Chapter 20 Tilda #2
She takes some champagne and passes it around but Finn declines.
“I’m driving.”
“You can have one.” She waggles the glass in front of him.
“I’d rather keep my wits about me. I hate the stuff, anyway.” Finn scowls.
“Tilda?”
This feels like the sort of night that needs anaesthetic. Maybe one glass of champagne will take the edge off. I’ve barely taken a sip when a booming voice carries across the room.
“Finn Kinnaird,” says an American voice. “Well, I just lost a bet.”
The crowd parts slightly and a man approaches. He’s about the same height as Malcolm at about five ten, and he’s dressed in a dark suit which even I can tell is expensively cut. His smile looks even more expensive. He strides towards us with a confidence which suggests he’s used to being noticed.
“Good to see you, friend.” He seizes Finn’s hand in a firm grip and holds on a beat too long, then releases him with a pat on the arm which borders on patronising as he looks him up and down with an appraising glance. “You scrub up well. I’m surprised.”
Finn’s jaw tightens and I notice the muscle jumping on his cheek, the one that goes when he’s pissed off about something.
“And Georgia, too. Your secret weapon.” He turns to Georgia, giving her the full benefit of his dazzling smile. Georgia flips her carefully waved blonde hair over her shoulder and smiles back, eyes a little too wide.
“Hello,” she says, extending a hand. He clasps hers and looks her in the eye with a smile that I’m beginning to think might be painted on.
“I’m Will Stewart,” he says, turning to me. “And you” – his smile softens slightly, and I get the full eye-contact treatment – “must be the famous Tilda, the wonder-gardener. I’ve heard all about you.”
I cough and take a sip of champagne to try and steady myself, which is a really bad idea as it catches at the back of my throat, and I have to swallow hard to stop it shooting up my nose.
My eyes start watering, and I reach up with a finger to catch the tears that are about to cause mascara to start running down my cheeks.
“Don’t be modest,” Will says, his eyes crinkling as though we’re sharing a joke. “Everyone’s talking about the work you’ve been doing at Benruar. Impressive stuff. You must come and have a look at what we’ve done here. I’d love your thoughts.”
I can feel Finn’s presence at my back, solid and radiating tension. When I risk a glance sideways, his jaw is set, his dark eyes fixed on Will with an expression that could freeze whisky mid-pour. He clears his throat and I catch his eye, then look away, flustered. “Oh, I—”
“Inspiration flows both ways,” Will says smoothly.
My cheeks burn, and my throat feels like it’s on fire from the almost-choking incident. I can feel Finn’s eyes on me, despite the fact I’m still looking politely at Will.
And then he turns back to Georgia.
“So, the social media whizz kid. I’ve been following those reels of yours. They’re smart, sharp, exactly the sort of thing the industry needs to grow whisky with the younger generation. Have you ever thought of scaling up?”
Finn’s hand finds the small of my back – a brief, possessive touch that makes my breath catch. It’s gone before I can react, but my skin tingles where he touched me.
Will shoots a sideways look at him. “There’s a far bigger stage out there than Benruar.”
Georgia’s eyes widen slightly, half-wary, half-flattered. She fiddles with the stem of her champagne glass and Finn takes a half-step forward, as if reclaiming ownership of the space.
Will seems to sense he’s said enough because he steers us through the crowd with the easy authority of someone who knows they’re in charge. People nod and smile and step out of the way, yet I still feel like I’m on a school trip.
“Come on,” he says, putting a hand on my shoulder. “We’ve got time while everyone’s chatting for you to have the full Glen Mhor experience.”
And with an ease that suggests this was planned in advance, we’re swept into a tour that runs with the precision of clockwork.
Glass doors slide open silently to reveal the stillroom, where the copper gleams under carefully curated lighting.
There’s the same metallic scent in the air I recognise from Benruar, but with something else around the edges – a chemical cleaning smell, faintly reminiscent of school swimming lessons.
“Danish design,” Will says, putting a casual hand on the still. “Visitors can walk the gallery up there,” he gestures overhead, “and see everything without disturbing the process. Transparency is everything these days.”
A minion appears with a cloth and wipes away his handprint before scuttling off.
“Hence all the glass,” says Malcolm, shooting me a sideways look.
“Sorry?”
“Transparency,” he says, and Will looks at him as if he’s not quite sure if he’s joking.
Finn almost manages a smirk.
This place feels like it should be in the middle of the city of London, not perched on the edge of the island of Benruar. Somehow the scuffed stone and untidy stacks of tools against the white-washed walls makes more sense to me than this clinical perfection.
He leads us through to the multimedia suite where screens wrap around the walls, projecting a looping film of the Highlands through the seasons, where whisky glasses are waiting on a wooden pedestal underneath.
I can see Georgia’s brain working overtime as she scribbles mental notes faster than I can blink.
“This will interest you, Tilda,” Will says, pressing a button so another door whispers open.
Outside the sky is darkening but the gardens are lit up, with strings of fairy lights hanging between a tree-lined path that leads down to—
“The Heritage Garden,” Will says with a showy gesture.
Georgia clips my heel and I pitch backward, straight into Finn.
