Highland Fling (35 page)

‘There’s nothing I’d like more than to make soup, after I’ve built a snowman, of course, but I have to go to work!’

‘You’d better ring Iain, then. He might be able to help.’

Iain sucked his teeth, tutted and, although Jenny couldn’t see him, she knew he was shaking his head.

‘I’s vital I get there, Iain. I’m not just being over-conscientious. The whole future of the mill is at stake!’

‘I know that, hen. Could you get down here to us, do you think?’

‘Oh yes. I’ll walk, slide, no trouble. Then what?’

‘I know the guy who drives the gritting lorry. He might give you a lift as far as the main road. I’ve a pal
along there who’s got the right sort of vehicle to take you the rest of the way. But before you set off –’

‘What?’ She tried not to sound abrupt, but was sure she had.

‘Just a thought, but will anybody else be able to get there? You don’t want to have a meeting on your own.’

‘Well, Kirsty lives really near. I’m not sure about Ross Grant-Dempsey, and he’s got a Land Rover.’

‘And it may not be so deep over that side of the glen.’

A snowflake-sized hope that possibly the world had come to a halt melted. ‘I’ll start putting on clothes then.’

‘Aye, and don’t forget to lag your legs.’

Jenny laughed politely and hung up.

She had already warned Kirsty that she would be late, and fended off suggestions that she shouldn’t risk her life to come in – it was only a meeting. Because, in spite of her robust protestations to the contrary, she knew that Kirsty wanted her there, even if the Demon King himself didn’t turn up.

It took her three hours to get there, and, having checked that no Land Rover in the car park did indeed mean no Ross Grant-Dempsey as yet, another half hour to turn herself from an extra in a movie about the North Pole into a quasi-management consultant. Not for a moment would Ross confuse her with the under-dressed, light-hearted girl he had sat with the night before last.

Kirsty had walked, or rather dug, her way into work and had used the hours she’d been there on her own to create a set of the most beautiful reports possible. They were laminated, bound, interleaved with glossy
photographs (taken by Iain with his digital camera) and, although only three of them were expected to be present, there was a small pile of the brochures.

Jenny and Kirsty wandered round the office, straightening the reports, changing the arrangement of chairs round the table, watching people fighting their way through the snow, and children playing. Kirsty, who was looking out of the window, suddenly said, ‘My goodness. It’s Philip! He must have followed the gritting lorry. I didn’t know he was coming, did you?’

‘Oh, yes! Now I come to think about it, he did say he’d come, at the party. I’d completely forgotten. Is this good or bad?’

Kirsty shook her head. ‘I have no idea. It could make it look as if we’re a team.’

‘But are we? He’s got the buildings and we need them.’

‘Perhaps he’s had a change of heart,’ suggested Kirsty unconvincingly. ‘Perhaps he’s come here to tell us, to be a knight in shining armour.’

‘Doesn’t sound like the Philip I know, and there was no suggestion of that the other night.’

Kirsty made more coffee. ‘Want some?’

Jenny shook her head. ‘I’m edgy enough as it is. Philip! How nice to see you,’ she added a moment later.

‘Hello, Philip,’ said Kirsty, a little restrained. ‘Will you take a cup of coffee and a piece of shortbread?’ She handed him a cup and saucer and wafted a hand towards a plate. ‘Goodness knows when Mr Grant-Dempsey will get here. If he does at all.’

‘Oh, he’ll get here. People always do, where money is concerned,’ said Philip.

Jenny felt instantly defensive on Ross’s behalf. ‘Is that why you’re here, Philip?’

He shrugged as he bit into a finger of shortbread, dropping crumbs all over the table. ‘I suppose it must seem like that.’

‘Then what is it like?’ demanded Jenny. ‘I mean …’ she tried to soften her tone. ‘I mean –’

‘What Jenny means,’ said Kirsty, ‘is, are you going to sign the offices – these offices – back to the mill?’

Perfectly sure that wasn’t why he’d come, Jenny pressed too. ‘Yes, are you? It would make all the difference. With the buildings, our plan is almost totally viable.’

He brushed more crumbs off his waistcoat with the back of his hand. ‘I’m sure it is. But why should I give back what I consider to be rightfully mine?’

‘But they’re part of the mill! They’re not yours more than any other bits are!’ said Jenny.

‘Exactly. I’ve only taken a small section.’

