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EIGHT
‘Drinks trolley!’ There was a knock on Liz’s office door.
‘Come in.’ Liz looked up from her contacts database with a frown. Ben stuck his head around the door frame.
‘Hi, Liz. Hope I’m not interrupting? Just thought you might be interested in a little tasting session. We’ve just opened a cask of the Twenty Year Old.’ He opened the door and Liz saw that he was holding a small wooden tray holding glasses, a small decanter and a jug of water.
‘Oh! All right, come in!’ Liz got up and helped him with the door, which he had pushed open with his elbow. ‘Don’t spill anything,’ she cautioned him.
‘Not my first time opening a door while carrying whisky.’ Ben’s eyes twinkled at her. ‘How are you, Liz? Getting on all right? You’ve been shut up in your office for a while so I thought, if Mohammed won’t come to the mountain, the mountain’ll…’ He trailed off. ‘Well, you know.’
‘The mountain will bring me single malt whisky, straight from the cask?’ Liz chuckled. ‘That’s not a terrible situation to be in. Though I’m not sure you make a really good mountain.’
Liz had been hiding in her office a bit, it was true. She felt slightly ill at ease talking to any of the staff, knowing that they might lose their jobs within months if she and Ben couldn’t save the distillery. She felt hopeful that the business could be salvaged, but the strain of not saying anything to Carol or Simon or to any of the rest of the staff was difficult. Liz had wondered if she seemed cold or unfriendly to them: she didn’t want to, but she also didn’t want to go out there and make friends with everyone, only for them to all get laid off in six months’ time. Plus, it would be so much easier not to accidentally talk about the trouble the distillery was in if Liz didn’t talk to anyone much.
Still, as a naturally sociable person, the enforced silence was driving Liz a little bit mad, so she was grateful for Ben’s intrusion.
‘Are you telling me I’m not a mountain of a man?’ He set the little tray down on her desk and met her eyes with a flirtatious look. ‘Come on, now. Quaker Oats based all their adverts on me.’ He adopted a dramatic pose, flexing his arms heroically. Liz couldn’t help but giggle.
‘Oh, that was you?’
‘Yes. I don’t talk about it much, so don’t mention it to the others. They’d just get jealous of my pecs. And my massive…’ He broke off, pausing.
‘Your massivewhat?’ She laughed out loud at his cheekiness.
‘Fortune,’ he finished, with a grin.
‘Right. My lips are sealed.’ Liz feigned seriousness.
Ben poured some of the amber liquid into each glass. ‘Water?’
‘The same amount as whisky, please.’ She watched him pour the drinks. Even though they’d been joking around, Ben was very good-looking, and Liz wondered if he knew that she thought so. He was dressed casually, like he always seemed to be, in blue jeans and a faded rugby sweatshirt. He was perhaps not a mountain of a man, but Liz was aware that he was attractive, and had an air of pleasant masculinity about him.
‘I see I’ve got a connoisseur on my hands,’ he murmured, handing her a glass. ‘Slainte Mhath.’
Liz returned the traditional Gaelic toast, and took a sip of the whisky.
‘Mmm. That’s really good.’ She let the taste develop on her tongue, allowing the oxygen in her mouth to change the balance of aromas, sweetness and smokiness. ‘Peaty, but still sweet. Not too heavy.’
‘Yes. She’s a good one,’ Ben noted. ‘We should probably have a talk about how to market it.’
Liz frowned. Ben hadn’t specifically mentioned that she would be required to be responsible for marketing in her interview, but since she’d begun working at the distillery, she’d realised that he expected her to do both sales and marketing.
‘What?’ he asked, looking at her expression. ‘You’re frowning.’
‘No, it’s just that… I’m the Sales Director. I have done marketing before, just not for a while. In big companies, Marketing and Sales are different departments. I know that in small firms like this, sometimes they get lumped together,’ Liz explained. ‘It’s fine. It’s just not exactly what I expected. It wasn’t clear in my interview or the job description.’
‘Ah. That’s my fault. I’m sorry, I just assumed…’ He trailed off. ‘It’s just because you’re so competent at everything you do, that I just thought you’d do it. You don’t have to. I guess I could look at hiring someone else.’
‘No, that’s not necessary. I just… there have been some unclear expectations, since I joined,’ Liz said, patiently. ‘I just think we should probably talk more to make sure we’re on the same page.’
Liz laid her hand on Ben’s arm. It was a reflexive gesture, not one that she had thought out beforehand. He looked down in surprise at her hand.
Ben’s skin was pleasant to the touch; black hair covered his muscular forearm, and she felt that same jolt of electricity that she had felt before. She missed being able to touch a man. Not even in a sexual way, but just the everyday, affectionate touch that couples took for granted. She had always loved the way that Paul’s body felt next to her in bed; she had always held his hand when they were out together, walking along.
As soon as she touched Ben, she realised that her train of thought was inappropriate, and she pulled her hand back. Ben wasn’t her boyfriend – he was her boss, and he wasn’t there for her to touch because she missed basic human intimacy.
‘Sorry,’ she mumbled, looking away.
