Highland Fling (13 page)

She realised she had to make a choice. She could either pretend that Henry really didn’t exist and go out with this man who did strange things to her sinews, or she could make the sensible decision and just say no.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry. As I said, I’m here most evenings, and if I’m not, it’ because I have other work to catch up on.’

‘About your other work –’

‘I’m not saying a word about it. It’s confidential.’

‘I won’t torture you for information about it. You could just go out for a drink with me.’

‘No.’

‘Well, I might ask again, once or twice.’

‘Suit yourself.’

When at last he’d driven away, she allowed herself to sink onto the stool behind the counter. Thank goodness he’d only asked her for a drink. If he’d said, ‘Would you like to come to bed with me?’ she might not have been able to resist.

Lust did not often affect Jenny. In fact, she had always considered herself rather lacking in that way, but that was one area in her life where Henry was not critical. He wasn’t demanding, never asked her to do anything too exotic and always made sure she was all right before he went to sleep. The fact that he didn’t notice she was pretending didn’t bother her, nor did it bother her that sex was restricted to Saturday nights or Sunday mornings. She just accepted that what the magazines said was overblown hype, and what she and Henry had was perfectly normal.

Before that, it had usually taken her a long time before she wanted anything more than a little gentle kissing, which was one of the reasons she had liked being with Henry; he didn’t rush her. So lust, coming as it had, from the other side of a coffee-shop counter, from someone who had proved in every way to be bullying, boorish and rude, was a complete, very unsettling surprise. It meant that her brain and her libido were entirely unconnected, acting totally independently from each other. Jenny liked to feel in control of her life, and this complete disconnection between heart and head meant that anything could happen. She could no longer trust her good sense to keep her safe. She might end up corresponding with a prisoner on death row, and
marrying him just before his lethal injection, or something.

Oh God, she thought, wiping up the mess, why has this happened to me? Things like this are not supposed to happen to me! I know Henry thinks I’m daft as a brush, and in some ways maybe I am, but where my love life has been concerned, I’ve always been a rock-solid, head-in-charge girl, not a hormonally unbalanced firecracker, exploding in all directions at once. Life is difficult enough at the moment, without this!

Fortunately, before she could berate herself too much, Felicity’s Volvo appeared. By the time she had got out and arrived at the counter, Jenny at least looked as though she had all her marbles, even if she knew several of them had gone flying.

‘Hi, Felicity! How lovely to see a friendly face! What can I get you? A double mocha skinny latte with sprinkles?’

Felicity looked bewildered, and took out a packet of cigarettes.

Jenny realised that Felicity had probably never experienced an American style coffee shop. ‘How about a hot chocolate?’

Felicity took a long drag. ‘Lovely, and I’ve brought a little something to put in it.’ Holding the cigarette between her lips, Felicity opened a large handbag and brought out half a bottle of whisky.

‘Mm, I’d better not join you. One of us had better be fit to drive. Now what do you want to eat? This is on me. You can have a bacon bap, with onions, or a fried egg. Tomato soup? Here, have a look at the menu. I’ll open the door so you can come round.’

‘This is cosy,’ said Felicity a little later, contemplating a bap oozing butter and bacon. ‘I wish I could cook like this for Mama. It’d be so much easier. Poor Mama. She’s devastated about Philip.’

‘You don’t have any clue about where he might have gone, do you? It’s really important we find him.’

‘Mama is certainly desperate to.’ Felicity hesitated, as if finding her brother was not absolutely her first concern. ‘She can’t believe that Philip has chosen to be with – someone not out of the top drawer. I can perfectly understand it myself.’

‘So, was that the only reason he left? So he could be with her?’ Jenny was trying to ascertain whether Felicity knew of any minor misdemeanour connected with the mill.

Felicity shrugged. ‘Mama certainly wouldn’t countenance his marrying a woman like her, who’s not even young enough to bear children. It was bad enough Iain marrying Meggie, but at least Iain was the younger son, and Meggie was the right age, if not the right class.’

