Highland Fling (23 page)

Jenny planned to get up early and get out of the house before anyone could see her. With her client arriving on Monday morning she wanted to spend a day at the mill making sure everything was absolutely as it should be. They hadn’t arranged it, but she was fairly sure Kirsty would be there too. It was but a faint chance, but they both secretly hoped that Mr M. R. Grant-Dempsey was the sort of man to be dazzled by beautiful presentation, glossy folders and elaborate graphs. Jenny was a whiz at that sort of thing.

She knew it had been a mistake to want breakfast when Henry appeared in the kitchen the moment she got there.

‘Jenny! What time did you get back last night? And where did you disappear off to?’

‘I’m not sure really. I’d never been there before.’ And as she probably couldn’t get there again on her own, this vagueness was partly justified.

‘Jenny! You just disappear off, before the pudding, for God’s sake, and now you won’t tell me who you were with! We are an item, you know. Or are supposed to be!’

‘You didn’t ask who I was with, Henry. I can tell you that! It’s a man I met at The Homely Haggis who needed some advice about something. Of course, if
you’d had the courtesy to tell me you were coming I would have arranged to see him at another time.’

‘You shouldn’t be seeing him anyway. You’re my girlfriend.’

She plugged in the spare kettle she had borrowed from the mill and brought it downstairs with her. She could have mentioned the amount of flirting he had been doing at the Highland games, but as her conscience was far from clear, she didn’t. ‘It wasn’t like that,’ she lied. ‘And why are you up so early?’

‘Damned lumpy bed!’

Jenny nodded sympathetically. ‘I did try to warn you about accepting Lady D.’s invitation to stay. This house is desperately cold and uncomfortable. You’d be much better off in a hotel.’

‘I thought perhaps I might share your bed.’

‘Mine’s not only just as lumpy, but it’s single, too. And I did explain yesterday that we can’t sleep together in Lady Dalmain’s house. Which, I’m sure you’ve found out by now, is far too cold to creep around in, anyway.’

‘So where are you going now?’

‘To the mill. My client is coming tomorrow. I’ve got to make sure everything is absolutely in order.’

‘But it’s Sunday!’

‘I know. But I still have to work.’

‘Well, what am I supposed to do with myself all day? I came to see you!’

‘I suggest you try and find somewhere to stay that has constant hot water and a decent mattress. You’ll be miserable here.’

Henry yawned. ‘Oh, I don’t mind roughing it a bit, and Lady D. knows everyone who is anyone in the
area, and she really is a character. Quite fascinating on her own subject. She can introduce me to all sorts of useful contacts.’

‘That’s true. But will you have time to take advantage of them?’ This was said with a hint of irony, given his fast work the previous day, but it was lost on Henry.

‘Oh yes. I expect to be here at least a couple of weeks. Didn’t I tell you?’

Jenny felt suddenly weak. ‘Why so long?’

‘Aren’t you pleased? I thought you’d be happy that I’ve managed to wangle this job up here so I could be near you!’

‘Happy?’ she repeated feebly. ‘Well, of course, I’m pleased to see you, but I’m frantically busy.’ She looked at her watch. It was ten to eight. ‘I’ve got to be off now. Why don’t you use my kettle, make a cup of tea and go back to bed for a while?’

‘Jenny, I’ve never seen you like this before! It’s all that whisky you drank last night with Felicity. I’ve told you, you shouldn’t drink spirits, especially neat.’

As he didn’t know about half the whisky she’d drunk last night, and she did feel slightly light-headed, she nodded, lips pursed. ‘You may have a point there, Henry, but I must go to work now. Felicity will be up soon, I’m sure, to do Lady Dalmain’s tray. She’ll see you get some breakfast. Now, goodbye.’ She walked out of the room for a couple of paces and then turned back. ‘Oh, by the way, don’t worry about the dogs. They won’t hurt you once they’ve had a good sniff.’

‘I met the dogs last night –’

‘Oh it takes them
days
to get used to you. Just stay in here until Felicity appears.’

*

Jenny saw a light on in the offices as soon as she drove into the car park. It was Kirsty. She had made coffee and a big tin of shortbread.

‘How did you know I was coming?’ Jenny asked.

‘I knew. Have your breakfast, and we’ll get started.’

‘It’s bloody Philip,’ Jenny said half an hour later. ‘If he hadn’t separated the offices from the rest of the mill, we’d have had enough money to finance this whole thing, without asking for another penny from His Nibs.’