‘I didn’t mean that!’ Jenny was beginning to feel really despondent. All morning she had kept herself going with the thought that if she could only get to the mill all would be well. Now she was there, she realised that it probably wouldn’t. She might as well have stayed at Dalmain House and made a snowman.

‘What do you want the money for, Philip?’ asked Kirsty.

‘All the usual things. To keep my family, pay bills, eat. Gloria’s expecting, by the way.’

‘Oh! How marvellous!’ So much for Lady D.'s assumption that Gloria was too old. Jenny didn’t feel there was another way to respond to news like that,
although how they could persuade him to give up the offices now, God alone knew.

‘So, what will you do?’ persisted Kirsty. ‘Invest the money and live off the interest?’

‘No!’ Philip was indignant. ‘I shall buy a bookshop.’

‘A bookshop! What a good idea! Your mother will be so pleased,’ said Jenny.

‘Because selling books is a slightly more gentlemanly occupation than running a woollen mill, you mean?’

‘Well, of course, with your mother, those things are always a consideration. But I meant that books are her passion.’

‘Oh yes. I got my interest in them from her, I suppose.’

‘It’s just a pity she’ll have to live in the apartment above the shop. It might be rather squashed with five of you, and the baby,’ said Jenny. She hadn’t meant to be bitchy; she really had meant to be positive and supportive in the hope that sweetness would get them further than bitterness, but she was tired, and it had just come out.

‘Look,’ said Philip, responding to her anger, ‘there is absolutely no need for my mother to leave Dalmain House if she doesn’t want to!’

‘But it’s been signed over, as security for the loan,’ said Jenny.

‘I know. But she’s got plenty of money of her own. If she wants the house, she can buy it, probably at a cut price, because no one else will want it.’

‘That’s true,’ said Jenny. ‘So, are you telling us that Lady Dalmain has a private fortune?’

‘Absolutely. And not just in stocks and shares. There
are antiques and jewellery in that house which would buy this place several times.’

‘My goodness, all that wealth and no central heating. Are you sure about the antiques? I know there’s a lot of furniture, but is it actually valuable?’

‘Certainly. Mind you, she’d never consider selling anything. She likes owning things too much.’

‘She would if the alternative was being homeless,’ said Jenny. ‘No point in being surrounded by Chippendale on the street.’

‘I don’t think any of it is actually Chippendale,’ said Philip seriously, ‘but lots by his students, of course.’

Jenny was about to suggest he smuggled a few smaller items out of the house and sold them – no one would ever notice they were missing – when Ross Grant-Dempsey came in.

He caught them all off guard. Jenny jumped as if someone had threatened to mug her, and Kirsty looked positively flustered, flapping crumbs onto the floor, grabbing the coffee pot.

‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said. ‘Had a spot of bother coming in.’

‘It’s hardly surprising,’ said Kirsty. ‘This snow!’

‘It wasn’t that. I found some people who needed digging out of their car.’

Jenny took a breath to ask for more details but realised they would not be forthcoming. Kerbside Angel one minute, Boardroom Devil the next, that was her client.

‘Coffee, Mr Grant-Dempsey?’ Kirsty handed him a cup, having already put shortbread on the saucer.

‘Thank you. Now, I’m sure you’d all like to get on.’

‘There’s a copy of our report, Mr Grant-Dempsey,’ said Kirsty. ‘And one for you, Philip.’

Jenny and Kirsty already knew what was in it, the slightly massaged figures, optimistic market trend predictions (llama cloth is going to be big in the autumn collections), and flagrant name-dropping. (Jenny was only grateful they managed to leave Heggie Johnstone’s twenty-first birthday party out of it.) So, while the men were reading they went through torture. When she wasn’t wondering how Ross would tell everyone they were out of work, just two days before Christmas, Jenny wondered how she’d get back to Dalmain House. When she wasn’t mourning the fact that nuno felt might never become a major fashion statement, she was wondering which bits of furniture she would encourage Philip to sell; the drawing room would be quite handsome without all that junk in it.

At last, after what seemed like hours, but was probably only fifteen minutes, Ross cleared his throat.

‘Well, you seem to have done a good job. There is just one problem –’

‘It’s all right,’ said Philip. ‘I give in. I’ll sign back the offices so you can have the capital you need.’

‘But what about the bookshop?’ Jenny asked, suddenly feeling guilty, as if she’d put undue pressure on him.

