The Dog Share. Fiona Gibson

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ 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, СКАЧАТЬ