Chapter Three
Jamie was still snoring when Maura woke up the next morning. She lay there for a moment, listening as each breath reached an impressive crescendo, and then rolled carefully out of bed. The floor was cold, so she rummaged under the bed for her slippers before she padded out of the bedroom and into the decidedly fresher air of the hallway. A pair of jogging bottoms lay neatly folded across the back of the sofa in the living room, loaned to Maura by Pete’s wife after Archie had thoughtfully covered her shoes and the hem of her dress in regurgitated tequila. The dress had gone straight into the washing machine the moment Maura got home. The shoes were wrapped in a bin liner outside the front door until Maura could decide how to dispose of them.
She stood in the half-light, weak morning sun creeping around edges of the blinds at the windows, and considered the events of the night before. The party had continued in full swing, although Archie had curled up on the sofa to sleep it off. A few minutes before midnight, Jamie had been ushered outside, a box of finest Scottish shortbread in one hand and a bottle of whisky in the other, to re-enter the house once the clock had struck twelve and let the New Year in. There had been a moment or two when Maura had wondered if he might drink the whisky while he waited in the cold but her fears were unfounded. He barrelled through the door, food and drink held triumphantly aloft, and bellowed New Year greetings to everyone. When he reached Maura, he had swept her into his arms and swung her round, indifferent to her squeaks of alarm, before planting an enthusiastic kiss on her lips. And then the celebrations had begun in earnest. No one else had gone as far as Archie but Maura was sure there would be plenty of sore heads among the partygoers when they eventually woke up.
After making herself a mug of coffee, she pulled on some clean clothes and made her way down the stairs to door that opened onto the street. Thistledown Lane was empty, the terraced apartments silent as the cobbles gleaming under a sheen of frost. If Maura listened hard, she could hear the babbling Water of Leith, the river that flowed from the Pentland Hills to the southwest of Edinburgh, through the heart of Dean Village and finally reached the coast through the city’s port. She stood for a moment, absorbing the peace and quiet. Then, with barely a glance at the sad black bin liner that contained her shoes from the night before, she closed the front door of the flat and turned to let herself into the studio that occupied the ground floor.
The space had begun its life as a garage, with arched double doors at one end and windows overlooking the river at the other, but Maura had known the moment she saw it that it would be perfect as a potter’s studio. Workbenches lined one gloss-painted wall, with tall black seats underneath, and a white butler sink stood at the end. Floor to ceiling wooden shelves ran along the other wall. These were filled with pots and other projects in all stages of the creative process: some were recently made, air-drying before being fired for the first time; others were fired but awaiting glaze or decoration and more still were glazed and awaiting their second, final firing. In one corner, there was a potter’s wheel, clean and ready to be used. Sunlight settled in pools on the linoleum floor, creating bright puddles that stretched to the far end, where the hulking steel cylinders of the kilns sat. The air at that end of the room was noticeably warmer, heated by the firings that had run a day or so before.
Maura took a sip of coffee, wrapping her hands around the mug with an unadulterated sense of anticipation. This was her favourite part of the making process – the moment of lifting the heavy lid to see how the intense heat of the firing had transformed the glazed treasures within. She felt the way she had on so many Christmas mornings, when the miraculous hoard of unopened presents under the tree had promised so much. Yet at the same time, there was the risk that something unexpected might unfold – a longed-for present might turn out to be a disappointing pair of socks, a carefully crafted plate might have cracked, or worse, stuck to the kiln.
When she’d first been learning her craft, Maura had raged at the unpredictability of her work – too often the glazes did not turn out the way she anticipated, or a shape she had created many times before bubbled and warped. As she’d grown more adept, she’d learned to accept the variations and appreciate that they often helped to create something unique, if not always what she’d had in mind. Many of her best, most ambitious pieces were one-offs for that precise reason. She could never guarantee being able to replicate exactly what she had made before.
Warm air engulfed her as soon as she lifted the lid of the kiln. She held her breath as she peeped at the top shelf; an intricate seascape bowl she had made appeared to have turned out perfectly and various mugs and pots made by the students who shared her studio for a few hours each week had survived. Carefully, she lifted each piece out, still warm, and carried it to the shelves to finish cooling. She wasn’t expecting any students until the following week – plenty of time for their work to release the heat of the firing and return to room temperature.
