by Karen Swan
Alex frowned as she saw it for what it was – a power pose. He was bigging up, establishing himself as dominant, reminding everyone that he was the CEO who had run into a burning building to save his company and its employees’ livelihoods.
‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, waiting for the applause to die down. ‘Thank you very much.’ He wasn’t using notes; it was all in his head.
He surveyed the crowd, a faint smile on his lips and from here – at a distance – she could suddenly see his similarity to his cousin: his darker hair was such a contrast to Callum’s blond thatch and their demeanours such polar opposites, that she had never stopped to notice it before, but under the lights, she could see they shared the same good cheekbones, squared chin, deep-set eyes; but whereas Callum was quick to smile, revelling in his beauty, Lochie was quick to scowl, seemingly oblivious to it.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, it is a privilege to stand in front of you all today to accept this honour. As most of you know, I have not blood but the amber nectar running through my veins and my entire life and career have been devoted to trying to spread the love that we here all share for it, to as many people, in as many countries, as possible.’
He cleared his throat. ‘That’s not always an easy mission to accomplish. This industry has many pitfalls. Who else has to wait out three years before they can even get started? Who else has to try to predict demand for a product up to fifty years in advance? Who else has to create a DNA from just water, barley and peat – and then, when they have created a unique flavour fingerprint, repeat that alchemy exactly, over and over again?’
He smiled. ‘The answer is no one. No one else has to face the unpredictabilities not just of demand but of supply, in the way that we do. It cannot be replicated, in spite of what some quarters may try to tell you; not all whisky can be Scotch – they need our water, our air, our soil, our passion. But we need Spanish sherry casks and American oak bourbon barrels; we need India to drop its punitive import duties so that an entire market is allowed access to us; we need Chinese companies to stop corrupt business practice so that Scotch is not tainted with the stigma of bribery.
‘And what about the news that sales of white spirits have continued to outpace us for the second year running, that sales of vodka and gin are where the new profit margins are to be found, that diversity is the key? Surely in the face of such challenges, our cycle of boom and bust is destined to be repeated for ever more? We all remember the whisky lake of the eighties when demand crashed, prices plummeted and distilleries across the country were left with worthless stocks. Many distilleries closed; Kentallen certainly teetered on the brink on several occasions and my own father risked personal bankruptcy to keep operations going when the banks pulled their support.’ He paused, taking a breath and looking around the room, unhurried, in his element. Every bit the CEO.
‘So how do we continue in the face of such odds? How can we thrive against so many competing problems?’ He smiled, looking perfectly calm, and Alex felt her ears prick. He was building up to something. She could hear it in his voice, see it in his eyes. He looked . . . excited, and she realized it hadn’t been nervousness she’d seen in him earlier; it had been restlessness, impatience. He had been waiting for this.
‘We thrive, ladies and gentlemen, because we know that these elements are not a collective disaster for our industry – but the perfect storm. Rarity and legacy bottles are achieving record prices at auction, and diminishing supply coupled with increasing demand – even in the face of competitive sectors and closed key markets – means there has never been a better time to invest—’
What? That word— She heard the faint echo of Torquil’s voice . . .
‘And so I am delighted to announce to you today, that Kentallen Distillery Group has established a new subsidiary company, Scotch Vaults; a company in which private and even small-scale investors can for the first time invest in our maturing malts—’
A collective gasp whistled round the room, only making him smile all the more. Alex felt herself freeze. No. He couldn’t be doing this.
‘For the past two years, we’ve been developing a revolutionary collective trading platform in which the individual can buy by the litre – not per cask as was only available in the past; small investors can now buy as little or as much one-, two- or three-year-old maturing malt as they want; they can sell when they want with no minimum holding period. And by investing in these young whiskies which are already stored in our bonded warehouses, they are exempted from all the hassles and costs that bog down the industry’s end product – namely re-vatting, transportation, marketing, bottling and of course duties and excises.
