by Karen Swan
‘Oh, do you like it? I thought it would be helpful for us to have somewhere more relaxed to talk.’
‘It looks like something a cat would scratch.’
Alex laughed. ‘Yes, I suppose it does.’
Lochlan looked at her strangely – he wasn’t used to her agreeing with him – and there was a sudden silence, this new unspoken arrangement hesitant and unformed, pitfalls hidden below the surfaces as they played to their own agendas.
‘So,’ she smiled.
‘So.’ He watched her with knowing eyes and she had that sense again that he was seeing beyond this morning’s polish of her Altuzarra armour – a divine charcoal-grey trouser suit and whisper-pink silk shirt – to the drunken mess that had slumped in his car last week. He was going to keep harking back to it, reminding her that her usual authority had been eroded. ‘What now? You’ve got what you wanted.’ He shrugged, indicating the room and the small miracle that they were both still in it.
‘Well, for one thing, it would be good if you could try to see this as a collaboration, rather than an interrogation.’
‘And what is it we’re supposedly collaborating on?’
‘Making you a better leader, helping you steer this ship away from the cliff that is just ahead of you. And before you look at me like that, every leader can become an even better one, even those that don’t punch one of their board members in the face during an AGM.’
His brow furrowed. ‘Sholto told you about that?’
‘Of course he did. And about the computer terminal thrown through the window.’
‘It kept shutting down and losing my work!’
She merely raised an eyebrow. ‘And about the seven-million-pound Indonesian contract you lost because you offended their chairman.’
‘He offended me. The guy wanted us to let them do their own bottling – where they’d have kids working for them!’
She sighed – he’d always have an answer for everything and they couldn’t degenerate into argument again. ‘Look, I’m not standing in judgement of you. I’m sure you did have your reasons. Why don’t we forget about all that and start again, okay? We got off on the wrong foot from the start; we never even actually had a formal introduction, thanks to your cousin hijacking proceedings.’
‘Yes, well, Callum plays by his own rules too,’ Lochlan said darkly.
She walked over to him, plastering a bright smile on her lips. ‘Hi. My name’s Alex. I’m a business coach, leadership consultant, call me what you will.’
‘Hello, What You Will,’ he quipped, ignoring her hand until she reached down for his and forced it into her own.
‘And so you must be Lochlan Farquhar,’ she continued, pointedly shaking his limp hand. ‘Thirty-six years old, CEO of Kentallen Distillery, before that trade director, sales director and head of warehousing operations; unmarried; owner of one very sweet spaniel called Rona; keen athlete, crack shot and man of the people.’ She stopped shaking his hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’
In reply, he squeezed hers with a firmness that made her want to wince, his eyes still glittering with distrust, and Alex could see how intimidating he might be across a negotiating table. He didn’t smile to put people at their ease and he didn’t resort to self-deprecation to gloss over awkward moments; he had a straightforward directness that bordered on the brutal and which would be an excellent attribute for a lawyer or banker, but for a boss whose job it was to woo new clients and open up new markets, it was a disaster. He needed to be a diplomat, not a bulldozer.
‘The good news is, we can skip the first session where I sit down with you for three hours and you tell me everything you possibly can about yourself. I know all the pertinent points of your personal and professional life, which is all I need as a base mark.’
‘Three hours?’ he scoffed. ‘You think I was ever going to sit and talk about myself for that long? What there is to know about me you could fit on the back of a fag packet.’
‘You’re not giving yourself enough credit. I think you’re a fascinating man and I’ve been very interested to hear what other people have had to say about you.’ It was a lie. She was sick to the back teeth of this man.
‘I’ve already said you can’t listen to a damn word Sholto has to say.’
‘I haven’t just spoken to him. Some of your managers. Callum and Skye too.’
‘Skye?’ His voice cracked like a teenage boy’s. ‘Why were you talking to her? What’s she been saying?’
Alex looked at him, intrigued by the reaction. ‘She was nothing but complimentary; it’s clear she holds you in the very highest regard.’