‘I’ll ask my mother. You’re right, Jenny; she will think it sufficiently gentlemanly, especially when I tell her it’s Toshak and Fiske I’m planning to buy. They’re a well-respected name.’

Even if their customer confidentiality isn’t up to much, thought Jenny.

‘That actually wasn’t the problem,’ said Ross.

‘Then what the hell is?’ Tension and too much coffee finally got to Jenny. ‘We’ve worked so bloody hard, thought of everything, found markets, talked people into giving us catwalk shows – Christ! Kirsty’s niece is writing a piece for
Vogue
– possibly the
Sunday Times
too. What the hell can be wrong with that report? This mill could run like a sewing machine given half a chance. Just have a little vision! Just look at something other than the bottom line for once in your life!’

Aware that everyone was looking at her as if she’d completely lost it, she blushed scarlet, suddenly far too hot in her extra layers. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I think I’ll go to the loo.’

She washed her face, which was a mistake, because the water made her skin feel unbearably tight. She put hand cream on her face, which was a mistake, because it stung like the devil, then she found she’d wiped off all her eye make-up, which was definitely a mistake. After doing the best she could with paper towels, horribly ashamed of leaving Kirsty on her own, with two hostile men, she fled back into the boardroom feeling slightly less attractive than a newborn piglet, and not half so cute.

Everyone looked at her as she came in. As no one else seemed willing to speak, she thought she’d better. ‘Well, is Kirsty going to type out the redundancy notices, or do we need a lawyer?’

Kirsty frowned and shook her head. Philip gave her an old-fashioned look. Ross just regarded her as if she was barking.

‘You don’t understand,’ said Kirsty. ‘It’s going to be all right.’

‘Is it?’ Jenny had spent so much energy bracing
herself for failure, she couldn’t possibly believe in anything else.

‘If everything goes to this very optimistic plan,’ said Ross. ‘Do you want a lift home, Jenny? I didn’t see your car in the car park.’

Jenny blinked at him, still trying to take in the news. She shook her head to clear it. ‘No, thank you. I’m fine.’

‘So, how will you get back? Presumably someone gave you a lift here.’

‘Three someones, actually, counting Iain.’

‘So how will you get there?’

She would walk back, if the journey took her days, weeks even, rather than accept a lift from him. She felt such a fool and she almost hated him for letting her misjudge him.

‘Philip – Philip will take me. Won’t you? He wants to speak to his mother.’

Philip seemed somewhat disconcerted at the prospect of driving along snowy roads with a madwoman in his car, but he coped like the gentleman his mother thought he was. ‘Er, yes, fine. Of course. No trouble.’

‘Good.’ Ross scooped up the papers in front of him and swept them into his briefcase. ‘I’ll be off then. Let me have those other figures, Kirsty. Bye.’

A moment later they were in the vacuum of a large presence now absent. It was like the moment after an explosion, before the birds start singing again, and life begins to deal with itself.

‘Phew.’ Jenny shivered. ‘Thank God that’s over. Don’t worry, Philip; you don’t really have to drive me home. I’ll ring for a taxi or something.’

‘It’ll be something, at this rate. It looks like there’ll be
more snow before long,’ Kirsty shook her head, trying not to appear smug for living so close to her work. ‘You could always spend the night with me.’

‘No,’ said Philip. ‘I think driving you home now would be a good idea. I’ll ring Gloria and tell her everything’s going to be all right, but that I might stay at my mother’s.’

‘But is it going to be all right?’ asked Jenny a little later, when, both well wrapped up, armed with a flask of coffee and the rest of the shortbread, in case they got caught in a snow drift, they set off for Dalmain House in Philip’s sensible Volvo. He obviously had to trade in his sportscar.

‘It will be for the mill. I’m not so certain about the bookshop.’

‘I’ll do everything I can to help. I’ll tell your mother it was all Ross’s fault and you deserve the money for saving the mill.’

‘You don’t need to tell lies for me, Jenny, although moral support might be useful.’

‘It would only be a white lie. After all –’

‘Actually, it would be diametrically opposed to the truth. It was because of my mismanagement that the mill got into trouble in the first place. It was me who looked for an angel investor and found Grant-Dempsey. I didn’t know they’d – he’d – want quite such a large slice, although I know now ifs standard.’

‘So how much money will you need for the bookshop?’

‘Not more than a couple of Jacobean tables and a Landseer,’ he chuckled.