‘Up till now, the huge scales required by the industry to produce a consistent product couldn’t dovetail with the needs of the small-scale investor – but Scotch Vaults will change that; Scotch Vaults will aggregate high numbers of private stockholders into consortiums whose investment needs can mesh with the long-term, large-scale quantities required by the trade.
‘Lairds, ladies and gentlemen, as of now, Scotch whisky maturation investment can step into the light and take its long-awaited, rightful place alongside the investment fine-wines market. High market returns need not be confined to those rare, top-of-the-market legacy bottles but to young stocks too, nor shall the market remain closed to the elite few, and I actively look forward to holding talks with those distilleries interested in adding their maturing stocks to the Scotch Vaults lists.’ He beamed as he looked around at the rapt expressions staring back at him. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, whisky’s historic boom-and-bust cycle has just become a tradeable, open-market commodity. We are open for business. Let’s all enjoy the ride.’
People were on their feet before he had even left the podium, the room vibrating with cheers and whistles, arms outstretched to shake his hand so that it was several minutes before he made it back to the table, Ambrose whooping and refilling everyone’s glasses, and the guys all enveloping him in bear hugs.
‘You crafty bugger!’ Max laughed. ‘How the hell did you manage to keep that under your hat?’
‘It’s called discretion,’ Lochie laughed. ‘You might like to remember that next time you’re in Soho.’
‘But how did you go about developing the software?’ Ambrose asked. ‘You run a distillery, for Chrissakes. Who did you know to—?’
He stopped talking as Lochie grinned, his eyes sliding across the table.
‘Sam?’ Jess cried, almost dropping her glass.
‘Well, I had to find a new project, darling,’ he grinned.
‘But you never said—’
‘I couldn’t. He was incredibly James Bond about the whole thing and said it was top secret.’
‘But not to say anything in two years? I’m your wife! You could have told me!’
‘Yes, but then I would have had to kill you. Forgive me?’ he asked playfully, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek as she continued to gawp.
Lochie took his seat beside her again, but Alex couldn’t laugh like the others.
‘Are you completely mad?’ she whispered, staring at him with desperate eyes as he finally deigned to look at her.
‘Quite possibly,’ he chuckled as Ambrose dropped a whisky shot in his champagne.
‘You cannot do something like that – and then announce it to the entire fucking industry,’ she hissed, as he downed it, vigour in every movement, ‘when you haven’t got the mandate of the board.’
‘How do you know I don’t?’ he asked in a low voice, coming to look at her, the smile still on his lips but his eyes becoming hard.
‘Because Torquil told me. It was thrown out.’
‘Well, lucky for me then that I used my own money and that Sam’s working on an equity basis.’
‘You know Sholto’s not going to take this lying down.’ Her eyes swivelled round the table but no one was looking at them; they were all talking to each other excitedly and seemingly ‘leaving them to it’.
‘It’s my money,’ he rei
terated darkly, his good mood beginning to evaporate. ‘It’s nothing to do with Kentallen.’
‘Yes, it is!’ she cried, only just keeping her voice down. ‘You’ve just used the Kentallen name as the primary brand; you’re going to be using Kentallen’s stocks! You cannot do that without a majority vote.’
‘Actually, if you take a moment to think back, you’ll see I never said we’d be using Kentallen stocks. I simply said it would be a subsidiary company to the group. Of course, if you want to infer from that that Kentallen stocks will be traded, then that’s up to you. And I certainly hope that once the shareholders see this response –’ a sweep of his eyes indicated the room – ‘they’ll reconsider and sign up too.’
‘Don’t play games with me. You know exactly what you did up there.’
‘Look,’ he hissed, eyes glittering. ‘I can’t force the board to be a part of this venture; but they can’t force me to relinquish it either. The technology’s in place, the patents are pending. And as of tonight, the entire industry is going to be clamouring to sign up.’ He gestured with a nod to the people at the tables around them, conversations buzzing.
‘It’s career suicide, you know that. Sholto will push you out for this. You cannot go around making binary orders. There is a board for a reason!’
