The Dog Share

‘Buying it?’ I stared at him. ‘You mean the island?’ I was laughing now, awash with relief. For a moment I’d assumed he was being serious.

‘I mean it,’ he said quickly, ‘but I’m not talking about the island. Dad’s inheritance won’t quite stretch to that.’

I blinked at him in confusion. ‘So what are you talking about?’

He looked at me, clearly fizzing with anticipation, like a child with a secret they’re dying to share. ‘See the white building over there, down by the shore?’

I nodded. ‘The distillery, you mean?’

‘Uh-huh.’ A smile flickered across his lips. ‘It’s for sale, you know.’

‘Is it?’ My stomach shifted uneasily.

‘Yep,’ he said. ‘And the hotel sale should complete next week, so I could go for it …’ His father’s Fort William hotel, he meant, of which Paul was the sole beneficiary; there had also been a sizeable financial settlement, which had come through recently. Given Ian’s haphazard approach to business, Paul had been surprised that there had been anything at all.

‘Paul,’ I started, ‘you don’t really mean this, do you? I’m sorry, but I can’t take this seriously—’

‘Why not?’ He frowned, looking hurt.

‘Because …’ I paused. ‘Because you know nothing about distilling, do you? And it’s a highly specialised thing. That Harry guy, the master distiller – hasn’t he been doing that job for thirty-five years?’

‘Yeah, but Harry would still be there,’ Paul insisted, ‘and I wouldn’t need to actually do anything in a hands-on kind of way—’

‘Please tell me you’re not serious about this!’

‘I am. I really am,’ he said firmly.

‘It’s completely mad,’ I exclaimed. ‘You might as well buy a fishmonger’s for all you know about—’

‘I don’t want to buy a fishmonger’s,’ he cut in. ‘I want to buy a fantastic distillery that’s been doing brilliantly for decades now. I mean, it can’t possibly go wrong.’

‘My God, Paul.’ I placed a hand over my eyes momentarily as my sister’s question rang in my ears: Will he still be like this when he’s fifty? Sixty? For the rest of his life?

He took my hand and kissed me gently on the lips. ‘It’d be an amazing adventure for us,’ he said firmly. ‘Please, my darling. Please say yes.’

Chapter Two

Back at home in York, I decided that my best plan of action was to throw myself into my work in the hope that Paul’s obsession would soon be forgotten. I wrote obituaries of actors, composers and a celebrated winemaker who had established a vineyard in Sussex. Her niche English wines had garnered accolades until her death at ninety-two.

Since Sgadansay, everything I’d read about the drinks industry suggested at best the need for copious patience and experience, and at worst, that the wrong kind of booze can cause serious harm. For instance, I’d read that the first liquid to run off after distillation may contain methanol. Once ingested, this can turn into formaldehyde, which is useful for chemical loos and the preservation of corpses – but it’s not something you’d want to be swishing around your insides while you’re alive. It can severely damage the central nervous system, I’d read, and cause blindness and death.

I knew Paul would laugh in my face if I mentioned this stuff, so instead I was trying to gently persuade him to reconsider what to do with his inheritance. ‘It could really make a difference to your future,’ I ventured as we lay in bed one night.

‘To our future,’ he said.

‘Well, yes. But maybe there’s something else you could invest in, that’s slightly less risky—’

‘It’s not risky,’ he insisted. ‘Okay, I might not be experienced but I’m committed and passionate. You know the owner’s keen to sell up and retire …’ I nodded mutely. We’d been over this already. ‘And he’s eager to pass it on to someone like me, who’ll bring a fresh approach, rather than a big conglomerate that’ll just gobble it up.’

Since when was Paul committed and passionate about the spirits industry apart from – and I hated to concede that my mother was right – when it came to drinking the stuff?

‘I’m not jumping into this,’ he added. ‘I’ve been looking into it for months.’ We had already established that he’d lured me to the island under false pretences. ‘All I want to do is make more of the heritage and the island setting,’ he insisted. ‘And you’d be brilliant at handling the media side …’

‘But I have a job already!’

‘Yeah, but you could take this on as another strand.’

‘What if I don’t want “another strand”?’