The bottom shelf of the kiln revealed a delicate porcelain plate made by one of her students, a black clay vase Maura had been experimenting with, and a set of four soup bowls she’d thrown on the wheel at the request of her sister and glazed with a combination of greys and greens. The effect was pleasing; the colours had merged in places to create a whole new shade and she thought Kirsty would like them, although she wouldn’t like the fact that they needed to be handwashed. She’d asked for something no one else would have and Maura thought she’d fulfilled that brief rather nicely.
Once the kiln was empty, she stood in front of the shelves and surveyed the morning’s treasure. There were no breakages and nothing had stuck to the kiln, which was a relief. No matter how many times she reminded people to wipe the glaze from the base of their pots and leave a gap around the bottom, there was almost always one who forgot. The handle on one of the mugs was wonky, but she knew Effie wouldn’t mind. As long as it doesn’t leak , she would say with a satisfied nod.
Maura checked the time – almost ten o’clock. Jamie would still be asleep – perhaps wouldn’t stir until the afternoon, and even then he would likely be groggy and not inclined to do much. At some point today Maura needed to load the kiln again, this time for a bisque firing that would transform the recently made, unfired pieces into something much more robust, ready for glazing. But before that, she had time to get her hands dirty.
Pulling a clay-dusted apron over her head, Maura tied it hurriedly behind her back and turned her attention to the wheel. It wasn’t heavy – made from plastic and metal, with a turntable that was controlled by a foot pedal. She filled up a broad plastic jug with water and placed it within arm’s reach, then cut a wedge of clay from the black plastic bag it was stored in. There wasn’t anything in particular she planned to make, she just wanted to mould the clay beneath her hands and let it become what it would. And afterwards, if it wasn’t a shape she was happy with, she could simply squash it up and start again. If only everything in life was so simple , she thought as she settled on the stool and pressed her elbows against her knees.
The clay spun slowly on the wheel. With care, Maura forced her hands to smooth it into a round shape. It always surprised new students that it took such force to control the clay, and how much water was needed to prevent friction and heat from building up – she’d watched more than one potter send their would-be creation flying off the wheel because they hadn’t planted it well enough in place, or had failed to control the speed of the wheel. It might even have happened to her, back when she was just starting out at school, although she couldn’t remember enduring such a humiliation. The process was second nature to her now, which was probably why she found it so soothing, and it wasn’t long before she had coaxed the dull brown clay into a thin, elegant and perfectly round bowl. Dipping her fingers into the water, she wet the base and sliced neatly through it with a cheese wire, releasing the bowl from the wheel. Inspecting it with a critical eye, Maura decided it was good enough and reached for more clay.
Her nerves were still jangled from the party the night before, she thought, as she worked the wheel and allowed muscle memory to take over the task of shaping the bowl. Most of that was due to the unfortunate incident with Archie, which Jamie and the rest of the rugby crowd had found funny, but Maura also found her thoughts coming to rest upon her unexpected encounter with Fraser Bell.
That hadn’t been stressful, unless she included the mortifying moment Archie had thrown up on her, but she’d be lying if she said meeting him again hadn’t unsettled her a bit. She had enjoyed talking to him, once the initial stomach twist of recognition had died away; she’d found him funny and self-deprecating in a way that made her wonder whether he’d been that way at school, although he clearly had no memory of the kiss they’d shared. But why should he remember? she asked herself sternly. Almost two decades had passed since then – she’d barely thought of it herself until Zoe dropped his name into conversation.
Maura had managed to resist her friend’s insistence that they Google Fraser Bell at the party but the temptation had been too strong to resist once she was at home in the early hours. He hadn’t lied about the duck advert, nor about Death in Dorset ; both were listed on his IMDb page, along with a number of more substantial roles. There was nothing to suggest he’d come close to the heady heights of Hollywood, but he appeared to have built the kind of steady, successful career that most actors could only dream of. So why had he decided to take a break? Was it really simple disillusionment with the roles he’d been offered, as he’d hinted?
