‘We?’ There’s no sign of collaborators. Apart from the equipment and shelves of glasses and bottles the space is almost empty.
He coughs. ‘At first I had help with the marketing, but now it’s just me.’
I’m gazing around. ‘You … and some very smart glass tables and Philippe Starck ghost chairs.’ See-through perspex with a hint of Louis Quatorze, they’re still one of my favourites from Daniels’ furniture department. The last thing I was expecting to get in Bill’s distillery was furniture envy.
‘They’re for the tasting sessions, I liked the way the transparency of the tables echoed the transparency of the gin.’ If only he’d applied half this much inspiration and attention to our deccies.
‘I don’t suppose …’ I’m kicking myself for sounding this tentative, so I try again. ‘I may have to … actually I’ll be stealing them for a few days.’ Well, two and a bit weeks actually.
‘What for?’
‘For dining at the castle over Christmas.’ I can mix and match with extra chairs to make up the numbers, but that won’t matter.
He’s looking at me like I’ve seriously lost my marbles. ‘Only one hitch with that, Ivy – there isn’t a dining room.’
‘One end of the bit you call the chill out space? Obviously we’d keep the plastic away from the roaring fires.’ If we overcome the melting risk, they’ll be sensational. I’m chipping away. ‘The whole transparency thing … echoes of icicles … how amazing the chairs would be, draped with fairy lights? They’re exactly what we need to transform those – ahem – empty spaces.’
‘Two hitches actually.’ He lets out a breath. ‘Glass tables, and all those sticky kiddie fingers? How’s that going to work?’
I’m cursing his stubbornness when my second brainwave hits. ‘Imagine the Christmas tree in the entrance hall decked with miniature gin bottles and sea shells.’ I’m searching his face for a positive sign. ‘The tables and chairs are just the start – we could fill the entire castle with transparent gin-themed decorations?’ See what I’m doing here? Weaving the furniture into the vision. Taking Christmas back to his adult-only comfort zone. ‘We’ll take our lead from the stars on the gin labels and have bright orange and cerise pink as our theme colours.’ I’m doing this so wholeheartedly I’m actually getting carried away on my own wave of enthusiasm.
And finally, he nods. ‘You could be onto something there, Ivy-star.’ Then he sweeps up a glass from a tray. ‘Let’s drink to that!’
Just when it was going so well, my heart comes crashing down to my boots again. ‘I’m actually on a break right now.’
His voice shoots up. ‘From alcohol?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘But you can’t be. Think of all those toffee vodkas we had by the log fire … you can’t give up anything that delicious.’
This time I clamp my mouth closed before it drops open and try to laugh this off. ‘They could explain the blurry judgement.’ Now I come to think of it, the caramel flavoured alcohol might explain why I remember that delicious feeling of my toes turning to syrup. But I need to call a halt to all this reminiscing. ‘Can we please stop wasting time living in the past. If we’re going to sort out a fabulous Christmas, there’s no time to lose, we need to get on.’
‘So what happened?’ He’s frowning. ‘You refused my offer of a drink two seconds ago, that qualifies as the present.’
He’s got me there. But if I fill him in with the middle bits, at least I’m being open and honest, and it’s a darn sight less dangerous than talking about ski lodges. ‘After George there was too much drinking, too many awful dates. I’m taking a holiday from all of it.’
Actually it was so much less fun than I’m making it sound. But when George left almost two years ago now there was this crazy voice inside me, telling me I’d thrown away my fertile years. The more desperate I was to find someone new, the more impossible it was. And the worse the guys became, the more reason I had to throw down the shots.
If I’m honest the accident was the culmination of that very awful time. It was the bottom of a very deep trough, the turning point. But anything that tragic is very hard to move on from. So long as I throw myself into doing things for my friends rather than for me, and pretend to the outside world that everything’s okay, I can just about hold it together.
Bill shrugs. ‘Sleeping with strangers, Tinder’s got a lot to answer for.’
As my eyes pop open my protest is loud. ‘Actually I didn’t do that.’ Mostly not, anyway. Mostly I passed out way before I got anywhere near their beds. ‘But eventually I got a wake up call that made me rethink all those poor choices.’ I’m trying for my best super-confident beam, knowing it’s coming across more wild eyed than I’d like, and that I’m sharing so much more than I should. And knowing that if I hadn’t been in that awful state, Michael would probably be alive now.
That’s not something I’ll ever leave behind, it’s a weight I’ll carry with me forever. However much I pretend I’m fine, which I have to do for other people, I know I’ll never get past the guilt. But that’s something I’ve got to lock up deep in my heart, something private for me, my very own penance. The only way to explain it is that it feels like a rock sitting inside my chest. I can’t let it spill out and bring other people down. But I know that it will stay there forever, because I really don’t have the right to be happy again. And I’m completely resigned to not being.
‘So here I am, there are lots of things I don’t do for now, neat gin’s only one of them. But it’s all working out really, really well.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it.’ He swallows and looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than where he is. ‘It explains why tinsel’s become inordinately big in your life.’
Could he be any more patronising? ‘No, I’ve always been the same with tinsel.’
He’s still going. ‘How about we take the buckets over to the castle on a trolley and wash them instead?’
At last there’s an offer I can’t refuse. The distillery was supposedly a doggy no-go area, so I’ve been pretending Merwyn wasn’t here, but if we’re leaving I can talk to him again. ‘Time for a walk?’
His tail shoots up, and he skitters towards the door, claws slipping on the gleaming floor.
Wandering towards the castle as the sky darkens with the crash of the waves echoing in the distance and the lights shining on the front doesn’t get any less thrilling. But however picturesque it is, as I hang on to Merwyn and make sure the bucket stacks don’t topple off the trolley, I’m reminded again that real life is a lot less perfect than fairy tales. I actually love trundling gear around, ideally I’d be the one hauling the trolley. But you know what guys are like? Even though George rarely ventured into a supermarket, the once in a blue moon he did, he had to be in charge of the wheels. And as Bill is head of ops and arrogance personified, I don’t get within a country mile of this trolley handle.
Instead of minding, I’m thinking ahead to dinner, and the spag bol I left bubbling on the Aga. The only flaw in my plans for an evening on the kitchen sofa sorting out lists is that Bill could be crashing around in my space.
Bill pulls the trolley to a jerky halt in front of the house, and as I make a lunge for the falling buckets he’s staring at a huge, shiny, black