Chapter 28 Tilda
TILDA
I’m not sure what you’re supposed to wear to an inspection by the sort of person who turns up in a fake Chanel suit with bulletproof nipples, but I suspect that whatever I wear, Jennifer is going to look down her nose at it.
So, I pull on a clean pair of dungarees and one of the dark blue Benruar Distillery polo shirts Georgia’s had shipped over from the mainland, and head down to the kitchen.
Finn’s there already, a murderous expression on his face and a mug of coffee in his hand.
He’s wearing a Benruar T-shirt, too. He’s leaning back against the rail of the Aga and it’s only as I step closer, I realise that his long legs aren’t clad in jeans, instead he’s wearing the blue Kinnaird tartan kilt, with his heavy work boots and a pair of thick woollen socks.
I bite my lip and raise my brows as Georgia walks into the room at exactly the right time to stop me from suggesting we go back to bed.
She brushes an invisible speck from the front of her polo shirt and beams at me.
“Okay, you’ve got to admit we look the part.”
Finn makes a noise that rumbles from low in his chest. Georgia, studiously oblivious, continues to beam.
“This is fucking ridiculous.”
I bend down to pat the dogs on their bed by the foot of the Aga, sneaking a hand around to cup the solid muscle of Finn’s bare calf. He glances down at me with a mock-disapproving look, and I scramble up to standing, my face pink from the heat of the Aga and the thought of what’s under his kilt.
“Do I need to go over everything one more time?” Georgia says, picking up her clipboard.
“No,” we both say in unison. I know exactly what I have to do, and so does Finn – she’s told us all about five million times in the last twenty-four hours.
“I’m going to go and sweep the paths again,” I say, shaking my head as she waves the kettle in my direction. “I’ll have coffee after.”
“She might not turn up at nine,” Finn says, raising a hand with fingers crossed. “She might fall overboard on the first boat.”
“We can but hope,” says Georgia with uncharacteristic venom. “She sent another bloody email last night, giving some last-minute instructions. I’ve had to rewrite the whole proposal all over again. I swear she’s trying to make this as difficult as possible.”
“I don’t think that’s in any doubt,” says Finn as I grab my gardening gloves and head for the door.
“Make sure your phone’s not on silent,” Georgia calls.
I waggle it in the air. “Full volume, ready for instructions.”
“See you on the other side.” She grins. “Break a leg.”
Finn shoots her a sharp look. “Do I need to remind you that breaking limbs is what cost us our gardener in the first place?”
“And wasn’t that a blessing in disguise?” Georgia smiles, completely unaware of the look Finn’s giving me from over her shoulder. “Imagine if she hadn’t? We’d never have met Tilda.”
“Imagine,” says Finn. His voice is cool, but it sets something inside me alight, and I duck my head, biting back a smile as I remember the look on his face earlier that morning.
“Unlucky for her, lucky for me, I guess,” I say brightly, and head out into the garden.
The sky is that all-too-familiar Benruar mixture of bruised purple clouds and patches of brilliant blue. Right now, the sun is peeking out, but it could be torrential rain in half an hour. I look up, issuing a silent plea to the weather gods that they work in our favour for once.
“All we need is sunshine until lunchtime,” I say aloud, crossing both fingers and closing my eyes.
“First sign of madness, that, lassie.”
I spin around to see Malcolm crunching across the gravel towards me, and he too is in one of Georgia’s standard-issue polo shirts.
“I see you got the memo.” I laugh and pat the logo on my chest.
“Aye.” Malcolm nods sagely. “If it kept that old bat off our backs, I’d wear a pink mankini.” He walks off, humming to himself, leaving me wondering if I was hearing things.
By the time my phone beeps a warning, there isn’t a stray leaf to be seen on any of the pathways around the house or down at the distillery buildings.
I’ve deadheaded every single flower in the planters, mopped up water where it’s leaked out of the hanging baskets, and snipped the roses in the arbour so they frame the old folly perfectly.
I’ve raked the compost on the raised beds of the gin garden so it looks like it’s been gone over with a tiny tractor and rotavator, and the rows of young herbs are already filling out thanks to the weather being on our side.
I pick up a piece of white heather and tuck it into my pocket for luck, heading back towards the house as the people carrier ferrying Jennifer and the others from the tourist board makes its way down the drive.
Jennifer unfolds herself from the back seat in a hideous navy suit with red velvet buttons and a pair of court shoes to match, her clipboard tucked under her arm like a weapon.
