, closing her eyes and inhaling the aroma for a good four or five seconds.

  ‘Hello,’ Alex echoed, feeling faintly ridiculous to be talking to a drink.

  Skye then swung her arm away as though it was hinged, before bringing it back in again. ‘How are you?’ she murmured in another dramatic voice, this time with a light swill of the glass and a deep inhalation.

  Alex copied her exactly, right down to her intonation.

  ‘Very well, thank you.’ Skye opened her eyes. ‘Smell that? See how it’s beginning to breathe?’

  Alex nodded. It was like the opening of a flower. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Now take a good swig but hold it in the middle of your mouth. That’s it and we’re going to count down from ten . . .’ she said, holding up her fingers and counting down. Alex swallowed when she did.

  ‘And now take a bite of chocolate,’ she said, handing over the ramekin. ‘And then take another swig.’

  Alex’s eyes widened as the sweetness of the chocolate in her mouth contrasted with the smooth, fiery burn of the whisky.

  ‘See that, how the flavours balance and complement one another? Now take another sip quickly.’

  Alex did as she was told, eyes closing with pleasure as the last swig of whisky was drained, to dance in her mouth. She didn’t gulp it down but let it play on her palate for a few moments, the different flavours like musical notes. ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped finally. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah? You liked that?’ Skye asked, looking pleased. ‘You should try the twenty-eight. It’s a different level entirely.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Alex replied.

  ‘Yeah? Shall we say hello to it?’

  Alex grinned. ‘Let’s say hello.’

  Two and a half hours later, the forgotten chicken pie had been burned and they had greeted the 12, the 28, the 15, a 7 from the new Virgin Oak series and a final slick of the famous Macallan 30.

  Skye was wearing her veil and dancing to the Police on vinyl whilst Alex was twirling in front of the fire in one of Skye’s curated outfits – a gold pleated midi skirt, pink ankle socks with navy blue dots, gold glittery block-heeled sandals and a navy polo neck. It was fun and funky, and she suspected Skye had spent a lot of time compiling the ‘looks’ together – she kept apologizing that the labels weren’t designer – and if Alex had worked in social media or fashion PR, it might have been perfect. But for an executive coach propping up the morales of some of the biggest bosses of the FTSE 100 and the Dow Jones . . . ? Not so much.

  Still, it didn’t matter tonight. Those bosses weren’t on a little island off the west coast of Scotland, caught in a storm and isolated from real life. They weren’t drinking single malts in a cottage with a whisky connoisseur who was going to have her rings brought down the aisle to her by dog.

  But she was and she could wear what the hell she liked. She was effectively missing in action, off the grid, with no clothes and no client (well, not one who would cooperate, anyway). For as long as those winds blew, she was a free agent.

  The doorbell rang – twice – before Skye, staggering across the room, got to answer it. ‘That’ll be my baby!’ she cooed, bumping into the sofa en route, her cathedral-length veil trailing over the cushions behind her.

  Alex stopped twirling and made her own jagged path towards the record player – the music was really very loud; what if one of the neighbours had called the police? – but as she lifted the needle and ‘Roxanne’ stopped, she heard the tense silence explode in the hallway.

  ‘Oh, God, I’m sorry, we—’ Skye’s voice was apologetic.

  It was the police? She looked around in panic. Were they going to file a report? Her name couldn’t be on something like that. She glanced at the kitchen. Was there a back door? There had to be! She had to get—

  She fell over the armchair she had somehow managed not to see, but as she tried to get her feet back on the ground again, she heard the delicate skitter of claws on the slate floor tiles, a tail thumping the coats, and she breathed a sigh of relief. She was overreacting. Drunk. Out of control, for once.

  Still, if it wasn’t the police . . . Alex made her way unsteadily across the room, curious to see this embittered ex, the jilting j
erk . . .

  ‘I had a call from Mrs P. She’s asked me to drop back your friend.’ The man’s voice was terse.

  Alex – holding on to the back of the sofa – brightened. Her driver? ‘I hope you’re not going to be smelling of cow shit too!’ she called out, giving a small shriek as she slipped on the LPs which were scattered on the floor and fell over the top of the sofa. ‘Bugger,’ she muttered, pushing her hair back and taking three attempts to get back up to standing again.

  She was almost at the door when the dog rounded the corner and came straight over, nosing her hand.

  What? Alex felt a chill run through her.