Distracted, Maura let the tension in her hands lessen and the bowl on the wheel wobbled in protest. Digging her elbows into the soft tissue just above her knees, she concentrated on correcting the problem, smoothing the clay upwards and outwards with her hands until she had a decent sized plant pot. Judging the piece to be ready, she removed it from the wheel and arched her back, stretching her tensed muscles. Hours of standing around at the party had done her no favours, she realized, wincing. She wasn’t in her twenties anymore, when she could sit at the wheel for hours. It was time to do something else.
It took her another thirty minutes to solve the Tetris puzzle that was loading the kiln for the next firing. By the time she locked the studio and went back upstairs for a shower, it was nearly midday. She wasn’t expecting Jamie to have surfaced and was therefore surprised to see him watching her from the sofa as she rounded the top of the stairs and entered the living room. ‘You’ve been working,’ he said flatly.
‘I needed to unload the kiln, put it on for another firing,’ she said, frowning at the irritation in his tone. ‘You were sleeping, I didn’t think you’d mind.’
‘Most people take New Year’s Day off,’ he said. ‘Have breakfast with their loved ones, go for a walk. They don’t go to work.’
Maura stared at him. ‘Some people do. Doctors and bus drivers and people in hospitality. They all work on the holidays.’
Jamie shook his head. ‘You’re self-employed, Maura. You don’t have to work. It would have been nice to wake up to find you next to me this morning.’
She felt a stab of disbelief. He’d been out for the count, sleeping off the excesses of the night before and snoring loud enough to wake the dead. It wasn’t unreasonable of her to assume he’d stay that way for a few hours more. She took a deep breath. ‘I’m here now,’ she said, trying to sound calm. ‘Do you want to go for brunch?’
He huffed out a breath. ‘It’s too late now. I’ve made plans to meet a few of the boys – go for a run to chase the cobwebs away.’
Maura counted slowly to five. ‘Then there’s no problem.’
‘No, there’s no problem,’ Jamie said. ‘Except it would have been nice if you’d at least thought about us doing something together, instead of sneaking off to the studio as soon as the sun came up.’
Briefly, Maura closed her eyes. ‘I didn’t,’ she explained, as patiently as she could. ‘You were asleep. I didn’t expect you to have woken up yet but I can see I was wrong, and for that I apologize. Do you want to do something after your run?’
‘The football is on later. We’ll be going to the pub.’ He paused. ‘You can join us if you want.’
So much for spending some quality time together, Maura thought but did not say. Ordinarily, she might have agreed to meeting them at the pub but, after a heavy night, the last thing she wanted to do was watch Jamie and his friends drink. ‘I might go to the beach, since you’re not using the car.’
He slumped back against the sofa. ‘Fine.’
When it became clear he had nothing more to say, Maura turned and headed for the bathroom, allowing the hot water to soothe her. Perhaps she should have waited for Jamie to wake up before going to the studio, she thought as she studied her wavy reflection in the steamed-up mirror. It wouldn’t have killed her to unload the kiln in the afternoon, and then they could have spent the morning together. Although in her defence, she’d had no idea whether he’d be in any fit state to do more than groan and beg for coffee. Even so, she was willing to concede she might have been wrong. But Jamie was gone by the time she went back to the living room, prepared to kiss and make up.
With a sigh, Maura trudged back to the bedroom to dry her hair. Maybe she would join him at the pub after all.
The morning frost had burned off by the time Maura pulled into a parking space alongside Portobello Beach. She took a deep breath of bracing sea air, her eyes watering in the chill wind that whipped across the golden sand. Pulling her bobble hat down further around her ears, she zipped up her coat and collected her tote bag from the boot of the car. There wasn’t usually much in the way of sea-glass washed up on the beach here, but she could live in hope, and she much preferred to use glass she had found in her work, rather than buy a bag from a seller on the internet. It mattered to her that she tried to recycle locally sourced sea-glass – somehow, it increased the sense of connection she felt with each piece.
