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‘Eh. It was worth a try.’ Gretchen closed her eyes for a few moments, coughing again. ‘You’ll have to forgive me, dear. The angina makes me very tired.’
‘That’s all right. Please don’t apologise. I’m just sorry you’re not well.’ Liz looked around at Gretchen’s cosy room. A vase of tulips stood on the table by her bed, and a couple of packets of biscuits accompanied a fruit basket next to it.
‘They’re from Alun. Help yourself. I can’t abide bananas.’ Gretchen sniffed.
‘Aww. That’s nice of him.’ Liz remembered Alun from when she’d visited the care home before. He’d been the one that had offered her his hanky when she’d cried. She took a banana.
‘Yes, he’s kind.’ Gretchen smiled faintly. ‘Now. What can I do for you? Something about the cottage? Is everything all right there?’ She sat up a little and reached for an extra pillow that lay at the foot of the bed. ‘Prop me up a little, would you, dear? There. That’s better.’
‘No, the cottage is lovely.’ Liz peeled the banana and bit the top off. ‘I was actually coming to ask a favour for the distillery.’
‘Oh? What?’
‘Well, you remember that you helped me do some research, up at the castle? For the Old Maids?’ Liz asked.
‘Of course I do. I’m not senile.’
‘Ha. No, you’re definitely not,’ Liz chuckled. ‘Well, the thing is, you might remember that we couldn’t find out an awful lot about Felicity Black. She was the weaver, if you recall.’
‘Hmm. Yes, I remember. A shame, because that was a very interesting profession.’
‘Yeah. Well, I thought it would actually be nice to have someone in the range that was a modern woman, and someone who had lived in Loch Cameron most of her life, but also technically an Old Maid. And I couldn’t really put myself in the range. So, I wondered if you wanted to be the fourth woman?’
‘What do you mean, dear? I don’t understand. You want me to be one of your Old Maids?’ Gretchen frowned. ‘For the whisky?’
‘Yes. I mean, you know we settled on Old Maids as a name for the range, but we’re very much about reclaiming the term. I don’t want there to be negative associations with it. I’m not being mean to you, or anything. I want to celebrate your life. As a career woman, a single mum by choice, someone who adopted a daughter. Everything you did and everything you are.’
‘Oh, Liz.’ A tear rolled down Gretchen’s cheek. ‘That is so kind. I honestly don’t know what to say, apart from I mustn’t seem like a very strong woman to you just now.’
‘As if you could ever not be amazing, Gretchen. You’re a force of nature. I’m inspired by you,’ Liz said, honestly. ‘And I want the world to know about you.’
‘Oh, you’re being kind. I hate that.’ Gretchen cry-laughed. ‘Look at me. I’m a mess.’ Liz handed her a tissue, and Gretchen blew her nose. ‘Of course you can have me in the Old Maids. If you really want me. I’d be honoured.’
‘Oh, I’m so happy! Thanks, Gretchen. This is going to be awesome.’ Liz leaned over and kissed her friend on the cheek. ‘Listen. When you’re feeling a little better, I’m going to get some label designs over to you. And some copy. You can let me know what you’re willing to share, about your life. I was wondering if you had some old pictures of you we could use on the packaging. Maybe in the 80s? Or now?’
‘Look over there, on the shelf. Above the novels. There are my photo albums.’ Gretchen pointed to a cabinet on the other side of the room. ‘Take them out. Yes, those.’ She nodded as Liz got up and went to where Gretchen had indicated. ‘Bring them over here,’ she added, and Liz carried a number of the white leather-covered albums over to Gretchen’s bed.
‘We can do this another time, Gretchen,’ Liz said, setting the photo albums down gently on Gretchen’s thick quilt. ‘It’s no trouble.’
‘No, let’s do it now. Strike while the iron is hot, as they say.’ Gretchen waved at the albums. ‘Look at that one on top. There are some pictures of me when I worked in publishing. Shoulder pads and hairspray.’ She smiled, weakly.
‘Oh, wow. These are amazing.’ Liz opened the album and was instantly plunged into a world of Gretchen in a series of 80s power dresses and suits.
‘That’s me with Salman Rushdie.’ Gretchen reached across and tapped the page. ‘That’s Danielle Steele. Oh, and that’s Shirley Conran. You probably don’t remember that name. But she was huge in the 80s.’
‘Wow. Gretchen, look at you with all these celebrities!’ Liz turned the pages, smiling. ‘Oh, look. I love this. You in your office.’ Liz peered at the slightly faded picture of a coiffured Gretchen with shiny red nails wearing a white double breasted power suit. In the picture, she was sitting at a wooden desk in an office with appalling orange and brown wallpaper and a huge vase of white flowers next to her.
‘Ah, that’s a good one. And there’s one of me with Andrew, my secretary.’ Gretchen pointed to the next picture, clearly taken on the same day, because Gretchen was wearing the same outfit. In this picture, she stood somewhat stiffly next to a very good looking young man in his twenties who wore a pink shirt and an orange tie.
‘I remember you telling me about him. Are you still in touch?’ Liz smiled at the picture. ‘I really love this one of you at your desk.’
‘No, we lost touch. A shame. He was a lovely boy.’ Gretchen coughed a little. ‘I think he ended up living abroad. You can take that one, if you want. Use it.’
‘Well, I don’t want to deprive you of the original. Let me take a picture of it,’ Liz said, getting out her phone. She took some close-up shots of the original.
‘Would you like to see Stella? My daughter?’ Gretchen turned a few pages and pointed to a very different picture. ‘Here she is.’
In this picture, Gretchen was cuddling a little girl who might have been five or six. She had black, curly hair and dark skin, wearing a blue flowered dress. In the picture, Gretchen wasn’t in her formal work wear, but had a scarf tied around her hair and wore blue jeans and a plain white T-shirt. She and Stella were laughing at something and looking into each other’s eyes with what looked like a profound sense of joy.