  She got a hand to the door frame and, steadying herself, peered round. The image that greeted her seemed to be on freeze-frame (well, wobbly freeze-frame, like an old-school VHS): Skye was standing there with her hands behind her back, sheepishly bunching up the veil as though trying to hide it. And on the other side of the threshold, looking surprised – and then angry as hell – was Lochlan Farquhar.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Must you drive so fast?’ she asked, one hand on the passenger handle, the other on her head.

  ‘I’m doing twenty-five.’

  Alex tipped her head back, eyes closed, and groaned. She felt sick. All that whisky and a low-slung roadster on these twisty, hillocky roads were not what she needed right now. She required a hospital bed and an oxygen tank and an IV drip and enough morphine to knock her out for a week, which was roughly how long this hangover was likely to last.

  ‘I didn’t know you knew Skye,’ he muttered, as he took a corner so sharply that the car rolled onto two wheels. Or so it seemed to her, anyway.

  She turned her head on the headrest to look at him. His profile, in the moonlight, looked brooding and defiant, his jaw set half an inch forward, the corners of his mouth slightly turned down. He had surprisingly long lashes, she noticed, seeing how they touched the brow bone, the evening stubble darkening his cheeks. ‘I didn’t know you knew her,’ she said knowingly, the words a slur.

  He didn’t rise to the bait. ‘I live here. I know everyone.’

  ‘Biblically, I meant—’

  ‘I know what you meant,’ he snapped, his grip tightening on the wheel.

  Alex sighed, a tense silence ballooning and filling the small cream-leather upholstered space. She looked ahead again at the singular beam of light illuminating the dark road, the windscreen wipers on max as the rain fell in sheets. Even though she would rather have had anyone but him driving her back, she was glad she didn’t have to walk in this. ‘I suppose you would have refused if you’d known it was me you were collecting.’

  There was a telling pause. ‘You’re just lucky I had to drop the dog anyway.’

  She watched him, her vision as blurry as her words. She still couldn’t quite believe he and Skye had had a thing. ‘And are you going to throw me out of your car too when we get there?’

  ‘That depends,’ he muttered.

  ‘On what?’

  ‘On whether you behave.’

  She giggled at his bad mood and he glanced across at her. ‘Exactly how much did you have to drink?’

  ‘A very nice twelve, followed by a very nice twenty-eight, followed by a very nice fifteen, followed by a very nice seven . . .’ she said, counting on her fingers.

  ‘Jesus . . .’

  ‘Followed by a very nice Macallan.’ She stage-whispered the name as though it was Macbeth or a dirty word.

  Lochlan tutted. ‘You realize you’ll be sick from all that.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  ‘Yes, you will.’

  ‘. . . Oh God, yes, I think I will,’ she moaned, clapping a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh God.’

  Lochlan slammed on the brakes. ‘Not in the car!’ he barked, reaching over her and opening the door. The wind raced in, rain pelting at her and soaking her in seconds as she spun herself ninety degrees so that she could lean out, away from the hand-stitched leather seats. But she couldn’t get up; the car was too low.

  ‘Fuck,’ Lochlan muttered, undoing his seat belt and jumping out. He pulled her up by the hand and helped her to stand, being careful not to get too close. She staggered over to the side of the road, putting one hand out onto the stone wall for balance as she dropped her head and waited.

  But nothing happened.

  The wind, ferocious as it was, had given her enough of a fresh-air boost and the nausea had passed. She couldn’t decide whether that was a good or a bad thing.

  ‘I think . . . I think I’m okay,’ she mumbled after a minute or two.

  ‘Great,’ Lochlan said sarcastically, irritably shaking the rain off his arms and raking his hair back from his face. ‘So now we’re both drenched. For no good reason.’

  ‘You are not a very gracious Good Samaritan,’ she snapped.

  ‘Who said I have any interest in being either? As far as I was concerned, I was dropping back the dog and having a quiet night. Instead, I’m standing in the pouring rain with a woman who’s even more of a pain in the arse when she’s drunk than she is when she’s sober. And that’s really saying something.’

  The rain fell a little harder, making her squint, and she felt herself sag; she didn’t have the energy to fight him right now. She was nauseous, and her clothes so wet, the pleats of her skirt were all but pulled out by the weight of the water dripping at the hem. ‘I don’t . . . I don’t usually drink.’

  ‘No shit, Sherlock.’ He stared down at her, seeing how she swayed slightly – and not on account of the wind. He sighed. ‘Look, just don’t throw up in my car, okay?’