There were plenty of others enjoying the beach. The tide was out, leaving a wide expanse of dark wet sand before a distant shimmer of silvery blue. Maura watched a beautiful red vizsla chase a ball across the flat expanse, returning to a woman with two children muffled up against the cold. There were other families too, taking advantage of the day off to get some fresh air, and plenty of couples. Maura tried not to look at them.
Earlier in the day, the sands would have been graced by Loony Dookers – foolhardy souls who banded together to brave the freezing waters of the Forth for a restorative New Year’s Day dip. It wasn’t something that had ever appealed to Maura but she saluted anyone who could bear it. Another Hogmanay tradition she’d prefer to avoid. Sometimes she wondered if she was even Scottish at all, although she suspected most Scots considered the Loony Dook a step towards insanity.
Maura skimmed the shoreline for the best part of an hour, picking up the odd jewel of sea-glass but mostly just enjoying the wide-open space and sound of children playing. Seagulls whirled overhead, ever vigilant for dropped chips or an unwary tourist, and their cries were snatched away by the wind.
Eventually, Maura realized she could not feel her fingers and she was forced to concede it might be time to go home. She pulled her phone from her pocket, flexing her fingers to get the blood flowing again, and checked for messages from Jamie. There were none. She did have one from Kirsty, reminding her of the family lunch they had planned for the next day.
Tapping out a reply, she was about to put the phone away when it flashed up a notification from Artsy, the website she used to list some of her pottery, indicating she had made a sale. She swiped on it, opening the email, and was pleased to see it was a large piece that had sold, one that had turned out better than she’d hoped and had consequently demanded a large price tag. She scanned the words, checking to see the buyer had understood they would need to collect and stopped dead when she saw the purchaser’s name.
Puffing out a disbelieving breath that plumed in the freezing mid-afternoon air, Maura skimmed the message he’d added.
Hi Maura,
As you’ve probably guessed, I couldn’t resist looking you up after running into you last night and WOW – you are amazing! If this bowl is even half as beautiful as it looks on the website then I’m going to be a very happy man.
Let me know what the arrangements are for collection. I’m free most days up until around five in the evening – hopefully we can find a date that works so I can claim my prize and I can tell you how talented you are in person.
All the best,
Fraser
She read it three times before it sank in. It had been clear he remembered her from school when they met the night before but she’d assumed the ensuing party at the Balmoral would have chased the encounter from his head. That did not appear to be the case. Instead, he’d looked her up and bought one of her pots, for a considerable amount of money. Which meant she was going to have to see him again – soon – and she wasn’t at all sure how she felt about that. If the mere act of seeing him again had transported her nineteen years into the past, what could she expect when he was standing in her studio?
Walking slowly, Maura made her way back to the car and sat behind the wheel for several long minutes, blowing on her fingers and waiting for the feeling to return.
That she had to see Fraser again was not in question – he needed to collect the piece and she wouldn’t entrust anyone else to wrap it. She would simply have to tell herself he was just another customer. Which, to all intents and purposes, he was.
Puffing out her cheeks, she began to type a reply.
Dear Fraser
No, that was a bit too personal, wasn’t it? He wasn’t her dear, any more than she was his. How had he started his message?
Hi Fraser,
Thanks so much for buying the bowl. I had no idea you’d look me up, much less buy one of my pieces. Thank you for your kind words.
I’m not around tomorrow but could do the following day or, failing that, one afternoon next week. Let me know what suits you and we can settle on a date.
Best wishes,
Maura
She read it over, agonising about every word, and then decided she was being ridiculous and hit send. Putting her phone away, she started the car and slotted it into gear.
Her response had been courteous and professional, the way she would be with any customer, and there was no need to second-guess herself just because it was Fraser she was emailing. All the same, she decided she wouldn’t mention Fraser’s visit to Zoe. She wouldn’t put it past her friend to engineer an excuse to turn up, just for the chance to ogle him again, and then his high opinion of Maura’s professionalism would be gone. No, she wouldn’t mention their meeting to anyone, unless it came up in conversation – and the likelihood of that happening was remote.
Once the bowl had been collected, she would have no reason to think of Fraser Bell ever again.