‘No, the board is redundant, don’t you get that?’ he snapped, making her recoil. ‘We’re at an impasse. Checkmate. No one can move. Something has to happen.’
‘And so this is your answer?’ she asked incredulously. ‘This is what you’re going with? Out on a limb?’
‘Yes,’ he snarled, reaching for another whisky cocktail from Ambrose. ‘Deal with it.’
Chapter Twenty-Two
The party continued back at the house. Lochie’s mood had ignited the place, everyone forgetting their exhaustion from a day spent on the moors as he gave vent to his triumph. Champagne was chased with shots, music blasting through the Sonos system, which was about the only thing Ambrose had added to the house during his young reign as the clan laird.
Daisy – who had changed out of her taffeta monstrosity and into an eye-popping little black dress – led the dancing on the island in the kitchen, which in turn had led to a conga through the hall and around the Christmas tree, and the guys holding an ill-advised body-popping dance-off in the drawing room.
Alex, watching them from the chaise longue, was drunker than she wanted to be. She didn’t want to be drunk at all, she wanted to be in bed, far, far away from here; she knew she needed to think about the ramifications of Lochie’s actions and what it meant for her – but her glass had been repeatedly topped up when she wasn’t looking, so that without intending it, she was as far gone as all the rest.
But if they were happy drunks, she was angry. Her frustrations of the last couple of weeks had boiled to the surface: it had all been for nothing – wearing other people’s clothes, living with strangers, dealing with his insults and abuse day in and day out. And for what? If Sholto could boot him out for insubordination or gross misconduct or some other technicality – and he most likely would – then she was as much out of a job as he. He had absolutely no idea of the real consequences of what he’d done and what it meant for her. This wasn’t just a case of hard luck; it was a full-blown catastrophe. In blowing his own trumpet on that stage, he had unwittingly blown up her life. And the most galling this was he would never even know it.
She threw back her whisky shot, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth, feeling how it burned down her throat. Her stomach felt on fire. She felt as though she might spontaneously combust into flames. All her anger was becoming heat, her heat in turn stoking the anger.
Daisy and Max were dancing a flamboyant tango, crossing the room from corner to corner, cheeks pressed together and mouths pursed in outrageous comedy pouts, the others whooping as they stalked, stopped and flung out their ankles, Daisy wrapping one of her – extraordinarily good – legs around Max’s. It was all going well, until he tried to do a double turn and they lost what little balance the whisky had left them, falling in a tangled heap over the low ottoman to a rousing chorus of cheers.
‘My turn!’ Sam cried, slamming down his glass and – to Alex’s slow dawning horror – making a beeline straight for her.
‘Oh. No . . .’ she protested, as he grabbed her by the hand and pulled her up to standing with such power, her feet almost left the ground and she found herself chest to chest with him. There was a momentary pause and as she caught her breath, he grinned – and immediately dipped her low.
She shrieked with surprise, her long hair touching the ground, the room upside down in her vision – and Lochie too. She saw him for a fraction of a second, leaning against the bookcase, his long legs crossed at the ankle in that louche way of his, one hand in his pocket, the other around a glass. But in the next second, he was snatched away again; or rather, she was; Sam’s arm rigid around her ribcage, holding her firm and sure, his eyes glittering with merriment, one leg between hers as he spun her round and round and round. She was astonished to realize the man could actually dance, really properly hold her in position and lead . . . It didn’t matter that the room was spinning or that she had no idea where to go or what to do next. He simply put her where she needed to be, and if he spun her out, sending her spinning off like a top, he easily caught her again in the next beat and pulled her back in.
She laughed, feeling delirious and helpless all at once, her hair flying around as she vaguely heard everyone’s whoops and cheers; they were clapping, stamping their feet. All except Lochie who hadn’t moved a single muscle, not even his drink to his lips.
She laughed harder, something in his demeanour spiking her defiance as she realized that her good time seemed to be at the expense of his. It might be a petty revenge but it was the only weapon left in her arsenal. So much for abundant mentality.
