Page 4 of Knots About You
My life could only be described as monumentally screwed up, and if Shelly’s sex-gremlin of a boyfriend was happy to foot the rent… maybe it could work. I’d never had a place to decorate. The apartments were way too expensive in central London for me to buy. And moving a single cushion at Marty’s was practically a capital offence. It might be nice.
Shelly reached over and took my fingers in her hand. I tried not to think about where they’d been. ‘You’ll go to the cottage. You’ll paint a wall or two. And when London stops foaming at the mouth, you’ll come back glowing. It has to be better than staying here and listening to me pounding Dominic every night.’
‘Glowing from being in Scotland?’ I mumbled.
‘Fine. A damp glow. Either way, it’s an adventure.’
I stared into my mug. Scotland. A cottage. Rain instead of the online witch hunt.
A chance to… pause.
‘Fine,‘ I sighed, defeated. ‘But if I die in a tragic wallpapering accident, it’s on your head.’
two
OWEN
The last ofthe stills let out a hiss in the quietening room. I loved the family-run distillery by day, but night was my favourite. When all the tourists left clutching bottles of amber fire, and the staff went home to their families, leaving me amongst the chrome, copper, and brass.
I wiped down the workbench as I’d done every night since I was tall enough to reach it. Circling the cloth until everything gleamed. Righting the place for another day. The scent of malt and smoky wood filled the air, and I sighed happily. Some people would call it unpleasant. But I called it home. It was all I’d ever known.
A thud behind me announced Detective Meowrse, arriving for his nightly patrol. He sported half a tail, and one ear had chunks missing from a fight with a particularly fat rat. But those middle-aged eyes were still sharp amongst his tufty orange fur. He leapt onto the bench with no care for my cleaning, bumping my arm with his solid head.
‘Evening, Chief,’ I said, scratching behind his ear until he gave me a tractoresque purr. ‘All clear? No smugglers among the barley?’
His purr deepened as I moved my hand beneath his chin.
‘You’re a right greedy little thing.’ I said. He didn’t deny it. I continued to pet him until he batted me away—ever the boss.
Even with someone as exacting as me.
Satisfied, Chief Inspector Meowrse—or Chief, Meowrse, Mousey-pants and a dozen other names—dropped to the floor and wandered off, likely to fill his stomach with furry little thieves. I hit the lights as I left the main distilling room, my keys jangling in the lock as I struggled to delay the inevitable any longer.
Family supper night.
Every Monday, without fail.
I loved my family, but all too often I became the topic of conversation.
Why are you single, Owen? Maybe you should get back with Becky. Why did you guys break up? We loved her…And so on.
Crossing the grounds, the breeze hit me with its autumnal nip. Along with the early September chill, it carries the salty smell of the sea and the woody scent of smoking chimneys.
Glowing orange windows awaited as I neared my house. The one I’d grown up in. My parents had moved to my grandparents’ old cottage in the village to downsize when I’d taken over the distillery. A lovely four-bedroom ex-farmhouse, with just Chief and me bumbling about in it. The slow cooker had been bubbling all afternoon, and the smell of beef stew wrapped itself around me like a warm hug when I entered. As much as I loved the long summer days, autumn was where my heart lay. Perfect whisky weather. Time for thick jumpers, wood burners, and bubbling casseroles. Lifting the lid had my stomach rumbling. Rich, thick gravy and falling-apart meat. Carrots from the farm shop andperfectly soft potatoes. Unable to resist, I tore a crust from a slice of bread and dunked it deep. It burned the roof of my mouth, but darn did it taste good.
By the time I’d set the table, the door burst open. Isla, my younger sister, never waited to be invited in. She stormed through the door, all pink cheeks and windswept hair.
‘Smells unreal,’ she said, planting a brief kiss on my cheek before tearing a corner of bread and dipping it into the pot. ‘Better than last week.’
‘You said that last week,’ I muttered while doling out the stew into bowls that were older than me.
Her husband, Jeff, soon followed with an armful of beer cans. ‘Thought this might wet the old whistle.’
‘Beer’s not dinner,’ I said.
‘Beer’s the best part of dinner,’ he shot back with a grin.
Mum and Dad brought up the rear. Dad was slowing down and still pretending he hadn’t been out moving barrels despite all his promises about retirement. The way Mum supported him as he lowered onto a chair wasn’t lost on me.
