by Fiona Gibson
‘So, I’ve been through everything you sent me,’ she says, ‘and what struck me is how quickly things started to go wrong.’ We’re straight onto business without the offer of tea, coffee or even a glass of tap water to moisten my parched mouth. But never mind that. I’m here for help, not refreshment. We haven’t even mentioned Belinda, our common link.
‘Well, yes,’ I say, feeling faintly scolded, ‘although I didn’t realise the full extent of the problems for quite a long time. I mean, Paul was pretty evasive. I know now that I should’ve been involved in every aspect. But that was never the plan. It was very much his baby. And for a while at least, I really believed he was on top of everything.’
Rosalind blinks at me across her desk, as if finding it difficult to comprehend my levels of idiocy. Don’t get emotional. Just keep yourself together and find out what you need to do next.
‘So you weren’t involved day to day?’ she asks.
‘No, not really.’ As I have already explained, on the phone and by email and actually two seconds ago.
‘So what role did you have,’ she asks, quirking a brow, ‘just out of interest?’
‘Um, I wrote the press releases,’ I reply, ‘and the text for the brochures, that kind of thing. Anything that needed to be written, basically …’
‘Ah, right.’ She nods. ‘Did you enjoy that?’
‘I guess I did at first,’ I reply, impatience rising in me now as I wish we could just discuss the matter in hand, as she’d seemed keen to do at first. ‘I mean, it was fine when I could just write normally.’
She frowns. ‘Normally? As opposed to what?’
‘As opposed to … in the voice of a puffin,’ I reply, aware of my cheeks reddening.
‘You pretended to be a puffin?’ Her eyes widen.
I glance down at the pile of paperwork I gave her, which she has shoved to one side of her desk. ‘The distillery’s old whisky labels had an antique-style engraving of Sgadansay harbour,’ I explain. ‘They summed up the history and heritage of the brand. But Paul decided we needed to be different so he asked a friend to come up with a new design. And, er … he drew a puffin.’
I detect a hint of amusement in her eyes, and no wonder. Paul’s friend’s artistic credentials amounted to little more than owning a packet of crayons, from what I could make out. ‘They decided to call him Percy,’ I continue, ‘and he’d be our mascot and we’d have T-shirts and mouse mats and all of that printed with him on, and then Paul insisted that I should write all our marketing material as if it was actually Percy talking—’
‘That must have been challenging,’ Rosalind observes with a barely disguised smirk.
‘It was,’ I say, ‘but, you know, my main concern now is what to do next. Because the whole operation is hanging by a thread …’
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘Everyone’s still being paid,’ I continue, ‘but pretty soon I’ll have to think about laying people off and I’m dreading it. It’d be bad enough anywhere, but there’s so little employment on Sgadansay. There are all their families to think about …’
Rosalind clears her throat. ‘Yes, I can see you’re in a very precarious position.’ As she turns to her computer screen, I glance around her dreary office with its beige walls, a small grey fan in the corner and a white plastic pot on the windowsill, containing a few shrivelled leaves. I hope she’s better at sorting out financial messes than she is at tending to houseplants. In any other circumstances I’d ask if she’d let me have a go at resurrecting it. But we’re not here to talk about her plant. It’s my business we need to rescue.
I shift position in the chair as she taps away at her keyboard. I’d pictured myself striding out of her office after twenty minutes – destitute, yes, and never again allowed to borrow a library book, let alone have a credit card to my name, but able to move on with my life.
She nudges her keyboard aside and turns back to me. ‘Are you familiar with the term liquidation?’
I nod glumly. Naturally, I’ve spent countless hours reading up about it. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘And you understand that if that happens, the business is closed and the assets are sold in order to pay the creditors?’
‘Yes,’ I murmur.
‘… so we have your supply chain, your raw materials, your distributors …’
‘That’s right.’ On and on she goes, listing every company and individual who needs to be paid; from the IT experts to the builders who refurbished the visitors’ centre last year – unnecessarily, in my opinion, but Paul was all about image and making ‘a big splash’, as he called it.