‘Oh, I sincerely doubt that,’ he muttered, turning away and walking to the desk. He sank into the chair and hunched over, untying the laces on his shoes.
From where she was standing, it looked almost as though he was hiding his face.
‘But she thinks you’re isolated. That you’ve isolated yourself.’
‘She’s entitled to her opinion.’
‘And she thinks you’re angry.’
He said nothing and Alex inhaled, watching as he fussed over the laces that had been tied in double knots and were now sodden with mud. ‘It must be a blow to be losing her.’ Her comment was deliberately double-edged, and she was interested to watch his head snap up. ‘To Glengoyne, I mean,’ she added, wondering why he should be so jumpy about his ex-fiancée when he was the one who’d done the jilting. Did he fear what she was really saying about him? A woman scorned and all that?
‘I certainly thought she’d know better than to work on one of the Lowland ladies.’
‘The what?’ she asked, amused by the moniker.
‘It’s the name given to the Lowland malts. They’re a lighter, more . . . feminine dram,’ he scoffed. ‘No peat.’
‘Ah.’ The peccadilloes and nuances of Scotch snobbery were still lost on her. ‘Is there no way to keep her?’ It was another intentional double entendre.
‘And how do you suggest I do that?’ he asked, scorn in his eyes as he finally sat back up again.
‘How about a pay rise?’ she suggested. Or tell her you made a mistake, a voice in her head said.
‘She’s not leaving because of the money,’ he said shortly.
No, she was going for love. Alex wondered how easily he said the ‘L’ word. She suspected it would choke him. ‘No, I guess not.’
He turned to face his desk, looking beleaguered as he saw that she had tidied the papers on it. ‘Why have you done that? You are not the cleaner; you are not my PA.’
‘Tidy desk equals a tidy mind – it’s way below my pay scale to have to tell you that. But that’s beside the point. I want to stay with the PA issue – let’s talk about that. Why don’t you have one?’
‘Because I don’t need one.’
‘You’re CEO of the largest privately owned single-malt distillery in Scotland – of course you need one. How can you possibly stay on top of everything otherwise? Delegation is not weakness, Lochlan, nor is it abdication; it makes you a better, more effective manager.’
‘I disagree,’ he muttered, rifling through the papers now in a neat pile. ‘Where the hell’s my finance report? I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.’
Alex leaned over and pulled it from the pile for him. ‘Don’t you need to get changed first?’ she asked, casting a disapproving eye over his damp, smelly running kit.
‘Yes, I do, which means I need you to leave. Shall I walk you to the door?’ His eyes danced, treasuring the memories of her previous ejections from this room.
Dammit. She had walked into that one. She stuck her chin in the air, determined to make this a graceful exit. ‘No, that’s quite all right. I let myself in; I can let myself out again.’ She rose from the desk, smoothing out the creases of her trousers. ‘I’ll see you at the meeting shortly then.’
His head snapped up. ‘What? You’re not coming!’
‘Yes, I am,’ she said calmly. ‘If I’m to be of any help to you, I need to ev
aluate your management and leadership skills – I need to see you in action.’
‘Categorically not,’ he snapped.
‘I’m afraid it’s not your call.’
‘Those meetings are confidential. You are not a member of staff here.’
She sighed. ‘Lochlan, I’m a consultant, not a spy.’
‘No. Not happening.’
She shrugged. ‘Twenty minutes. I’ll be there.’
‘On whose say-so?’ he demanded.
She tipped her head to the side. Did he even need to ask?
She stepped out into the courtyard, feeling a giddy leap in her chest to have survived – even won – that altercation. These battles with Lochlan drained her more than she wanted to admit, but she knew she just had to hold her nerve. He was coming around, albeit in baby steps. Today had been a definite improvement on their past record.
She wondered whether the canteen did coffees-to-go. She felt in need of a caffeine hit before the next confrontation – playing the benevolent hostess to Lochlan was all very well but he never thought to ask whether she wanted one too.