‘And you’ve got tons of newspaper contacts …’

‘Yes,’ I countered, ‘but only on the obituaries side—’

‘C’mon, Suze. Let’s be daring and bold. Live a little!’

Don’t you ‘live-a-little’ me, I seethed, resenting the implication that I was the one spoiling his fun. Suzy Medley: Trampler of Dreams. This was coming from a man who hadn’t been able to sell his spicy sausages without accruing a rack of debt – which I’d helped him pay off. ‘Paul,’ I said firmly, ‘just leave it, will you? I can’t talk about this anymore. I just can’t.’

A couple of days later he found me in Frieda’s room, which wasn’t really Frieda’s room anymore but my office. I’d had to admit, it was silly to keep it as some kind of shrine after she’d left for university. So I’d carefully packed away the curly-edged posters and heaps of battered old trainers and conducted a thorough archaeological excavation under her bed. There I’d found yet more trainers, a musty old sleeping bag, tatty school jotters and, startlingly, a half-eaten pizza in a greasy box.

I’d also rescued the withered cheese plant she’d refused to let me ‘interfere with’, as she put it, insisting it was ‘fine’ crammed into the rusting olive oil can she’d found lying in the street. I seem to have a lucky touch with houseplants. The first thing I’d done, when I’d come home from dropping her off at student halls in Cumbria, was ease it out of the can and re-home it in a roomier earthenware pot so it could breathe. I’d imagined it groaning with relief – like a woman ripping off a constricting bra at the end of the day.

‘Can I show you something?’ Paul asked now, laptop clasped to his chest.

‘Sure,’ I replied. If it was going to be a YouTube clip of a man being chased by a hippopotamus, I hoped it’d be quick as I had urgent work to finish off. He pulled up a spare chair and opened his laptop on the desk.

I read the document on the screen. It certainly went into far greater depth than any of his previous business plans, which had amounted to scribbled notes in tatty notebooks or, on one occasion, on a Pret a Manger lemon cake wrapper. This time he had acquired a full list of the distillery’s employees, and their salaries, plus detailed costs of raw materials, bottling, transport, property maintenance, insurance, utilities and legal shenanigans; every overhead seemed to have been accounted for. He had also written an impressive marketing strategy with the aim of bringing the small distillery to the attention of the world.

‘This is really thorough,’ I remarked.

Paul nodded. ‘My dad would be so proud,’ he said, with a catch to his voice. Startlingly, his eyes were wet.

‘Oh, darling.’ I pulled him close and kissed him. ‘This is all about your dad, isn’t it? You’re not over it, I can tell.’

He shrugged mutely and raked back his hair. It was still abundant, peppered with just a little silvery grey at the sides. ‘You don’t believe in me, do you?’ he muttered.

‘It’s not that,’ I insisted.

‘Wasn’t I supportive to you, when you gave up your job to write full-time?’

‘Of course you were! I don’t think I’d have had the courage without you—’

‘Well, I thought it was daring,’ he went on, ‘and it made me love you even more—’

‘I hated that job though,’ I cut in, which was true. The atmosphere at the recruitment consultancy had been toxic and I’d been relieved to get out. ‘And it felt like the right time,’ I added.

‘Well, this feels like the right time too,’ he said firmly. ‘What are you worried about exactly?’

‘That you don’t know anything about it.’

‘It’s only whisky, Suze. You saw how they did it. It’s not difficult—’

‘What about the chemicals?’

‘What chemicals?’ he asked, looking confused.

‘The chemicals produced when you distil something! I’m scared you’ll embalm yourself—’

‘What?’ he spluttered.

‘It’s true, Paul. I read about it.’

‘I don’t think that’s likely, babe.’ He was smirking now, infuriatingly. ‘What about when you made that sloe gin? I wasn’t aware of you performing a risk assessment then—’

‘Sloe gin’s just gin, with sloes in!’ I sensed hysteria rising in me as we started to laugh.

‘Fuck, Suzy, you’re bonkers, you know that?’ I was bonkers? Bloody cheek! ‘Remember there’s the master distiller,’ Paul added. ‘That Harry guy …’

‘Okay, so why d’you want me to be involved?’

