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‘Of course. I feel like I ruined a nice lunch, now.’ Liz felt as though she’d been too nosy – but, after all, as Ben said, they were normal questions to ask. How was she to know that there was clearly some drama hidden there?
‘What, with these scones?’ Ben raised an imperious eyebrow. ‘Don’t be daft. Seems like we’ve probably both been through some bad times. But, remember, this is a new start for you. You’re going to get there, okay? And, I think you’re going to be great for the business too.’
‘Thanks, Ben. I appreciate that,’ Liz said, taking a bite of her sandwich, which was delicious.
‘Leave room for scones,’ he said, picking one up and slathering it in butter and jam. ‘You’ll regret it if you don’t.’
‘Okay, okay!’ Liz laughed, feeling the mood lighten again. The thing was, though, that she wouldn’t mind opening up to Ben. She felt safe, talking to him – here, up on the windy hill, in the office. There was just something reassuring about being in his presence, and she knew, instinctively, that he would never judge her. She didn’t know how she knew, she just did. It was a feeling; an instinct. And Liz had learnt to trust her instincts over the years.
She hoped that she could trust Ben when it came to work, and being her boss. And, perhaps she had found a friend, too. Even though she had, secretly, pooh-poohed the idea of Ben’s “friendly boss” self-image, she found that she was open to being Ben’s friend as well as his colleague. It wasn’t so bad, eating scones in a cute café on a Saturday. It was, arguably, quite a lot more fun than reading work documents on your own at home.
TWELVE
The bell on the door jangled as Ben and Liz entered the dim interior of the small shop. Outside, a sign that looked like it had been there for years proclaimed the name of the shop as The Wee Dram. In the window, faded posters for Cinzano and Martini Rosso competed with a classic globe-style cocktail cabinet with the legs removed. The top of the globe had been rolled back to reveal a tarnished cocktail shaker and two crystal highball glasses next to a bottle of whisky and a selection of other liqueurs.
It’s cocktail o’clock somewhere in the world, Liz thought, as they went in.
‘Ah, Ben! Good to see you, dear boy. I had no idea you were coming in.’ An older man, sitting in a black leather armchair behind an impressive green baize-topped table, set a glass of what looked like whisky back on it and rubbed his hand over his white beard. The shop smelt strongly of cigars and was lit by gold-hued lamps; it was bright and sunny outside, but – judging from the contents of the man’s glass – Liz thought that inside The Wee Dram, it was clearly cocktail o’clock all day long.
‘Hello, Grenville. I just thought I’d pop in with our new Sales Director and introduce her to one of our most treasured stockists.’ Ben gave the man a vigorous handshake, and held out his other hand to introduce Liz.
‘Liz Parsons, this is Grenville McNulty. Owner of The Wee Dram, and tireless promotor of Loch Cameron Distillery. Grenville, this is Liz, who’s taken over from Brian.’
‘Oh! A woman!’ Grenville looked surprised, as if Liz had come into the shop in a false beard and moustache and had only now revealed her disguise. ‘Well, now. Hello, young lady.’
‘Lovely to meet you, Grenville,’ Liz said, pointedly using his name when he hadn’t used hers, and shaking his hand firmly. Being calledyoung ladywhen you were an internationally renowned businesswoman and well into your thirties was irritating, but it also wasn’t anything she hadn’t experienced before. Liz knew for a fact that if she’d been a man, Grenville wouldn’t have called heryoung manon meeting her. ‘So, how many units do you sell for us every week?’
‘Ah, well. Straight to business, is it?’ Grenville looked momentarily surprised.
‘Us young ladies are known for it.’ Liz gave him her hundred-watt sales smile that she knew told him she was good fun and could take a joke, but also that she wouldn’t stand for any of his sexist remarks.
‘Hahaha! Touché.’ Grenville laughed delightedly, and took her arm. ‘You and I are going to get along famously, I can see that, Miss Parsons.’ He guided her to a glass cabinet at the back of the shop. ‘Now, then. Numbers, shmumbers. This is the most important place in the shop. D’you know why?’ He peered at Liz over the top of his silver-rimmed, half-moon glasses.
‘Please tell me.’ Liz looked back over her shoulder at Ben, who raised his eyebrows as if to sayyes, he’s a character. Just go with it.
‘Because here I have some of the oldest bottles of Loch Cameron Distillery single malts in existence. Ben’s father, Jim Douglas, God rest him, gave these to me in 1965, and they’ve been here ever since. Of course, you have older in the archive, Ben. But none elsewhere, I don’t think.’ He tapped the glass case proudly and fixed Liz with a friendly stare.
‘Look how beautiful these are!’ Liz leaned forward to look at the bottles, which were wrapped and stored so carefully. ‘And does anyone buy these?’
‘Now and again. There are some loyal customers.’ Grenville adjusted his glasses. ‘But, as you can imagine, it’s a luxury for most. I do move about twenty bottles a week of the Ten Year Old, since you asked.’
‘Well, that’s something,’ Liz said, keeping her tone positive, though eighty bottles a month was nothing in her experience, especially if this was one of the distillery’s main stockists. ‘It would be nice to sell those vintages, though, wouldn’t it? If we could widen the interest. Tell more people about you and the shop. Do you get much online business?’ she asked.
‘The internet? Goodness, no.’ Grenville made a face. ‘Sometimes people order over the phone. But, mostly, they just come in.’
‘I see.’ Liz wasn’t overly surprised that Grenville didn’t have an online presence.One of these days, it’d be amazing if one of these old duffers turned around and showed me a hundred thousand Instagram followers,she thought,drily. ‘Well, maybe that’s something I could help you with.’
‘Hmm. I don’t know about that.’ Grenville looked like Liz had just suggested he stick a rhino horn up his bottom. ‘However, I’ve been on at Ben for years to start doing tours of the archive. People would come from miles around, don’t you think, Miss Parsons?’ His eyes twinkled at her over his glasses, and Liz found herself softening towards the old man.
‘I do, actually.’ Liz turned around to look at Ben. ‘I’ve told him that already. It’s a no-brainer.’
‘A what? Ano-brainer. What a remarkable expression!’ Grenville laughed delightedly. ‘Yes, Ben. That’s exactly right. My goodness, your father would have loved this firecracker.’ He patted Liz on the arm in a fatherly way that Liz found she didn’t mind too much. ‘Start running tours of the distillery and the cellars. I’m sure it would be a big hit.’
‘You know,’ Liz mused, ‘Grenville would be a perfect tour guide. If you were willing, Grenville? And if you can manage time away from the shop? You seem to be very knowledgeable and passionate about the distillery.’
‘Oh, my goodness! What a thought.’ Grenville picked up a spiral bound notepad and fanned himself with it theatrically. ‘I mean, yes, I’d love to. I do know a lot about the distillery and the whisky. And I was great friends with Ben’s father. If you think I could do it, Ben, it would be an honour.’
‘I’m not sure I have any choice in the matter.’ Ben smiled widely. ‘But, it’s a great idea. I can really see Grenville in the role. If he’s up for it.’
