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‘Well, I thought we could swap her for Gretchen Ross.’ Liz stood next to Ben at the kitchen counter and folded her arms over her chest. ‘What d’you think?’
‘Gretchen Ross? The Gretchen Ross that’s still alive?’ Ben frowned. ‘Doesn’t that mess up the whole concept?’
‘Not really. Gretchen is an Old Maid. In fact, she’s proud of it. I actually like the idea of having someone still living be a part of the selection. That way, we capture a selection of local women from Loch Cameron across a longer time period, bringing us into the present day. And Gretchen’s got some amazing stories.’
‘Oh, I know. She’s such a character.’ Ben smiled, looking thoughtful. ‘But haven’t you already got the labels and boxes on the way? They’re done already.’
‘No, they’re still with the designer. I can make changes, and we can still change the sales information for the ordering.’
‘Hmm. And you really like this idea? What does Gretchen think? Have you mentioned it to her?’
‘No, I haven’t. She gave me the idea, though she was only joking. I think she’d like it, though.’
‘Well, I’m not opposed to the idea, if Gretchen’s okay with it. So, why don’t you ask her, and see what she says?’
‘Okay. That would be great. Thanks, Ben.’ Liz took the mug of coffee that he handed her and took a sip. It was strong and chocolatey, and just the right level of bitter. ‘Wow. That’s good.’
‘I do make a mean cup of coffee. I like to think that’s as much mean as I have in me, though. Not like the rest of the Douglases,’ he said, seriously, as he sipped his. ‘I don’t want you to think that I inherited… all that toxic stuff from the men in my family. Everything we were talking about,’ he said, giving her a serious look. ‘I’ve worked really hard to try and let go of all of that, you know? It’s been hard, but…’ He trailed off. ‘Sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you all this. Just ignore me.’
Liz was about to reply when Carol bustled in.
‘Now then, I see nobody asked me whether I wanted a coffee, aye,’ she teased, tapping Ben affectionately on the arm and reaching up to the cupboard to get a mug out. ‘Ach, if ye want anythin’ done, do it yerself, eh.’
‘Sorry, Carol. I would have made you one, but you were on the phone,’ Ben protested.
‘Ach, away with ye. I’m only pullin’ yer leg.’ Carol beamed at them both. ‘What’s up wi’ ye both? Ye look like ye lost a pound an’ found a shillin’.’
‘We’re fine. Just the Old Maids stuff. The big conference is coming up,’ Liz filled in, quickly. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a lot to do. I’ll see you both later.’ She shot a smile at Carol, and avoided Ben’s eyes as she left.
It seemed that Ben had wanted to open up to her; that he was keen to tell Liz that he wasn’t the bastard that some of the men in his family had been. But how could she square that with what she knew about Ben and Alice, his ex-wife? Surely Ben could see that he’d done a terrible thing to his wife. If that was true, he wasn’t so different to the other Douglas men, and Liz wasn’t going to help him pretend that he was.
Liz just couldn’t balance the two Bens: the one she knew, and the one Simon had described. That version of Ben didn’t tally at all with the one who took her to see starlings swoop across the evening skies or the one who knew the names of all the local plants, and seemed to want only the best for her. But Simon had no reason to lie – did he? He’d seemed genuine when he’d told her about Ben’s past. Sure, the two men didn’t see eye to eye about the running of the distillery, but that was no reason to concoct such an elaborate lie, if it was one.
It bothered Liz. Plus, there was this nagging thought in her mind, now, that Ben might be having some kind of illicit relationship with someone. Not that it was any of her business, of course.
How could he be two such different people?
THIRTY-FIVE
‘Hallo, dear. I didn’t expect to see you today.’ Gretchen looked up from her bed and gave Liz a weak smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Oh, Gretchen! Never mind how I am. What happened?’ As soon as she’d walked into Gretchen’s room, Liz knew that something was wrong. For one thing, Gretchen was never in bed in the daytime, as far as she knew; when she’d visited before, her friend had been in the lounge, and whenever they’d spoken on the phone, Gretchen always seemed to be running between bridge games, canasta competitions and the beauty salon.
‘Ah. A bit of angina, that’s all.’ Gretchen coughed, and Liz went to her and reached for her hand. She looked so small, tucked into her bed. ‘Don’t worry, please. I can’t stand the fuss.’
‘Angina? That’s your heart, isn’t it?’ Liz sat in the chair next to Gretchen’s bed. ‘Have you had it long?’
‘A few years. Yes, my heart. I’m in my mid-eighties. It’s just what happens.’ Gretchen patted Liz’s hand. ‘I told you: don’t get old. Stay thirty-seven forever. That’s my advice.’
‘What does the doctor say?’ Liz asked, squeezing Gretchen’s hand very gently.
‘Oh, doctor, schmoctor. He can’t tell me anything. Just to rest and take my medicine.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘You know, these GPs look everything up on the internet. He’s about fourteen. They make anyone doctors these days.’
‘I don’t think that’s true, Gretchen.’ Liz smiled, relieved that Gretchen seemed her usual self, although she was plainly weaker than she would have liked. ‘He’s just trying to look after you.’
‘Hmph. A stiff whisky would look after me much better,’ Gretchen complained. ‘You haven’t got any, have you? Sneak me in some next time you come. They wouldn’t suspect you. Though I wouldn’t put it past the nurses to frisk you on your way in. They’re no fun.’
‘I will if it’s allowed, but not if it would make you more poorly,’ Liz offered. ‘I don’t have any on me, though.’
