a terrace of impossibly cute cottages – each one painted a different pastel shade – we joked that they’d probably been natural, unadorned stone until Instagram had come along. Then out had come the paint rollers and the jaunty colours.
Not once did Paul grumble about the fierce winds or sudden downpours that soaked us to the bones. The local fish and chips were heavenly and seemed to taste even better when we ate them huddled together for warmth in a covered wooden shelter facing the choppy sea. One evening we treated ourselves to a vast seafood platter – everything caught mere hours before we devoured it – at an elegant art deco hotel.
‘Is it because of your dad that you wanted to come here?’ I asked that night as we strolled back to the cottage.
‘Kind of,’ he said. It made sense that Paul had been drawn to Scotland, which, in turn, had led him to researching the Outer Hebrides for our trip. Ian had been a ducker and diver, owning various ramshackle hotels in Yorkshire before making his final purchase way up north, in Fort William. He’d loved the Heather Glen Hotel so much he’d moved to Scotland permanently and spent his final years living in its annex of leaky attic rooms.
Like his father, Paul had never had a thought-out career plan. When I’d met him he’d been flogging spicy sausages from a fast food van close to York Minster – but that enterprise hadn’t lasted long and there had been a string of ill-fated schemes since then. ‘When’s Paul going to settle down?’ my sister asked a couple of Christmases ago at her place. She and her marathon runner husband Derek live in a vast modern detached house on the outskirts of Leeds. Their kitchen island probably rivals some of the smaller Scottish isles in terms of square footage. Child-free by choice, and with a law degree and a high-flying job with the civil service, Belinda has always relished her wiser older sister role.
‘He’s fine,’ I replied, defensively. ‘There are plenty of things he can do. He’s very resourceful.’
‘Hmm, is that what you call it? And you being freelance as well,’ Belinda added. By a weird kind of fluke, I had become an in-demand writer of obituaries for newspapers. So much work had poured in – because people are always dying – I’d been able to quit my lacklustre job at a recruitment consultancy to focus on writing full-time. ‘I don’t know how you can stand the uncertainty, Suze,’ my sister had added. ‘Will he still be like this when he’s fifty? Sixty? For the rest of his life?’
I don’t know! I wanted to tell her. Anyway, what does it matter to you what he does? The thing is, I’d always reassured myself, you don’t fall for someone on the basis that they’re a settled option. At least I don’t. Yes, Paul was certainly fickle and perhaps not your go-to person if you wanted advice on investments or domestic boiler maintenance policies. But I loved him, and during those long, blissful days as we explored Sgadansay together, I don’t think I’d ever felt happier.
Paul booked us onto the whisky distillery tour where a homely lady in an Aran sweater and tartan trousers talked our small group through the distillation processes. We sampled the whiskies and met the master distiller, a rather gruff elderly man with a rangy build and neatly cropped silvery hair. Apparently, his main method of maintaining quality control involved an awful lot of tasting. ‘It seems terribly unscientific,’ someone murmured.
‘It is scientific,’ our guide said with a smile, ‘but it’s about instinct, too. Isn’t it, Harry?’
He nodded and looked around at us as if wishing he could get back to work, instead of being forced to talk to visitors.
‘But how d’you know when it’s right?’ asked a portly man from Texas.
‘Experience,’ Harry said with a shrug.
‘Harry’s been our master distiller for thirty-five years,’ the tour guide explained. ‘There’s nothing he doesn’t know about whisky.’
‘I’m happy to apply for the job, if ever you want to step aside.’ The Texan chuckled. Meanwhile, Paul kept pinging questions to the ever-patient guide: What creates a whisky’s distinctive flavour? Was it the water, the climate, or the casks in which the spirit matures slowly over several years?
‘When you strip it down to the basics,’ she explained, ‘there are three main components to whisky, and they happen to be the very ingredients that are essential to a healthy, happy life.’ She looked around at us. ‘Can anyone guess what they are?’
Paul cast me a bemused glance in recognition of her teacherly tone. ‘Water,’ someone piped up.
‘That’s right. And here on Sgadansay we have the best water in the world. Anything else?’
Paul shot up his hand. ‘Barley?’
‘Yep,’ she said, nodding. ‘There’s malted barley, plus yeast, which we regard as the food element. And the last one?’ She looked around again at our expectant faces. ‘Love,’ she said finally, ‘by which I mean the patience and care that’s needed to make a distinctive whisky like ours.’ She paused as a skinny young man handed around samples of amber-coloured spirit. ‘And that’s it,’ our guide concluded. ‘Water, food and love. Isn’t that right, Harry?’ I caught the master distiller’s barely detectable eye-roll. I suspected he was too down-to-earth for that kind of flowery talk.
‘That was so interesting,’ Paul enthused as we left.
‘It really was,’ I agreed. ‘And what a swot you were with all your questions! Are you thinking of distilling your own whisky at home in our bath?’
Paul grinned. ‘Why not? I mean, how hard can it be?’ I laughed, trying to shrug off a twinge of regret that we would be leaving the island tomorrow. The sharp, salty air filled my lungs, and Paul kissed the top of my head as we stopped to gaze out to sea. ‘Um, Suze, I’ve been thinking,’ he added. ‘When we get back home … well, I’d like to do something different.’
I gave him a quick look. ‘You want to take up hiking?’ I asked with a smile.
‘Not exactly. I mean, I’ve loved it but …’ He wound an arm around my waist. ‘I mean a kind of work project.’
Oh, Christ. For the past few months he’d been working at a gig equipment hire company in York. I’d been relieved that he seemed to have ‘settled down’, as my sister would have put it. ‘What d’you mean?’ I asked.
‘Well, um … you know my job’s just a tiding-over thing, don’t you?’
‘Is it?’ I studied his face.
‘Well, yeah. I mean, it’s not exactly what I want to do for the rest of my life.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Yeah, okay, I get that. So, what’re you thinking about?’
Dusk was falling and the sky was streaked with pink and gold. Paul pointed towards the cluster of buildings in the distance, their lights glimmering like stars. ‘What would you say if I suggested buying it?’
‘Buying it?’ I stared at him. ‘You mean the island?’ I was laughing now, awash with relief. For a moment I’d assumed he was being serious.
‘I mean it,’ he said quickly, ‘but I’m not talking about the island. Dad’s inheritance won’t quite stretch to that.’
I blinked at him in confusion. ‘So what are you talking about?’
He looked at me, clearly fizzing with anticipation, like a child with a secret they’re dying to share. ‘See the white building over there, down by the shore?’
I nodded. ‘The distillery, you mean?’
‘Uh-huh.’ A smile flickered across his lips. ‘It’s for sale, you know.’
‘Is it?’ My stomach shifted uneasily.
‘Yep,’ he said. ‘And the hotel sale should complete next week, so I could go for it …’ His father’s Fort William hotel, he meant, of which Paul was the sole beneficiary;