She turned to hurry over, when she heard someone behind her. She looked to see Torquil poking his head round the door of his office, next door but one to Lochlan’s. It was an incongruous sight and she could picture the horses that must have once poked their heads out of these converted farm buildings too.
‘Ah, Alex, I thought it was you,’ he said, coming out and extending a friendly hand. ‘Upping the glamour quotient of our humble yard. How are things?’
‘Great. And I must thank you once again for Saturday. I had a great time.’
‘Well, we loved having you, even if you did make us look like a bunch of pie-eyed amateurs,’ he chuckled, stuffing his hands into his chino pockets. ‘What are you up to? Anything I can help with?’
‘Um, well, I’ve just had a brief chat with Lochlan, actually.’
‘Oh yes. Helpful?’
Alex wrinkled her nose. ‘Well . . .’
‘Ah.’ Torquil frowned, his gaze sliding over to the closed door of Lochlan’s office. ‘Hmm. Can we . . . can we talk? Have you got a few minutes?’
‘Of course. I’m sitting in on your next meeting anyway,’ she said, following him in to his office.
‘Great stuff. Coffee?’
‘Thanks,’ she smiled gratefully, thinking how the contrast to his cousin could not have been greater – not just in manners but their working practices too. Torquil’s office was clean and tidy, brightly lit and well organized with filing cabinets along one wall (including in front of the fireplace – indicating this was a workspace, not home). The bumpy right-hand wall adjoining the room between his and Lochlan’s had been opened up and a large round table with chairs set in the middle of it. In truth, it looked more like a dining table than a conference table but at least this space was aiming for a corporate feel, unlike Lochlan’s office which was more akin to a student’s bedsit.
‘How do you take it?’ he asked, refilling a Nespresso machine. Alex almost wanted to cry at the relief of not drinking instant for once.
‘Double-shot espresso, please.’
‘Punchy for nine thirty in the morning.’
‘Well, it’s been a challenging start already.’
Torquil arched his eyebrows. ‘Is he coming to heel yet?’
‘No. I definitely wouldn’t say that. It’s a career first having a client who won’t even talk, much less engage.’
He nodded sympathetically. ‘So you can see what we’ve been up against then?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid I can. And I picked up on the tension with the other board members on Saturday.’
‘He’s definitely made himself persona non grata,’ Torquil sighed. ‘It’s beyond me how he can tolerate being so . . . ostracized. One might almost think he thrived on it.’
‘Well, if anger’s his driver, you could be right.’
Torquil gave a baffled look. ‘I don’t know how it’s come to this point. It’s not just that he’s reckless or brash – although that’s bad enough – but he’s actively jeopardizing delicate client relationships. I’ve got to spend most of my afternoon, later, talking a key collector down from the ceiling after Lochie blocked the sale of one of our exceptionally rare sixty-year-old reserves – a sale which I’d been personally negotiating for months and which this collector specifically travelled from Hong Kong to buy – all because Lochie didn’t like that the man had been photographed with one of our competitors.’
‘You’re kidding.’
‘Sadly, I’m not. It’s one thing warring within the company, but when he starts cherry-picking who our clients can and can’t fraternize with, well, then we’re really in trouble.’
‘Quite.’
‘Lochie’s always had a reputation for being . . . shall we say, rambunctious, but if the press starts to get wind of his tantrums and demands . . .’ He sighed.
‘How do you get on with him on a personal level?’ Alex asked, sipping the rich coffee.
‘I won’t lie. We’ve never been close but I’ve made a point of keeping things especially businesslike between us since the – ahem – incident at the family assembly last year.’
‘Oh! It was you that he punched?’ she asked in surprise. ‘I hadn’t realized.’
He nodded.
‘What prompted it, can I ask?’
‘He pulled back on a deal we’d spent months putting together when Robert – his father – was at the helm. Everything was ready to go, the contracts drawn up. Passions were running high on all sides.’
So that excused Lochlan punching him? ‘What was the deal?’
‘A sale to Ferrandor Group. They’ve been sniffing around us for years and we’ve always held back. It never felt like quite the right time.’
