S P R I N G / S U M M E R 1 1

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d E S t I N o

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b y

v E R o N I q U E

d R o U l E zI n t r o d u c I n g a n e w s t y l e o f w h I s k y

f o r a n e w k I n d o f w h I s k y d r I n k e r is the worlds first “triple Malt” whisky, carefully crafted froM three of

the finest speyside single Malts in sMall batches of just 27 casks. on its own it is sMooth and rich.

however, this is a whisky that loves coMpany and is a favourite of top bartenders.

s p r i n g s u M M e r 2 0 1 1

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d E S t I N o

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S P R I N G / S U M M E R 1 1

williamson shirt washed buoy orange check

williamson shirt washed buoy orange check

dapper trousers scrubbed verMillion twill

doyle jacket grey windowpane

ferguson v-neck navy with linen

dapper trousers skye blue twill

kirkwell waistcoat indigo herringbone

holms shirt storM grey

right: inver shoe stone canvas / Meleze grain

inver shoe blue canvas / Mahogany

country calf full grain weekend bag sage

REd tEEth

We had Watched each

other over the dinner

table, the breakfast table,

the lunch spread. We had

swum in the freezing ocean

together. We had shared a couch,

legs touching, as the sitting

room lights went down and the

television played a forgettable

film.

all under the watchful eye of

auntie emmy.

We slept in different bedrooms.

We didn’t creep around at

night as the house creaked and

shuddered from the weight of the

hebridean wind.

she had a cabinet filled with

mini Mary Magdalens. she

told him once that a man and

woman who lay together without

matrimony would burn fastest

in purgatory. on this island,

we came as friends, colleagues,

companions. away for two weeks

of relaxation. Walks, firesides

and drams of whisky.

all the while, secretly,

hopelessly, punch-drunkenly

seething with desire for each

other.

blue bill . that’s what he called

himself. a nickname for the

real world and the virtual. We

learnt to communicate in a way

that emmy would never have

questioned. bill started it, asking

me if i had checked my phone.

that the office may have rang.

his look urged me to switch

my phone on, even though we

had promised each other we’d

keep them switched off. i picked

up my phone and there was a

message coming through via

bluetooth. it was from blue bill.

emmy was in the kitchen and i

bit the back of my hand to stifle

a giggle. bill sat with his legs

crossed, typing into his phone,

smirking. it said, with bill ’s

trademark text message block

capitals: I FOUND OUT THAT ON FRIDAY EMMY LEAVES FOR THE MAINLAND. WE WILL HAVE THE HOUSE TO OURSELVES OVER THE WEEKEND. CAN YOU WAIT THAT LONG? X i

bit my knuckle and went to the

toilet to laugh into the palms of

my sweating hands.

on Wednesday a man came to

visit. he was introduced as the

pastor. he raised a single eyebrow

at us as if he knew something we

didn’t. or something we did. bill

and i hadn’t been anywhere near

each other. i imagined she would

be waiting for us. that she could

smell it , this rancid passion in

repose, languishing amongst the

stillness of her antique furniture.

We didn’t dare. but this old man

seemed keen to sit in the deathly

quiet of emmy’s hebridean

cottage sitting room and listen

to the clock ticking, the clink of

tea cups and saucers, pouring his

gaze into ours.

bill took to sending bluetooth

messages while we sat there, the

four of us, five if you count the

doubting scowl of emmy’s late

husband from his omniscient

perch on top of the television.

the pastor spread strawberry jam

onto a scone and i watched him

slowly, methodically, devour it.

Jam on his fingertips, butter on

his nails. bill told them that he

and i had to use our handsets

for work, that they were not to

mind if we checked them. he

was casual. eyes glistening with

bravado.

My pocket buzzes, i flip open the

phone, my straight face fastened

on. bEAUtIFUl GIRl, I WANt SoMEthING FRoM yoU.

i wait five minutes before i

respond: something for the

weekend…?

bill types immediately, keeping

an admirably straight face: CAN YOU SEE IT BULGING IN MY TROUSERS?soon after, the pastor asked

to look at the phone. i broke

the rich tea biscuit in my fist.

bill handed the phone over

calmly. i assume any trace of our

conversations was beyond the

technological understanding of

the pastor. he tapped and fiddled

with a look of bewilderment

broken only by the occasional

glance over to emmy.

our bluetooth conversations

broke the tedium of the time

we spent indoors. but the week

wasn’t without its surprises. the

night the pastor came to dinner,

i slept poorly. i woke up in the

night to an animal noise. an

owl, a fox. Who knows what they

had up here. so many sounds

i’d never heard before, in that

wild, wild wood outside emmy’s

cottage. i lay awake and listened,

my mouth dry and my shoulders

chilly above the blankets. i don’t

know how long i lay, but it took

me a long time to summon up the

courage to take my empty glass

to the toilet to fill up with water.

the upstairs corridor was

small and narrow, and i crept

lightly along it, barely able to

see. the toilet floor was freezing

under my bare feet, and i ran

the tap slowly by the feint light

from outside, somewhere a

moon or stars shone. relieved,

i returned to the corridor and

gasped, dropping my glass on the

carpet. at the end of the corridor,

in the doorway, stood a feint

outline of a figure, just visible

to my rapidly adjusting eyesight.

emmy stood in the doorway to

her room, not moving, not saying

anything. i picked up my glass

and breathed an apology, an

explanation, softly as i bumped

back into my room. emmy stayed,

silent, still . i couldn’t make out

her face or features. i closed the

door and wrapped myself up in

blankets. it was light outside

before i returned to sleep.

