dark but as he’s always banging on about it, I suspect I’ve got him.
‘Gin’s different.’ It’s as if he’s woken up for the first time. ‘Obviously when you make it, you’re bound to strive for the ultimate, you wouldn’t do anything less. Or at least, I wouldn’t.’
I shrug. ‘So, you’re hung up on gin, for me it’s Christmas.’
There’s a new light in his eyes. ‘Now you’ve mentioned it, I might as well show you the distillery, it’s only next door.’ He’s so enthused, he’s already set off. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll give you the shortened version of the tour.’
‘Why not?’ I’m going to have to do this sometime, so I try not to let my eyes glaze over as I follow him out into the fading daylight. Hash tag, I’d rather be sleeping. Just saying.
I follow Bill as he hurries along the outside of the coach house building and when he pushes through some wide glass doors, the dimly lit space I’m staring around is as big as the building we’ve come from, with the same high ceiling following the slant of the roof. But in here the stone end gable has been completely knocked out, and instead there’s an immense glass window looking straight down onto the beach and out to sea.
‘Great view!’ I can’t deny him that one. The late afternoon has leached away the colour and the edges have blurred, but I can still make out the muted blue of the sea broken by lines of breakers frilling up the sand, a sky streaked with silver. Pin pricks of lights coming on around the edge of the bay, the twinkly cluster that is St Aidan. Then as Bill snaps on the inside lights, the outside darkens, and I’m suddenly blinking at reflections off a polished concrete floor, and flashes from some very shiny copper cauldrons and pipework and dials set back in the corner. The tangy salt and seaweed smell from outside has given way to the heady mix of fresh paint and neat alcohol.
‘So you weren’t joking, you really do have a still?’
The weary boredom on his face has turned to illuminated bliss. ‘We’re only a couple of years into production but Cockle Shell Castle gin’s already winning awards.’
I pick up a bottle from a shelf and turn it over in my hand. ‘Star Shower – the name’s cool.’ That’s as much as he’s getting – the silver and rose gold and pink stars on the label are lovely, but I know better than to heap on the praise.
The way he’s suddenly jumping from shelf to shelf, he couldn’t be more animated. ‘That one’s got a raspberry burst to it, Shining Comet’s got an orange hint. We use juniper berries from the gardens and we’re developing other flavours too. The rhubarb and lime’s almost ready to go.’
‘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