‘So what about you and Lachlan? Would you be allowed to marry, if things looked like they were going in that direction?’

Felicity shrugged as if doubtful things would ever go in that direction and lit another cigarette. ‘Possibly. I don’t suppose she’d notice; she’s in too much of a state over precious Philip. Not that we’ll probably get that far. He’s away so often and I haven’t heard from him since the other night. He’s probably been frightened off for ever.’

There was something terribly poignant about this woman’s faded beauty and her sadness. ‘Are you in love with him?’

Felicity didn’t hesitate. ‘Oh yes. I have been for the past twenty years or so.’

‘Goodness, that’s faithful! Does he feel the same about you?’

‘I shouldn’t think so for a minute.’ Felicity sighed. ‘He never knew how I felt about him. We went out a few times and then Mama put a stop to it.’

‘And you just let her?’

Felicity sighed again, even more deeply. ‘It may seem ridiculous to you, but I was ill and she managed to stop us communicating. By the time I was better and could have fought back, Lachlan had gone abroad.’

‘How tragic. And didn’t he leave an address?’

‘I don’t think Lachlan would have been all that bothered about me.’

‘But he remembered you, didn’t he?’

‘Oh yes. I dare say his memory’s OK.’

‘But he wouldn’t have remembered you if he hadn’t cared about you. Honestly, men don’t.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Perfectly. If you’d just been another girlfriend he possibly wouldn’t have remembered at all, and he certainly wouldn’t have come to dinner. God! He’d have remembered what your mother was like! Only a brave and keen man would do that twice.’

‘You really think so?’

‘I certainly do.’ And while she was thinking about Lachlan, a thought came into Jenny’s mind. ‘Next time you speak to him –’

‘If there is a next time …’

‘You must ask him what happens to the clippings. Of the animals he shears.’

‘I will if you like, but why?’

‘It’ just an idea I’m tossing round in my head. It probably won’t come to anything, but I might as well have a think about it.’ Silently she added, I haven’t had any sensible ideas, I might as well go with the crazy ones. Aloud, she said, ‘Now, a coffee? Or more hot choc?’

Chapter Eight

Kirsty McIntyre was looking gloomy but resigned when Jenny arrived the next morning. It was only nine o’clock, but she had obviously been there a long time.

She led the way to Philip’s office. ‘I’ve been trying to sort out what’s missing.’

‘And?’

‘The only important stuff seems to be the copies of the deeds. But I found a sheet of architect’s drawings. They were stuck between one file and another. I’ve never seen them before, which explains why they weren’t properly filed. Quite interesting. Coffee?’

‘Yes please,’ said Jenny. ‘But you don’t have to make it. I’m perfectly capable –’

‘No, you sit there. Here’s something to read I found this morning that might amuse you. It’s a memory of the time when this mill didn’t produce shoddy sweaters for tourists.’

I didn’t say that, did I?’ Jenny took the booklet that Kirsty handed to her, abashed.

‘You didn’t need to. We all know what we produce. Will you have a shortbread biscuit with it? I made it myself. I couldn’t sleep last night,’ she explained. ‘I had to do something.’

Jenny nodded, sympathetic and grateful at the same time. ‘I didn’t have breakfast. What’s this?’

‘It’s a catalogue. Not one of ours, but it’s an indication of the kind of things we used to produce, back then.’

It had ‘Ritchie and Ritchie’ embossed in gold on the front, and underneath was an address in America, and the date 1932. Jenny turned to the first page. On it was a small, two-inch square of cloth and a description. She ran her finger over the cloth and realised she had never felt anything so soft.

‘What’s a vicuña?’ she asked, when Kirsty came back with the coffee.

‘A sort of Ilama, but you only find them in zoos nowadays. They’re so nervous they die if you try to go near them. They produce the hair they used to use for shatooshes but the use of them has been illegal for years now. Except under very special licence, and then only for scarves and things.’