Rosalind’s jaw seems to tighten as she looks up at me. ‘Okay, Suzy. I’m going to pull everything together and we can take a final look at the figures together. But it looks like voluntary liquidation will be your best option.’
I knew, deep down, that this was probably what she’d say. However, I suppose a tiny piece of me had clung to the hope that she’d smile pertly and say, ‘Leave it with me and everything will be fine.’ Like my sympathetic sewing teacher at school who’d baulked at my disastrous creation then kindly unpicked the seams and whizzed it back up for me, correctly.
Of course, this is a distillery, not a calico tote bag, and there’s no kindly Miss Bostock on hand to make everything all right.
Rosalind is talking about the intricacies of liquidation now. I exhale slowly, feeling quite sick, and glance over at the pot plant. Poor thing, I muse. But there is still a little bit of life in it, and maybe it could be revived with some water and plant food and love, like Frieda’s cheese plant. It’s thriving now, a miracle of survival following years of maltreatment and neglect.
Water, food and love.
Two years ago, when Paul and I went on the distillery tour, Jean, the guide – of course, I know her name now – told us the crucial ingredients for whisky. ‘Just three things, isn’t it, Harry?’ she’d said, beaming at the elderly head distiller. He’d rolled his eyes at the ‘love’ part and I’d smiled, assuming he was too down to earth for that kind of flowery talk. Yet that’s precisely what’s amazing about whisky. It’s the result of those simple ingredients left to ‘lie around in casks, doing fuck all’, as Paul so eloquently described the maturation process. It’s a beautiful thing made with patience and care.
And that’s all it should be. Never mind puffin mascots and terrifyingly expensive new light fittings in the visitors’ centre; and certainly never try to cut corners in a desire to boost profit. Because then an essential ingredient has been stripped away and it’s not made with love, and it simply cannot possibly turn out as it’s meant to.
My heart quickens as I consider all of this, while Rosalind taps out more notes on her computer. Don’t get emotional, I remind myself. Be calm, clear, concise.
‘I’m just wondering,’ I start, ‘if there’s another option I could possibly consider?’
She looks up at me in surprise. ‘Well, yes, there are always options of course. What are you thinking?’
‘Um … I’m wondering if there might be a way that I can take it over, by myself, and somehow try to turn things around?’
She bunches up her mouth. It’s hard to imagine her at university, as a young person, when my sister first knew her. She seems like she’d have been a serious-minded adult at twenty years old, flossing twice daily and consuming the recommended eight glasses of water per day. ‘Are you thinking of some kind of rescue operation?’ she asks.
‘Erm, well, yes. I’m just wondering about it.’
‘On your own?’
‘If it’s possible, then maybe …’ I pause, aware of the enormity of what I’m suggesting. ‘It’s got to be better than giving up, hasn’t it?’ I add. ‘The distillery’s been there for eighty years. It’s what Sgadansay’s famous for. I can’t just shut down, Roz. Rosalind.’
She nods, and her forehead crinkles. ‘I do take your point. It does seem terribly sad.’
‘So, could I actually do that?’ I continue. �
�Legally, I mean, so Paul wouldn’t be a joint director anymore?’
‘Oh, that’s entirely possible,’ she says, still brisk but a little warmer now. ‘Basically, he would be contacted – we could do that for you – and if he was in agreement, we would arrange for him to sign his shares in the company over to you.’
I take this in for a moment. ‘But you know I didn’t put anything into it? Financially, I mean. It was bought with Paul’s inheritance …’
‘Yes, but you own it jointly and in taking it over you’d be solely responsible for the debts.’ I nod. Christ, what a terrifying thought. ‘Do you think he’ll be relieved to step away?’ she asks.
‘Looks like it,’ I reply. ‘He’s made it clear that he doesn’t want anything to do with me directly – or the business. But …’ I pause. ‘What about the debts? I mean, obviously we’re in a financial mess and I don’t imagine I can borrow money from anywhere. I have my house, of course, but—’
‘I don’t think it’ll come to that, Suzy.’