‘It might have been better if he hadn’t mortgaged his mother’s house, as well as borrowing against the value of the offices,’ added Kirsty.

‘Yup.’

At half-past three, Jenny went home. She crept into the house, hoping to avoid everyone, knowing she couldn’t for long. She managed to be in the kitchen, making scones with some sour milk before anyone discovered she was back. She didn’t go into the sitting room to see Lady Dalmain, until she had the scones, hot out of the oven, ready to serve, along with a pot of tea.

Kirsty and Jenny met again the following morning just before eight. The good weather of the weekend had gone, leaving lowering clouds, a bitter wind, and rain that promised more to come. The mountains appeared stark and threatening, looming over the town like glowering giants. There were waves on the surface of the river, defying anyone to see it as tranquil. Jenny felt anxious and uneasy, her spirits not helped by the weather. Bloody Scotland! she thought. Why does it
have to do this? We need good omens, rainbows, sunshine, not squalls and icy wind.

‘So, how did it go last night, with Henry – is it?’ asked Kirsty, when the two of them were settled in the office.

‘Don’t ask. It was boring at the time, and it hasn’t got any more interesting.’ It had been downhill all the way after the scones. Jenny dismissed an evening slightly less enjoyable than watching paint dry while having one’s fingernails torn out with a wave of her hand. What time is he expected?’

Kirsty didn’t ask whom she meant. ‘Half-past eight. Effie’s on hand to usher him up.’

‘That’s inhumanly early! It’s also in about ten minutes!’

Kirsty gave a small shrug. ‘We might as well get it over with. Executions are always carried out at dawn.’

Jenny sighed and went to look out of the window, down at the mill building. It appeared very dark and Satanic – appropriate for the day, she thought. A Land Rover pulled up. Automatically, her heart lurched. She batted it back down severely. ‘Get a grip, woman,’ she muttered.

A tall man in a suit got out. He seemed a little familiar, but from that angle, she couldn’t see him very clearly. She looked more intently. ‘God! I think I know him! But it can’t be –’

The man disappeared into the building.

‘Can’t be what? Or who?’

Then she realised it could be, indeed it was. ‘Oh fuck!’ she breathed. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

‘Jenny!’

The door opened, and Effie ushered Ross Grant into
the office. Jenny felt faint. She put her hands behind her on the desk to stop her knees giving way completely. She was sweating. Emotions swirled around her head like party lights, dizzying, confusing, nauseating. When Ross Grant looked at her, her overriding feeling was of betrayal.

He took one look and turned his attention to Kirsty. ‘Hi. Ross Grant-Dempsey. You must be Kirsty Mclntyre.’

Kirsty took the outstretched hand and winced as it crushed hers.

Jenny took a few calming breaths. When he turned his attention to her she could at least speak. ‘And I am your VA, Genevieve Porter. But you knew that, didn’t you?’ She wanted to kill him, slowly, with her bare hands. But professionalism, not just pride, forced her to keep her dignity, even if it was only the pretence of dignity.

‘Yes, I did. I did try to tell you.’

‘Did you? Not very hard.’

He closed his eyes briefly. ‘I know. I’m sorry. Now, shall we get down to work?’

‘I’ll get some coffee,’ said Jenny, and left the room before anyone could stop her.

Unable to make sense of it, Jenny stared at the coffee making equipment. It shouldn’t be difficult, she’d made coffee possibly a million times. Like riding a bicycle, it must surely come back to her. She spent a few moments pondering on when the last time had been. It seemed easier than actually making any now.

How much had she told Ross about the mill? Had he actually got all the information he needed to close it down? A few malt whiskies and he was set to make a
fortune. And the kisses – both of them. Were they a necessary part of his plan? Probably. He probably ensured she’d be interested enough to go out with him, interested enough to let him make her drunk, and tell him all he needed to know. Oh, what an idiot she’d been! How naive! How gullible!

Instant coffee was good enough, she decided. She put quite a large teaspoon of it into a mug – not one of Kirsty’s good mugs, but one of the old ones, with rude slogans and chips around the edge. She was about to pour on the water when she thought of Kirsty. Poor Kirsty. She was going to lose a job she loved, a mill she’d worked all her life for. She shouldn’t have to add shame to the list.

Five minutes later, having made a cafetiere full of Kirsty’s favourite coffee, Jenny picked up the tray, now set with cups and saucers and a jug of milk, and claimed shame all to her self.