‘Oh.’ Jenny turned the page. ‘Here’s another animal I’ve never heard of. A guanaco?’

‘I think they’re a sort of alpaca, but to be honest, I’ve never heard of them either.’

‘Alpaca . . .’ Jenny went on turning the pages, finding more samples, from more unusual animals. ‘You know, I met an alpaca clipper the other day.’

‘Did you?’ Kirsty picked up a pile of papers and went through it, tossing most of them into an already-full wastepaper bin.

‘Do they have fine wool?’

‘Yes, but it’s not referred to as wool. It’s fibre.’

‘Right.’ Jenny turned more pages. ‘You know, this catalogue – you finding it like that – it seems an omen.’

Kirsty peered at Jenny over her spectacles. ‘I thought
you were supposed to be a professional, not someone who believes in omens.’

Jenny smiled. ‘Look, we have less than three weeks to come up with some sort of future for this mill that we can present to my client. I’d like to help – and if solutions come to me in the entrails of dead animals, I’m not going to knock it.’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. But this catalogue has given me an idea. If this mill can’t produce cheap sweaters at a profit, perhaps they can produce really fine pieces, from unusual animals – fibres, I suppose.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, you’re importing wool at a price which is barely viable. It’s processed on machinery that costs an arm and a leg to lease, and, at the end, no one wants the product enough for you to make a profit. We need to look at what’s required in, say, Bond Street, and make that, not bother with the bread-and-butter stuff.’

‘So you’re saying, scrap what we do now, and go upmarket?’

Jenny nodded. ‘But it might be quite out of the question. I’ll need to make some enquiries about the availability of animal fibres. But if Felicity’s boyfriend goes round the country clipping alpacas, he must know where they all are. And he might know about some of these other animals too – llamas, for example. What do you think?’

Kirsty raised a fine eyebrow. ‘I think you need your bumps felt.’

‘You mean, I’m mad? Well, I can’t argue with that. But unless we think of something else, it’s my mad idea or nothing. Let’s do the figures. Let’s work out
how much we’d save if we sent the machinery back. Then let’s work out how we’d manage without machinery . ..’ Jenny’s enthusiasm evaporated. ‘How silly. However skilled the workers are, they’re not going back to hand spinning, and it’s unlikely I’ll convince my client to invest more money to buy specialist machinery.’

‘We might not need new machinery. There’s a shed full of it. Nothing in a mill ever gets thrown away.’

‘But why was it abandoned the first time?’

Kirsty made a dismissive gesture, separating herself from the decision. ‘It probably seemed a good idea at the time. But we don’t know what’s suitable yet anyway, though there are enough men around here who’d know how to adapt it. Young Iain, for example. He was always messing around with the machinery when he was a lad. He’s a fine engineer now. And he knows about textiles. It’s a shame Philip wouldn’t let him into the business as an equal partner, and Iain wouldn’t take less.’

Jenny sighed. ‘The trouble is, even if we can adapt the machinery, and get hold of the fibres, we need to find out if there’s a market. It won’t be any good presenting these ideas to my client if they’re still only ideas. They have to be presented as a properly researched strategy.’

Kirsty didn’t speak for a minute. ‘Jenny, you referred to Mr Grant-Dempsey as your client. You’re here because of him. Why are you so set on making the mill profitable? Shouldn’t you just do what is best for your client?’

Jenny took a breath. ‘Yes, I should. But before I was a virtual assistant – before I had clients – I worked for
a dot.com company. Like so many of them, we went bust. But the people who set it all up left with money – quite a lot of money. I’m not at all sure how they did that, but we – the workers – were got rid of with no severance pay or anything. I had my suspicions that something was wrong with it before the crash happened, but when nearly every dot.com business went bust, no one questioned anything. It’s why I wanted to work for myself, and it’s why I’m on the side of the workers.’ She paused to get her thoughts in order. ‘I am not a disloyal person. I do have feelings of loyalty to my client. But I don’t see why he can’t make money without sacking everyone and developing the site, whatever.’