‘I hope not. But if it does—’ I break off, trying not to even imagine myself at forty-eight, having to sell my house and living back with my parents, with Mum remarking, ‘I don’t know how you can sit around writing about dead people all day. I’d find it depressing!’ Obviously, Belinda and Derek couldn’t have me, now that I own a dog. Thank Christ I have a dog.
‘If you’re seriously considering a rescue mission,’ Rosalind says, leaning forward, ‘then your creditors might be persuaded to agree to a turn-around period, while you address the problems and get things back on track.’
I blink at her. ‘Really? Is that likely, d’you think?’
‘It’s possible,’ she says, ‘if you could manage to convince them that it’s a viable option. I mean, if they believe that, in the long run, they’re better sticking with you and allowing you the time to turn things around. Rather than winding up the company, I mean.’
‘Wow.’ I take a moment to allow this new information to settle.
‘You’d need to come up with a strong proposal,’ Rosalind adds, ‘and be absolutely upfront about your plans.’
I nod. ‘Uh-huh. I could do that.’
Could I? Could I really? Never mind Paul blundering into the whisky business with sod all experience. My own knowledge of booze production amounts to discovering Isaac’s secret home brewery in his wardrobe and my brief experiment with making sloe gin.
‘And we’d have to agree a timetable of payments to all your creditors,’ she continues, ‘so they’d feel reassured that you’re getting things back on track.’
Bloody hell. It sounds like a heck of an undertaking, but something is starting to grow in me; a tiny seed of determination that I’m not going to roll over and give up. Harry’s face shimmers into my mind. The proud, distinguished master distiller would know what to do. I need to contact him somehow, I decide. I need his expertise and support; I need him with me in all of this. But will he even agree to have anything to do with me?
‘I want to do this,’ I tell Rosalind now. ‘I really want to give it my very best shot.’
A small smile crosses her lips. ‘Okay, if you’re sure. I’ll need a few days to start pulling things together and then we can speak again …’
‘And what about your fees?’ I say quickly. ‘We haven’t talked about—’
‘I’ll set all that out in an email,’ she cuts in. ‘So, if you could give me contact details for your partner, I mean your ex-partner …’
‘I only have his mobile number and he might not respond.’
‘We can try,’ she says with a note of authority that makes me think: will he dare to ignore her? Or will he be relieved that this might possibly represent a way out for him? After all, this isn’t like the wine club, the cycling or any of his other short-lived obsessions. He can’t just act like it never happened.
Please, Paul, I will him as I leave Rosalind’s office. Please just do this one thing for me.
Chapter Eighteen
Alcohol disaster stories might not seem like what I need right now. However as Isaac, Frieda and I reminisce around the garden table, chuckling over the memory of Isaac’s audacious home brewery, I’m aware of the recent stresses ebbing away a little.
It’s partly the kids being here. They arrived by train within an hour of each other last night, and were thrilled to meet Scout; it really was like guinea pig day all over again. But even better because our time together seems precious these days, as it’s so rare.
‘You had no idea at all, did you?’ Isaac chuckles now, sipping a beer.
‘That you had a brewery in your wardrobe?’ I smirk at the memory. He’d been fifteen years old and apparently it had been the major project of the summer. ‘No, love, because I was a respectful mother who’d never have dreamed of delving about in your wardrobe unless I thought something was up.’
Frieda laughs. She looks so natural and pretty in a white T-shirt and jeans, with her long dark hair loosely tied back and a faint suggestion of freckles across her upturned nose. ‘You’re so gullible, Mum,’ she teases. ‘You didn’t even suspect anything when they kept going for all those bracing walks?’ Isaac and his mates, she means.
‘I just thought they were enjoying a healthy, outdoor lifestyle!’
‘When actually, they were gathering nettles and smuggling them home in carrier bags stuffed up their sweatshirts …’
‘If I hadn’t smelt something strange,’ I remark, turning to Isaac, ‘you’d have got away with it for longer.’
‘Yeah.’ He smiles. ‘It tasted disgusting, though.’
‘It made you puke, Ize,’ Frieda retorts, beckoning Scout, who trots across the lawn towards her and lets her fix on his lead.
