Molly raised her eyebrows but didn’t speak, which Adam took as a cue to crack on.

‘There’s a derelict farmhouse distillery out at Stremnishmore, you know it?’

‘On the Oa?’

Adam nodded.

‘Heard of it, never been there, though. It’s pretty remote out that way.’

‘It’s perfect,’ said Adam, spreading everything out on the sofa between them. ‘I went to see it last time I was on the island, a lot of the equipment is still in decent condition. The owners are happy to sell. It still has a water supply from Loch Kinnabus, everything’s in place to get it going again. I’ve had a business plan put together and some quotes, reckon I can get the whole thing operational for a million pounds.’

Molly shuffled through the papers and photos, smiled and sipped. ‘Where are you going to get that kind of money?’

Adam looked down at his drink. ‘That’s why I’m here this weekend. I’m going to ask Roddy.’

‘Why bring him all the way here to ask?’

Adam looked up. ‘I just thought if he saw it he’d understand. He’s never been to Islay before. I hoped he’d get caught up in the spirit of the place.’

Molly looked through the stuff Adam had given her.

‘Do you think he’ll go for it?’ she asked.

Adam nodded. ‘It’s a good investment. There’s a growing market for Islay malts, even with the recession. Look at Bruichladdich and Kilchoman. Small boutique operations are springing up all over the place. This would be the only distillery on the Oa, with a distinct character all its own. I know enough about the whisky industry to market it properly. Obviously I’d need to employ the right people, but there’s lots of industry experience here on the island, I’m sure that wouldn’t be a problem. I could even hire you.’

‘Getting carried away a wee bit, aren’t you? Shouldn’t you wait to see what he says?’

‘I think he’ll go for it, I really do. It’s not as if he doesn’t have the money.’

‘When are you going to ask?’

‘I’ve planned a surprise trip to the site tomorrow morning. Want to come?’

‘I wouldn’t want to get in the way.’

‘Not at all, having you there might help, knowing the locals are on board and all that.’

Molly looked doubtful.

‘You do think it’s a good idea, don’t you?’ said Adam.

Molly sifted through the paperwork and finished her whisky before answering. ‘I think it’s a great idea. I mean, I dreamed about doing something like this with Joe for years. But there’s so much to consider. It won’t be as easy as you think.’

‘I know it’s going to be hard work, but I really think I can make a go of it.’

Molly reached for the bottle and refilled their glasses.

‘Good luck.’

‘So you’ll come tomorrow?’

She looked him in the eye. ‘Sure, why not?’

Adam grinned and raised his glass. ‘Here’s to the Oa single malt, available in all good whisky shops in ten years’ time.’

They clinked glasses and sipped, the ancient smoke filling their chests. Eventually Molly spoke.

‘So, how did you get into whisky in the first place? I was brought up on Islay; what’s your excuse?’

‘My dad,’ said Adam. ‘He never really had extravagant tastes in anything else, but he always had a decent bottle of malt in the house. He used to work as an engineer at the local power station. I remember he would come in after a shift all hangdog and knackered, and the first thing he did was pour himself a stiff one. The change that came over him when he smelt that spirit then tasted it was amazing, like the weight of the world was lifted from his shoulders. It wasn’t about the alcohol, he didn’t have a drink problem or anything, he just loved what whisky represented, the release from the humdrum world of work into something more, I don’t know, spiritual, I guess, if you’ll excuse the pun.’

‘That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about their dad needing a drink to face his family,’ said Molly, grinning.

Adam laughed. ‘It wasn’t like that at all. He wasn’t drinking to forget, he was drinking to remember, to remember the beautiful complexity of the world, to treat himself to a glimpse of what the big wide world was like.’

‘And to get pissed.’

‘OK, and to get pissed.’ Adam raised his glass and drank. ‘He took me to the Scotch Malt Whisky Society on my eighteenth birthday. I’d been getting steaming for years before that on cheap lager and cider, but this was a revelation. We had umpteen single-cask Islay malts that night, and I felt like pulling up trees and climbing mountains, the buzz was completely different to getting hammered with my mates.’

‘What is it about Islay malts that are so special?’

‘You have to ask?’

Molly shrugged. ‘I’ve grown up around them, it’s hard for me to have any perspective. I’ve always wondered what drives smokeheads.’

‘It’s the combination of everything. The Islay malts feel so Scottish, yet totally international at the same time, more so than other whiskies.’ He raised his glass and looked at it. ‘This liquid is older than us, and its incredible flavours are a combination of a million different factors, from the seaweed next to the Laphroaig warehouse to the Spanish oak of the butts, from the peat smoke of the furnaces to the sherry that was stored in the barrel before it. No other drink borrows so much from outside influences, really absorbs those tastes and flavours and sensations then transforms them into something utterly new and original. I think the whole process is amazing.’

She was sitting closer to him now, his plans and papers fallen onto the floor. He found himself staring into her big green eyes, then suddenly somehow he was locked in an awkward and tentative kiss, tasting the smoke on her tongue and the sweetness of her lipstick, feeling the softness of her hair in his hand. How had that happened?

After a few moments she pulled away and placed a hand on his face.

‘Let’s just take it easy,’ she said. ‘You seem like a nice guy, but …’

He held her hand. ‘It’s OK.’

She smiled and Adam felt a burning in his chest, a swirling blend of happiness and old spirit.