‘Because you’d be brilliant,’ he insisted, ‘and because I love you.’

‘I love you too, but—’

‘Listen,’ he cut in, brushing a strand of hair from my face, ‘I want to do something amazing with Dad’s money. But …’ He paused. ‘I’ll only do it with your blessing.’

I smiled, despite everything. ‘I know what you’re like. You’ll do whatever you want.’

‘Oh, Suze. You know I’d never do anything to hurt or upset you.’ He slid his arms around my waist and kissed me again. Even after six years I was still hit with a whoosh of desire whenever he touched me. Damn him for being so sexy and for always getting his way.

‘Okay,’ I said finally. ‘I guess you should do what feels right for you—’

‘For both of us,’ he said, beaming now. ‘I want this to it be our adventure.’

Six weeks later, Paul and I became joint directors of the Sgadansay Distillery. And two years after that, the once-thriving business had been royally fucked up.

Chapter Three

Now

I expected a grilling. I deserve it too. Yet it’s still shocking to look around at all the stony faces and realise every single person in this room hates me.

It’s like when you’ve run, panting, onto an aeroplane. As the last passenger on board, you’ve caused its delay and now it’s missed its departure slot. Instead of jetting off to Lanzarote you now have to sit on the tarmac for two and a half hours. Everyone knows it’s your fault and they are radiating hatred.

Only this is worse – far worse. It’s not the start of their holidays that’s been ruined, but their livelihoods. I feel sick with shame.

‘Erm, if I could please just say something,’ I call out, shakily, then wait for the hubbub to die down. We are all crammed into the wood-panelled reception area of the distillery. It was sunny half an hour ago but now rain is battering at the windows.

The dozen employees are all sitting on plastic chairs and staring at me with disdain. I inhale fully, trying to give the impression that I am calm and in control. ‘I’ve tried to explain things as honestly as I can,’ I start. ‘That’s why I’m here, so you’d all know the full picture and that I’m doing my best to try and sort things out.’ My voice wobbles as I scan the room again. ‘Please believe me when I say I’m deeply sorry about everything that’s happened,’ I continue. ‘If there’s anything at all that I can—’

‘Sorry?’ calls out a sturdy man in a lumberjack shirt. ‘You think saying sorry makes things any better for us?’

‘No, of course not,’ I bluster. ‘I just want you to know that—’

‘Sorry’s not going to put food on my table,’ cries out a woman with a beanie hat pulled low down on her head.

‘I realise that,’ I start, ‘and I wish things were different—’

‘We deserve a full explanation,’ thunders a ruddy-faced man in overalls, ‘as to why it’s been allowed to get into this state.’

‘That’s what I’m trying to give you,’ I say, sensing my own cheeks flaming. I look down at the smart charcoal linen dress and glossy black heels that I borrowed from my friend Dee to wear today, in the hope that they would make me seem professional and calm; reassuring, even. But now I suspect the businesslike outfit is just alienating me even more – if that were possible – from everyone else in their jeans, thick sweaters and flat boots.

It’s-Margaret-fucking-Thatcher, a man muttered under his breath as I walked in. He looked about twenty-five. I was amazed that she was even in his frame of reference at all.

‘No idea what you were doing,’ the lumberjack shirt man barks from the front row. ‘It’s a bloody disgrace!’

‘You bought it on a whim,’ snaps the beanie hat woman.

‘A vanity project!’ cries someone else.

‘Thought it’d be fun to have it—’

‘With no thought of what it’d involve …’

‘Bloody idiots, the pair of them!’

I’ve lost track of who’s saying what, and even if I could come up with something helpful to say – something to calm the simmering fury – I wouldn’t be able to get a word in. The only person remaining silent is Harry, one of the few employees I know by name, and whom I hadn’t expected to be here today. He’s just sitting there, staring ahead, in faded jeans and a big grey fisherman’s sweater. I can hardly bear to look at him.