Had she been as wanton as she felt? Could he have told how much she wanted him from that last kiss? Did he assume, from her behaviour, that she would sleep with him at the same time as she dismantled the mill for him, allowing him to strip the assets in the same easy way he had stripped her inhibitions from her? She kicked the door with the toe of her shoe, only partly so someone would open it.

She didn’t look at Ross as she set the tray down on the desk, nor did she pour the coffee. Her hands were slippery and shaking, she didn’t want to spill coffee on Ross’s beautiful suit. She sat down on a chair a little away from the others, intending to keep quiet, and pick up from what the others were saying what had gone on.

It was too much. ‘So, you’re going to shut down the mill, are you?’ she demanded, aware she was on the verge of tears. ‘Or will you take a token look at our plans for it? Which would make it successful, if that’s what you want. But it isn’t, is it? You just want to assetstrip. You’re probably longing to live in Dalmain House.’

‘Jenny!’ Anguished, Kirsty got up to deal with the coffee.

Her mention of Dalmain House added to Jenny’s own distress. Henry’s appearance might not just be an irritation for her, but an indication of Philip’s plans. If you wanted to sell a property, and not let anyone know what you were up to, hiring Henry or his ilk was the way to go about it.

‘Shall we just stick to what we’ve got in front of us?’ said Ross. ‘I haven’t had a chance to look at your proposals yet. Though at a quick glance they do seem very speculative. You don’t seem to have done much research into the possibilities of these new products.’

‘We’ve hardly had time to write the damn report, let alone research obscure fibres and uses for merino wool.’

‘Jenny?’ Kirsty’s agony was increasing, and Jenny felt a stab of guilt.

‘I think I should explain, Miss Mclntyre,’ said Ross, ‘that Jenny and I have met under different, not to say difficult, circumstances. She didn’t know who I was.’

‘But, surely, you’re her bo– client.’ Kirsty corrected herself quickly.

‘I know, but we’ve never met, up until now.’

Ross looked across at Jenny, and this time she faced his gaze. He seemed stern, unyielding, the man she
had first met at The Homely Haggis. It was a relief.

He took them through the report, page by page, asking difficult, niggling questions they often didn’t have the answers to.

‘Can you make nuno felt on a large scale?’

‘I don’t know. I have tracked down someone who does it locally, but there hasn’t been time to do indepth research.’ You bastard, Jenny added silently.

‘You’d obviously need new machinery if you’re going to make fabric out of llama and alpaca fibres. You haven’t costed it in.’

‘Actually,’ said Kirsty, possibly gaining courage from Jenny’s abrupt manner, ‘there’s a shed full of machinery. We have a very skilled and experienced workforce. The intention is that the old machinery should be adapted, and thus incur no cost.’

‘What about a designer? Is one of your workforce also very skilled and experienced at that and prepared to do it for nothing?’

‘Felicity Dalmain is going to do that,’ said Jenny. ‘She’s enormously skilled, and, as it’s her family’s mill she’ll be helping to save, she’s willing to do it for nothing initially.’ If this wasn’t already true, Jenny was prepared to use some pretty brutal methods to make it true.

Jenny and Kirsty were both exhausted; Jenny was longing to go to the loo and had a headache that made her skull feel like it was going to split open, all over the plans that were now spread on the table like cheap margarine on stale bread. Kirsty’s lipstick was all eaten off and her silk blouse was beginning to look a bit limp. This was the moment Ross chose to really twist the knife.

‘And where’s Philip Dalmain? Why isn’t he here?’

Jenny’s attempts at politeness hadn’t gone terribly well so far, but now they disappeared completely. ‘Why the fuck didn’t you ask that before? You must have noticed his absence?’

Ross’s manners had been doing better than Jenny’s, until that moment. ‘And why the fuck didn’t you tell me he was missing? You work for me! It was your duty to tell me what was going on! To keep me informed! Why the fuck did you think I sent you here if not to keep me up to speed?’

‘I think you sent me here to report back. And then you’d get me to stay and do your dirty work for you. You knew I’d find the company in such a bad state I’d say it would have to be closed so you’d ask me to arrange it. That way you wouldn’t be on the coal face, you wouldn’t be spotted, laying off workers, selling off equipment cheap – no, you’d wait until I’d done all that, and then swan in, do what you like, and still be loved by the locals, with your mountain rescue team and heaving sheep out of the ditch! Well you got the wrong woman when you chose me, because I’m on the side of the people who produce the wealth, not on the side of those who spend it! Now if you’ll both excuse me, I have to go to the ladies.’