Finn steps forward, extending a hand.
“Jennifer,” he says, his voice flat.
She gives him a thin smile. “Mr Kinnaird.” She pauses and reaches for the word as if it gives her pleasure to use it. “Sorry, Lord Kinnaird.”
A grimace – so brief that I suspect I’m the only one to notice – flickers across his face.
“Finn is fine,” he says firmly.
She introduces the others – three men in shiny suits, all with the same expression on their face. I wonder if she’s waved a kipper under their noses just before they got out of the car, so they all look faintly disgusted and as if they’d rather be anywhere else.
Georgia, undeterred, springs forward with a hostess grin. “Welcome to Benruar Distillery! We are so excited to host you today. I’m Georgia the operations manager.”
I glance at Finn, who looks many things, but delighted is not one of them. He rubs his jaw and folds his arms, legs akimbo as if he’s marking his territory.
“And a kilt as well,” says Jennifer with a tinkly laugh. “Very good. Makes a change from filthy jeans,” she adds a second later.
She looks over at me and takes out her pen, scribbling something down on the paper clipped to her board. I shift from one foot to the other, feeling awkward.
Jennifer’s eyes sweep around the courtyard, and I watch as she flicks to the board patching up the planter under the window and the peeling paint on the old stable doorframe we’ve disguised with a conifer in a barrel.
“Shall we begin?”
The dogs, who have been sitting by the door like statues – even Flora, who seems to have got the memo – take Finn’s step forward as a cue to move and he turns to raise a warning finger.
“Wait,” he says, and Flora actually stops dead, flopping to the ground and looking up at him with adoring eyes. Now I’ve seen everything.
I hold back, shutting the dogs in the kitchen before jogging down the hill towards the distillery buildings to see how it’s going. I’m rehearsing my little spiel over and over in my head, desperate to do my bit and not fuck it up.
I find them in the stillroom, and I stand on the threshold, watching with my breath held.
Jennifer sweeps through briskly, her heels clicking on the stone. I watch as her gaze skims the big copper stills, the fresh paintwork, and the barrels neatly stacked against one wall.
“Not a huge amount of visitor capacity,” she says, turning to one of the men. He mutters something and scribbles a note on his clipboard.
I open my mouth to protest, but Finn shoots me a warning look.
“It’s not exactly comfortable, is it?” Jennifer says, tapping her pen on her chin.
“It’s a working distillery, not a coffee shop,” Finn deadpans.
“We’ve talked about staggered entry – small parties, very intimate.” Georgia steps in, smoothly. “Premium feel. People like to feel special, don’t they?” She smiles confidently at the smallest man and he nods blankly, falling under her spell.
“Hmm,” says Jennifer.
The tasting room isn’t much better. She pauses inside the doorway. I don’t quite know how, but somehow Malcolm and I have ended up trailing along behind like good luck mascots while Finn and Georgia try their best to put a positive spin on everything.
“At Glen Mhor,” she says crisply, “they’ve recently refurbished their tasting suite. A twelve-seater table, carved from oak. French crystal glassware, a mirrored backbar. It’s very elegant.”
My stomach tightens as I look through the door at the scarred wooden table.
Yesterday when I put a glass jar in the middle with a posy of garden flowers and herbs it had looked rustic and inviting.
And then I hear a commotion behind me and turn at the same time as Malcolm, to see the dogs – mud flying from their paws and their tongues lolling – hurtling towards us, barking with the giddy delight of finding everyone gathered in one place.
Flora skids to a stop but Jess and Poll have clearly lost their minds.
They barge past me and Malcolm, crashing into Jennifer’s legs as if they’re collateral damage en route to their target, who stoops to greet them with a barely repressed smirk on his face.
“Out,” Finn says a second later, and the spaniels drop their heads and slink back towards the door, glancing at me with their chocolate-drop eyes as I catch their collars and look desperately at Finn.
“I thought you put them in the kitchen?” Georgia hisses as they pass me, heading for the paddock. Flora looks up at Finn with adoration, her tail beating a steady rhythm. Of all the days for her to be angelic.
“I did.”
Malcolm whistles and the three of them fall into formation at his heels. “I’ll take them back,” he says. “You get up to the garden and make sure they haven’t done any damage on the rampage.”
My stomach drops in panic as I realise they were covered in mud. As Finn leads on, jaw rigid as he politely holds the gate open for the visitors, I turn and sprint towards the garden, panic icing in my veins.