  ‘I won’t,’ she said, staggering back towards the car again and accidentally bumping into him as he tried to pass on the way back to the driver’s side. She staggered sideways and he had to grab her to keep her from falling backwards – it wasn’t so very different from how he’d held her this morning, on his way to throwing her out of his office. ‘But if I do,’ she slurred, wagging a finger at him earnestly, ‘I’ll buy you a new one.’

  ‘You’ll buy me a new Aston DB8?’ he scoffed, letting go of her arm.

  ‘Sure,’ she shrugged, noticing a ring of fire that haloed his irises and suddenly wondering if he kissed as well as he scowled. Because if he could . . . She shook her head, shaking the thought away like a pony tossing flies. She might be drunk but she wasn’t that drunk. She was never that drunk.

  Lochlan looked down at her, watching suspiciously. ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Any colour you want,’ she sighed, feeling herself begin to relax; oblivion was coming. She couldn’t keep her eyes open; the rain felt good on her skin. Wet was wet, she couldn’t get any wetter now, and it felt cleansing, somehow.

  She had a sudden sensation of falling and he caught her, just, grabbing her hard by the arms again. ‘Oh whoops, did I fall asleep?’ she slurred.

  ‘Just get back in the car,’ he said, taking her by the elbow and guiding her around to the passenger side himself; he even protected her head with his hand like a police officer as she ducked – collapsed – in with a groan.

  He shut the doors on the storm again and pulled away, Alex resting her head on the headrest; she wanted to sleep but she kept being jolted out of any slumber by the steep bends of the road tossing her from side to side. Or was that his driving again? She wondered if he was deliberately taking the turns too sharply just to keep her awake, but to ask outright was now a command too far. She needed oblivion.

  ‘No, don’t go to sleep yet,’ he kept warning her, jostling her intermittently. ‘It’s just another half-mile.’

  But her eyes closed anyway and the next thing she knew was the clunk of a car door closing, and she opened her eyes to find the farmhouse fuzzily framed in the beam of the car’s headlights. Her door opened, the storm throwing itself upon her again like a bucket of cold water, and Lochlan leaned in to get her out. He pulled her up to standing.

  ‘Can you walk?’

  She tried to say something but her voice seemed to have moved f
rom her throat and in the next instant, he had put her arm around his neck and his own around her waist, and was walking her towards the door. The wind and rain did their best to deny them, pushing forcefully against the gate as they struggled to open it, whirling in a fury as they negotiated the gravel path. But a moment later, they were standing under the relative shelter of the porch and a moment after that, Mrs Peggie was there.

  ‘Mother of God,’ she exclaimed, taking in the bedraggled sight. ‘Did the kelpies get you?’

  ‘The booze did,’ Lochlan said, not in the mood for jokes and walking straight in, to get away from the storm. ‘Which room’s she in?’

  ‘The blue suite, at the end,’ Mrs Peggie said, pointing up the stairs. ‘Tch, she’s wet through.’

  ‘I’ll take her up there, if you could get her a hot-water bottle and a bucket.’

  ‘A bucket? Oh dear, dear,’ Mrs Peggie tutted, bustling away busily.

  Alex heard the stairs creak beneath their weight as Lochlan helped her up the stairs. The curtains were still open onto the dark countryside, the storm whipping past the window like spectres, as she was moved towards the bed.

  ‘You’ll need to change out of tho—’ Lochlan pulled his arm away and she swayed dangerously. ‘Whoa!’ he said, catching her by the elbow and pulling her up to straight again. Her head was a full second behind the rest of her body. ‘No, don’t sit down. You’ll get the bed wet.’ He tutted, clearly wondering where to put her. ‘Come, sit down here.’

  He led her towards the window seat where she plonked down, her head nodding forward like a rag doll’s. Balancing her carefully, he took a tentative step back, arms out lest he should have to catch her again.

  ‘Jesus, the state of you,’ he muttered, watching as she sagged sideways against the wall instead and slid down it a little. She didn’t try to correct herself and after a pause in which it was apparent she was hell-bent on doing nothing other than going to sleep, he bent back down and unbuckled the glittery gold sandals which were even more inappropriate for a Hebridean storm than stilts. ‘Why, why are you wearing these things?’ he asked, holding her leg by the ankle and shaking it frustratedly so that her foot wobbled in his grip. ‘You look like a toddler dressed you.’