His hands catch me instantly, one at my waist, the other at my hip, steadying me against the solid wall of his chest. The rough wool of his jacket is warm at my back, and I can feel his heart beating, or maybe it’s mine, but neither of us moves.
“Okay?” His voice is rough.
I nod, not trusting my voice. His hands tighten fractionally before he releases me, stepping back.
“Thanks,” I manage.
When I turn to look up at him his eyes are dark, the pupils blown wide. His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers there for one charged second before he looks away.
Meanwhile, Will’s still talking and I try and focus. “And of course we’re planting the original herbs the monks used here in the 12th century,” he says, bending to pluck a leaf of hyssop. He crushes it between his fingers and the aromatic green smell lifts into the evening air.
“It’s beautiful,” I say because he’s waiting for it.
“Obviously we’d love you to come back and have a proper look when it’s daylight. Just say the word and I’ll give you my private number.”
There’s a rumbling growl from the general direction of Finn.
“Imagine what you could do with support like this,” Will murmurs as we turn to head back inside. His voice is low enough that nobody else can hear and I swallow a wave of guilt even though I haven’t done anything wrong. “Vision deserves resources. We reward it here at Glen Mhor.”
As we step in through the sliding glass door Finn’s expression is unreadable.
Inside the champagne reception is in full flow and a string quartet is playing something polite and understated from the corner of the room.
“I tell you what, those monks would be spinning in their graves if they could see all this nonsense.” Malcolm holds the glass of champagne at arm’s length and looks at it with distaste. “And what kind of whisky distillery has champagne on offer and none of the hard stuff?”
Finn gives an upward nod of agreement. “The sort of distillery that’s owned by a multinational conglomerate.
” He takes a champagne bottle from the side of the bar and turns it around, showing us the label.
“This is their new brand. This isn’t just a chance for them to show off their fancy new visitor centre, it’s a marketing opportunity. ”
Jennifer is in her element, floating from group to group with her tinkly laugh and a glass in hand. She brushes past us regularly with a bright smile, as if to remind us that we’re here under sufferance.
“Of course, not every distillery can aspire to these standards,” she says a little too loudly to a journalist who holds out his phone to record her comments.
Her eyes sweep over Finn’s broad shoulders, Malcolm standing with his arms folded in his too-tight kilt, and me in my still slightly crumpled black dress.
“Of course, it’s admirable for them to try, but… ”
I look up at Finn. His face is a granite mask, completely emotionless.
Then the lights lower and a polished man in a tux takes to the stage.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us as we celebrate Glen Mhor Distillery, winners of the Highland Innovation in Tourism Award for outstanding achievement in sustainable visitor numbers and local economic contribution.”
“What a fucking joke.”
Luckily, the burst of applause drowns out Finn’s aside. Georgia stares at him with her eyes wide in a warning expression.
“What?” Finn looks at her, all innocence.
“We all know this is nothing but nonsense,” says Malcolm, raising a warning finger, “but you can’t let them get inside your head. We’ve got our own battles to fight.”
I grimace and fiddle with my watch. For a second I wonder if Finn’s going to stride onto the stage and expose this for the bullshit it is. He takes a long breath in then turns away, disgust written on his face.
Malcolm drains his glass. “What does a man have to do to get a decent dram around here?”
“Drive eight miles down the road to Benruar?” says Georgia helpfully.
Finn snorts with laughter and the mood is broken.
“I think we’ve done enough, would you all agree?” He glances around the room. The award’s being handed over, and Will is ducking his head with rehearsed modesty. Cameras flash and the audience bursts into more applause.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” Finn says, and Malcolm nods agreement.
We’re trying to move as a group when Will reappears at my side. “This is just the beginning,” he says to all of us. “We’re building something lasting here. There’s always room for talent.” He looks at Georgia, and then at me. He doesn’t even try to disguise what he’s doing.
“Talent’s wasted in the shadows,” he says, looking directly at Finn.
“We’ve seen what you wanted us to see,” Finn replies, his voice flat and final. “We’ll let you enjoy your party.”
The drive back is quiet. Georgia’s tapping furiously on her phone making notes.
Malcolm – one too many champagnes to the wind – is dozing with his head against the window.
I lean my head against the glass, looking out at the dark shapes of the stone walls and the hedges by the road, my brain settling back into itself after the noise and over-stimulation of the party.
We drop Malcolm home first, then Georgia, both disappearing into their warmly lit cottages in the village. Lights shine from the Benruar Hotel and outside a group of people stand laughing and chatting.
Now it’s only the two of us, the Land Rover feels smaller somehow, the darkness more intimate. I’m still in the back seat but I lean forward slightly, my arms resting on the back of the passenger seat.
“That was…” I trail off, not sure how to finish.
We’re both quiet. The headlights cut through the darkness, illuminating the stone walls and the hedgerows.
“You didn’t have to come,” he says finally. “Tonight.”
“I wanted to.” The words come out softer than I intended.
His hands tighten on the steering wheel. In the mirror, his gaze holds mine.
“Tilda—” He stops himself. “Never mind.”
But something has shifted. I can feel it humming in the air between us, coiled tight and ready to snap.