‘You didn’t consider the responsibility of what you’d taken on,’ announces a woman with spectacles perched low on her nose – and it strikes me now that it could be an animal she’s talking about: a dog bought for Christmas with no thought as to who would be walking it and bagging up its poos. And now, as I stand here being shouted at, I’m transported back to a time when my daughter had begged for a dog.

She was almost ten, so it was over a decade ago. I’d explained that, as I was working out of the house all day, it wouldn’t be fair to leave one all alone.

‘We could get a dog walker,’ Frieda suggested.

‘Honey, I’m not getting a dog and then employing someone else to walk it.’

‘What about you, then? You could come home for lunch—’

‘Could I?’ I laughed. I was working in the centre of York at the recruitment consultancy. ‘It’s too far from the office,’ I added.

‘You could run. It’d do you good, Mum. You were saying you need to exercise!’

‘I’m not running back and forth to our house every lunchtime …’

‘You could take him to work then!’ So this dog was already a ‘he’ and not some imaginary, gender-less pet.

‘I very much doubt it,’ I replied, truthfully.

‘Why not?’

I should add that this was long before the entire western world had become obsessed with dogs and started taking them to their offices and lying around on beanbags cuddling them. ‘He might pee on the carpet,’ I replied.

‘Please, Mum,’ Frieda begged. ‘He wouldn’t. We’d train him!’

I knew I was a soft touch. From what I’d gathered, I allowed far more impromptu sleepovers than any of the other mums. However, I refused to give in, and I think I made the right decision in opting for guinea pigs instead. I was still married to Tony then – our children’s father – and he’d grudgingly agreed, adding, ‘I hope they don’t get tired of them, Suzy. You know how fickle kids are.’

We got two, partly so Frieda and Isaac could have one each; plus, I’d read that solo guinea pigs can get lonely. They named them Millie and Maisie (I suspect Frieda over-rode Isaac on that score) and loved them unconditionally. Frieda never asked for a dog again.

I read once that, when you’re in the midst of a terrible situation, it’s not uncommon for your brain to spin off to a happier time to protect you from the awfulness that’s going on. It’s a kind of coping mechanism, I think. Perhaps that’s why, as the lumberjack shirt man jumps up to shout, and is swiftly joined by almost everyone else until there’s a cacophony of yelling and tears are flooding my eyes, I’m picturing that beautiful day – the morning of Frieda’s tenth birthday. When I was just a normal mum, responsible for my own little family and not the inhabitants of an entire island whose lives were about to be wrecked.

‘I love this icing!’ Isaac, who was eight, had said as he lurched towards the cake I’d made the night before. I loved to bake and tend to our little suburban garden. How simple life was back then.

‘Hands off, Isaac,’ I said. Too late, he was already licking a swirl of chocolate frosting off a finger.

I turned towards Frieda, who’d wandered into the kitchen to see what was going on. ‘There’s a surprise for you two in the garden,’ I said.

‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Go out and see.’ Frieda grinned, then ran out through the back door. Isaac and I hurried after her.

‘Mum!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Mum. Are they ours?’ I nodded, too choked to speak for a moment. She and Isaac bobbed down to gaze at the two bundles of beige and white fluff inside the new hutch.

‘Can we hold them?’ he asked.

‘Of course you can,’ I said, feeling as if my heart might burst, ‘as long as you’re careful …’ Frieda opened the hutch door and they scooped up the animals into their arms.

That’s what I’m picturing now, as the shouting goes on and my gaze lands upon the only person in this room who has remained seated: Harry in the grey sweater. In his late seventies, he is by far the oldest team member – but he’s not even employed by us anymore. He resigned a few months ago, apparently disgusted with how things were developing here.

I look at him and he gazes back at me, and I’m on the verge of rushing over to hug him. I don’t, of course, because I can imagine how that would go down around here.

Who the hell does she think she is, coming out here, trying to hug people?

He’s up on his feet now and wiping at his eyes with his hands. Oh God, I think he is crying.

The shouts seem to fade as I watch him striding towards the door. I’m seized by an urge to follow him, even though I know that’s the last thing he’d want. So I just stand there, feeling helpless as he leaves; this dignified elderly man, whom I have broken.

It seems incredible that, once upon a time, everything could be made right with a couple of guinea pigs.

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