On and on they danced, Alex letting herself relax and Sam leading. If he wanted to dip her, he could; spin her, he could; lift her off the ground and twirl her, he could – and did. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so free and when the song finally ended, the two of them jumped up and down on the spot, cheering with everyone else, their arms wrapped around each other as though they were old friends.
‘That was amazing!’ Elise cried – she was, of course, the happiest of happy drunks – as Alex, still dizzy, gingerly made her way across the room towards where everyone was standing.
‘Well, it was nothing to do with me,’ Alex demurred, looking over at Jess. ‘Your husband is an incredible dancer!’
‘I know. He learnt to dance for our wedding.’
‘Uh-huh. Well, wow,’ Alex laughed, still breathless, one hand on her chest. ‘It totally paid off. That was . . . exhilarating,’ she puffed. ‘I’m not sure I’ve ever danced with anybody like that before.’
‘No.’
Alex caught her breath, her smile freezing in place. Was it just her, or was Jess’s manner . . . cool? ‘Are you going to dance?’ she asked. ‘I think you should. I don’t see why Daisy and I should be the only ones to be flung about. Phew . . . I think my head’s going to be spinning for days.’
‘Well, I can’t dance with my own husband. How dull would that be?’ Jess quipped, putting down her drink and scouting the room for her ex. ‘Where’s Lochie? He used to have a few moves on him, I seem to remember.’
Alex kept her smile firmly on her lips, even though the mere mention of his name now brought about a visceral reaction. She was so mad with him right now she didn’t even trust herself to look at him.
She heard the text buzz on her phone, lying on the arm of the sofa, and saw the blue light flashing. ‘Oh,’ she mumbled, swaying slightly as she reached over to it. ‘Christ, six messages. Who . . . ?’
‘Oh, Lochie! There you are. Come over here,’ Jess demanded.
A smile grew on Alex’s lips as she read the messages. ‘How far’s Edinburgh from here?’ she asked, a plan forming. Why the hell not? It was all over now anyw
ay. There was definitely no conflict of interest any more. And she felt so angry, so reckless suddenly that the very ‘wrongness’ of it thrilled her.
‘Oh, not far,’ Anna said. ‘Forty miles or so.’
Lochie came over, his movements oiled, heavy and easy like a panther. ‘What is?’
‘Edinburgh,’ Anna said, hiccupping. She put a hand over her mouth, looking cartoonishly surprised. ‘Ooh, excuse me . . . ! It’s about an hour from here, right?’
‘Yes. Why?’
Anna shrugged. ‘Alex was asking.’
‘Lochie, dance with me,’ Jess purred, holding out her hand and beginning to sway her hips sexily. ‘Seeing as you made my husband keep secrets from me for two years, the very least you can do is fling me round this room.’
‘What’s in Edinburgh, Alex?’ Elise laughed, detecting mischief.
But Alex bit her lip and winked. Not what, who. ‘I’m just going to make a call,’ she grinned, not lifting her head as she wove her way unsteadily across the room.
‘Where are you going?’ Ambrose asked, the words plaintive, as she passed. ‘Not to bed?’
‘I’m just making a phone call,’ she laughed. ‘I’ll be right back.’
‘But it’s half past three in the morning!’ he called after her.
‘Precisely. I’m coming back!’
She staggered out into the hall, heading for the front door – she had had to lean half out of the window this morning to get any kind of reception. It was chilly away from the fire-lit drawing room and her bare arms goose-bumped in the cold as she tried to open all the various locks and bolts of the enormous door, her fingers fumbling and slow.
‘Fuck,’ she hissed under her breath, breaking a nail as she struggled with the last bolt. It was ancient and stiff and only released with a sudden action. She opened the door, gasping as the dead of night drifted in—
‘Who are you ringing?’
The voice was hard and she turned in surprise. Lochie was striding past the Christmas tree towards her. He had taken off his velvet jacket – unsurprisingly, given all their earlier boy-band antics – and his bow tie had been pulled loose, his shirt part untucked. She felt her stomach contract at the sight of him. He moved around this place as though he owned it.