We head out on a walk, following the winding path along the river with Scout trotting a little way ahead. ‘It feels like he’s part of our family already,’ she says, linking her arm in mine.
‘You’re right, it really does.’
‘Oh, Mum, I hope no one claims him.’
‘I very much doubt it. It’s been over a week, love.’
She nods, and I turn to Isaac, who seems to have grown even taller since I last saw him. Lean and long-limbed, he towers over me by a good six inches now. His hair is shorn extremely short, and there’s a bit of a tufty little beard going on. But he still has that teenage gangliness; his grey T-shirt is rumpled and his jeans are ripped at the knees. When he arrived yesterday I registered the state of his shoes, mangled and filthy with the soles flapping loose, as if he’d found them lying in the road. He’d laughed when I announced that he needed new ones, and tried to force money onto him. These are fine, Mum! Stop fussing!
Later, bringing Scout along for the ride, I drive the kids to their dad’s where they’re staying tonight. Since we broke up, it’s always been fairly amicable between Tony and me. We’d just got together too young and were no longer in love – at least, not in that way. While Frieda and Isaac were understandably upset at first, pretty soon it became normal for them to live between our two homes. They even handled things well when Tony met Maddy and moved out of town to their rickety farmhouse, then produced four more children.
‘I never realised I’d been married to the most fertile man in Yorkshire,’ I joked with friends. And I suppose that did feel a little weird, especially as our kids were clearly entranced by their younger siblings and loved spending time there. Whenever I dropped them round at Tony’s, the house would be filled with shrieks and laughter and the aroma of baking. Someone would be bashing a drum or running around in a dinosaur costume. Of course, I was glad our kids felt part of this bustling family, but my heart ached for them when they weren’t with me.
I was lonely, I guess. Perhaps, when I’d met Paul, I’d been seeking a little craziness of my own. He was full of life and always up for a new adventure. If I’d known then what his most recent ‘adventure’ would entail, I’d have clung to my old life as if it were a raft in a storm. But I still loved him then.
We pull up at Tony and Maddy’s where we are greeted warmly and I’m handed a mug of tea within seconds of stepping into the steamy kitchen. Immediately, the children throw down their Lego and paintbrushes as they all swoop upon Scout:
He’s so friendly!
Aw, he licked my face!
Mum, Mum, can we get a dog?
At which Maddy pushes back her curly fair hair and laughs. ‘Don’t you think I’ve got enough on my plate with you lot?’ Although we’re not friends exactly, we get along well. She has welcomed Isaac and Frieda into their milieu as if they were her own.
‘So you finally gave in,’ Tony teases me.
I smile. ‘No one’s nagged me about getting a dog for at least ten years!’
Maddy grins. ‘It’s that classic thing, isn’t it? Kids fly the nest, Mum gets a dog …’
‘Yes, admit it, Mum.’ Isaac chuckles, draping an arm around my shoulders. ‘Scout wasn’t a stray, was he? You went out and bought him ’cause you miss us so much.’
It’s true that I miss them. But I also feel boosted by their visit and spend a long, productive Sunday writing more obituaries. Scout likes to lie at my feet as I work, chomping away on Paul’s fantastically expensive cycling shorts. I’ve particularly enjoyed seeing him gnawing contentedly on the gusset. Happily, Dee reported that he’d behaved beautifully at her place (chewing only an ‘ugly’ tea towel), and here at home he’s been delightful – apart from shunning his new deluxe wicker basket, £39.99.
By Monday the weather has brightened, luring me out to my garden. By this point in March I’m usually eager for nature to get a move on, and for the cheery lupins and clematis to burst into bloom. But with everything that’s been going on, I’ve neglected things out here. So, while Scout sniffs around, I fork over the borders, plucking out weeds as I go.
I’ve just broken off to make coffee when my phone trills on the kitchen worktop. Rosalind’s name is displayed. My heart rate quickens as I answer it. ‘Well,’ she says, not bothering with any preliminaries, ‘you’ll be glad to hear that I’ve managed to speak to Paul.’