‘But it did then?’
‘Yes, it felt like the right moment. The thing about the whisky business is that it’s like playing poker: you’re dealing with unseen hands all the time – constantly trying to predict demand twelve, fifteen, thirty, fifty years into the future.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘It’s pretty much guaranteed that at some point, you’ll end up with too much or too little. It’s all about the long game in this industry – well, it has to be when you’ve got to wait three years before you can even put the word “Scotch” on the label and sell a bottle!’ He laughed. ‘Half the time I think we must be crazy for even trying to succeed at this game, but then my father likes to tell me the definition of wisdom is old men planting trees under whose shade they will never sit.’
He smiled and Alex watched him as he talked – his body language was open, relaxed, his tone confiding and inclusive. He behaved like a collaborator, rather than Lochie’s dictator.
‘So why did Lochie block the sale?’
‘Because he could? I don’t know. He never gave a wholly convincing answer but his father was gravely ill around that time so he was generally pretty unstable. I think the prospect of more change was deeply challenging to him.’
‘And how about now? Do you think Ferrandor are still interested in doing a deal?’
‘Sadly, the moment has passed and we’re not the hot prospect we were then. Even if they didn’t violently dislike our new CEO –’ he rolled his eyes – ‘the truth is we’re facing a supply shortage in the next six years; we may have sophisticated forecast modelling now but twenty years ago it was a different matter.’ He shook his head. ‘And then, of course, trading conditions have changed dramatically.’
‘You mean Brexit?’
He gave a regretful look and nodded. ‘Ninety per cent of all Scotch is exported – with France being the biggest market – and of the two hundred countries where Scotch is sold, we already faced over six hundred trade barriers in a hundred and forty-three of them. Now, with Brexit in the mix too . . . who knows?’ He shrugged, before giving a light laugh. ‘And that’s not to mention the impending barrel crisis and all that that could entail.’
‘Barrel crisis?’ she repeated blankl
y.
‘Yes. The oak casks we use for maturing the whisky impart about seventy-five per cent of the character to the finished product. Bruce – whom you met on Saturday . . . ?’
She nodded. Skye’s father.
‘He says that if the spirit is the child, the cask is the mother. They’re incredibly important to us; we mainly buy in two-hundred-litre oak casks from the States which have been used by the bourbon industry, and five-hundred-litre sherry butts from Spain – it’s a ninety-five/five split.’
Alex frowned. ‘Hamish in the copper shop told me the stills were the most important part.’
‘Of the distilling process, yes,’ Torquil agreed. ‘And if you ask them, the malters will tell you it’s the barley and the kilnsmen will tell you it’s the peat. And of course, all those elements are vital for creating continuity of the Kentallen flavour DNA. You can’t make spirit without copper, but you really can’t make whisky without oak. It’s the barrel that is king.’
She sipped some more of her coffee. ‘So, what’s the crisis?’
‘As the law stands in the States, an oak bourbon barrel can’t be used more than once – but they’re looking at changing that. The whisky industry needs three million “wet-coopered” barrels a year and Britain can’t possibly supply that – we had cut down most of our oak trees by the early nineteenth century to build warships to fight the French, so the industry has been importing them from Spain and France, and then from the States for well over a hundred years – the barrels being cheaper and more plentiful there. But if the Americans do end up reusing their bourbon barrels, supply will become scarcer and prices will go up. They already are.’
‘Putting a squeeze on your profits,’ Alex murmured, realizing the company was going to be slowly strangled by the triple whammy of limited stock, difficult trading conditions and price hikes eating into their operating profits.
‘Exactly. So you can see why the time seemed right to sell. But it wasn’t the right time for Lochie so . . .’ He sighed, a look of bitterness flattening his mouth; Alex couldn’t blame him. ‘Anyway, here we are, cruising towards a stock crisis and the most challenging trading circumstances of the modern era and there’s seemingly nothing we can do about it. We’re like an ocean liner heading for the rocks – too big to turn, too fast to stop.’