hide and fuck. it ’s a game we

used to play as teenagers. in the

early days when our bodies were

undiscovered mountain ranges,

we the explorers. When our

parents would go out, one of us

would hide in a cupboard for the

other to find. a childish game

which ended in an adult way,

clothes torn off and satisfaction

had there, on the floor of

whichever room we happened

to be in. the day had come for

auntie emmy to leave the island.

the pastor and bill would see her

onto the ferry. soon there would

be water between her and us. bill

had bluetoothed me as emmy

gathered her coats. the pastor

stood in the doorway glaring at

me. HIDE AND FUCK? came

the message from bill . WAIT IN HER CLOSET. I’LL LET YOU OUT OF IT WHEN I COME BACK.

and now here i am, sixteen

going on forty, hiding in my

secret boyfriend’s great aunt’s

cupboard. among the heavy,

musky dresses and the ancient

petticoats. around my feet i can

feel stiff shoes and unidentified

blunt objects. i daren’t move: as

if she is in the house. but she

isn’t. i heard them leave, picked

up and driven off by the pastor

in an decommissioned post office

van, bill going to wave the old

bat onto the ferry and make sure

she’s five miles out to sea before

he comes back, bolts the door

behind him and leaps up the

stairs with his trousers round his

ankles and a glint in his eye.

the wind is up, the shopping

forecast had spoken. doorframes

rattle and the gusts push against

the mizzened windows.

i imagine how he will arrive,

what he will say. the smell of

him stepping into the darkness

with me. the tread of his shoes,

every step bringing him closer

to me. HERE COMES BLUE BILL , the phone will say.

COMING TO GET YOU, GIRL . the older we’ve got,

the more protracted these

games have become. here in the

Western isles, the latitude of

portugal and the longitude of

nova scotia, we are a million

miles from the world. and we

have all weekend. We have

waited so long, curbed our

feeling. here in a forbidden

house, blue bill and i will take

this to the extreme. stripped

from the waist up, i shiver as

crushed velvet and creperie brush

against my naked torso.

HERE COMES BLUE BILL ,

he will say.

i don’t hear him return. don’t

hear the van. the whole world

is quiet and i’m alone in a

cupboard. the first i know

of him is a buzz in my palm

and a glow in the dark of the

cupboard as the handset lights

up. i jump, bumping an elbow

on the door. i am standing

awkwardly, half crouching, my

legs aching somewhere beneath

the adrenaline. perhaps he got

dropped off at the end of the

lane.

i fumble for the phone in my

skinny jeans. bluetooth is open,

and the message flashes up. i

hold the phone up to my face in

the light, frowning at the little

screen.

and as my legs crumple, as my

face burns with shame. as the

windows rattle. the screen asks

me to accept a message from

RED TEETH

s p r i n g s u M M e r 2 0 1 1

neither aM iwww.neitherami.com

country calf full grain weekend bag sage

laird henley Midnight

dapper trousers skye blue twill

inver shoe blue canvas /Mahogany grain

noble polo dry white

dapper trousers skye blue twill

inver shoe blue canvas /Mahogany grain

inver shoe stone canvas / Meleze grey

inver shoe blue canvas / Mahogany grain

doyle jacket Midnight

holms shirt storM grey

law pocket tee dry white

dapper trousers indigo herringbone

law pocket tee dry white

dapper trousers indigo herringbone

inver shoe blue canvas / Mahogany grain

jute belt natural

cuenca panama with yacht stripe

S S 1 1d E S t I N oS I G N U M

b y v E R o N I q U E

d R o U l E zc h e e r s t o t h e m e n o f t h e m a lt I n g s

at one tiMe, a “Monkey shoulder” referred to a teMporary injury suffered by Malt-Men when turning

the barley by hand. whilst our Malt-Men are aMong the few who still follow this traditional practice,

fortunately the injury has been consigned to the past. today, the naMe lives on in recognition of how

Malt-Men once suffered for their art.

S P R I N G / S U M M E R 1 1

S S 1 1d E S t I N oS I G N U M

b y v E R o N I q U E

d R o U l E z

p h o t o g r a p h e roliver pilcher

www.oliverpilcher.com

a r t d i r e c t i o nveronique droulez

h a i rjustin williams

m a k e u pabigail mcgrath

d i g i t a l / r e t o u c h e rjulia eskell

d i r e c t o r o f p h o t o g r a p h yrobert john parker

c a m e r a a s s i s t a n tthomas ayerst

t a l e n trob knighton @ neXt uk

meg @ neXt uk

t a i l o rabdulla kok

s p e c i a l t h a n k s t olulu and lush

15 lamb street london e1 6ea

& christiana roberts

s t o c k i s t e n q u i r i e s

j a p a nryo takagi-style co., ltd.

102 unison yogogi

2-34-5 yogogi, shibuya-ku tokyo

japan zip 151-0053

tel: +81 3 5308 1185

ryo@dupestyle.com

n o r t h a m e r i c ajon kalupa – the avalon group usa , ltd.

547 west 27th street

new york, ny 10001

tel: +1 212 736 3030

jon@avalongroupna .com

s c a n d i n a v i ajan aXelsson – september agency

föreningsgatan 6

411 27 gothenburg

sweden

tel: +46 31 743 45 13

september@minmail .net

u k & r e s t o f w o r l djim pickles – d.s.dundee

star house

3 richmond road

london, e8 3hy

tel: +44 207 241 2448

jim@dsdundee.com

s p r i n g s u M M e r 2 0 1 1

S P R I N G / S U M M E R 1 1