Chapter Five #2
‘Not exactly.’ Maura wasn’t sure she could describe Fraser as a friend – if anything he was a customer, albeit one who had put forward a business proposal. If she agreed to work with him, she would certainly see more of him and it was possible friendship would follow. Was that something she wanted? ‘I think I’d call us acquaintances.’
‘Well, he certainly knows how to make an impression,’ Kirsty declared. ‘He’s got presence, which I suppose is quite handy for an actor.’
Maura smiled. ‘Probably. Have you got time for a drink before you head off?’
Kirsty lived in a small village across the Firth of Forth, near their parents’ house, which was convenient for babysitting but less so for nights on the town. She checked her watch and nodded. ‘I’m not ready to go home yet. It turns out being terrorized by the dead actually makes you feel alive.’
‘Who knew?’ Maura said, laughing. ‘Come on. It’s your round.’
‘What on earth are you making?’
The question came from Cordelia, a silver-haired sixty-something with a penchant for blood red glazes. She was gazing at the board in front of Maura with something approaching horrified fascination and Maura supposed she could hardly blame her. The prototype ghost she was currently working was just as tall and slender as the ghost Fraser had given her as a reference point, with a rounded head and scored lines to suggest folds of fabric, but that was where the similarity ended. In trying to make something the same but different, Maura had only succeeded in moulding the clay into a shape that was vaguely ghost-like, if she squinted a bit, but also undeniably… well, phallic.
The other students abandoned their work to come and take a look. ‘Is there something you want to tell us?’ Effie said, tilting her head to one side. ‘A new direction your work is taking?’
Sharon giggled and immediately clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just such a departure from what you usually make.’
Maura couldn’t argue with that. She puffed out a long breath and sat back on her chair. ‘It’s meant to be a ghost.’
‘Oh,’ Cordelia said, taking a step back to get a clearer perspective. ‘I thought perhaps a disembodied finger – wondered if you’d gone all Tate Modern on us.’
‘I’m thinking of a completely different body part,’ Effie declared. ‘It reminds me of my ex-husband. He leaned to the left as well.’
‘Too much information, Effie,’ Sharon said, wincing.
Maura groaned. She had over twenty years’ experience of working with clay, had made everything from an espresso cup to an intricate glazed sculpture that was currently on display in the Royal Botanic Garden. Surely she could design a ghost for Fraser that didn’t look as though it had escaped from a Soho sex shop. ‘Back to the drawing board,’ she said, reaching for more clay.
‘Is this your model?’ Effie asked, picking up the black ghost and smoothing her fingers across its matte surface.
‘That’s my starting point,’ Maura said. ‘A friend wants something he can sell on his ghost tour but obviously I don’t want to copy someone else’s idea.’
Cordelia looked thoughtful. ‘What about a different shape?’ she suggested. ‘More Scooby-Doo , less Wyrd Willy.’
Sharon let out a snort of laughter and Maura couldn’t help grinning. She liked the name Wyrd Willy. Perhaps she wouldn’t squash her first effort flat and recycle the clay after all. ‘More Scooby-Doo ,’ she repeated, trying to recall the cartoon ghosts and monsters that had featured on the TV show. Without fail, they turned out to be crooks in complicated disguises, attempting to draw attention away from their dastardly schemes, but there had definitely been one or two villains who had favoured the simple sheet-over-the-head trick. Perhaps that was what Cordelia meant – a more obviously cartoonish ghost. Could that work? Would Fraser find it too childish? She could only try. Her plan had been to create a few prototypes to see which worked and which didn’t. At least she had eliminated one potential design early on.
Effie was studying her thoughtfully. ‘If your friend is planning to sell the ghosts, does that mean you’re going to be paid?’
‘Yes,’ Maura said. Although now she came to think of it, Fraser hadn’t actually mentioned money. ‘Maybe not for the initial models – these are just for me to establish the right shape and design.’
‘So you’re doing him a favour?’ Cordelia’s pale blue eyes were sharp, reminding Maura that she had been a highly successful CEO before a bout of ill health forced an early retirement. ‘I hope this friend is trustworthy.’
‘Of course he is,’ Maura replied, then hesitated. She’d instinctively liked Fraser. It hadn’t occurred to her that he might not be someone she could trust. ‘We went to the same school. And he bought one of my bowls. The most expensive one.’
Effie let out an impressed whistle but Cordelia pursed her lips. ‘Not exactly a watertight character reference but at least he’s splashed the cash. Does he have any idea whether this new product will actually sell?’
Here, Maura felt she was on firmer ground. She still remembered the rapt expressions of the audience as Fraser had woven his uncanny magic, and the way they’d hung around afterwards, like superfans at the stage door. She was sure she’d overheard one of the women asking for his autograph. When she’d got home, Maura had taken a look at the Dead Famous Tour website and had noted there was already a well-established online shop, although the merchandise was limited. If Fraser’s market research was to be believed, and the York ghost seller was as successful as he suggested, then there was no reason to think a range of Edinburgh ghosts would not sell, she had concluded. If she could settle on a design that both she and Fraser were happy with, that was. ‘He’s following a business model that has worked elsewhere and I think he has his head screwed on,’ Maura said, her doubts fading. She stood up and stretched. ‘Who’d like a cup of tea?’
By the time the kettle had boiled and tea was brewed to each student’s liking, they had all gone back to their places on the workbench, allowing Maura to consider her problem anew. The simplicity of a blatantly draped sheet intrigued her – instantly recognisable as a ghost but with a childlike appeal that belied its supernatural essence. Her thoughts circled back to the gruesome nature of the stories Fraser had told; she’d have to be careful not to make the design too cute. Absently, she reached for the clay and pulled some free, rolling it into a ball. Perhaps if she used something as a support, she might be able to drape the clay over the top to look like cloth…
Twenty minutes later, Maura had a shape she was not unhappy with. It wasn’t as elegant as the York phantom – the folds of clay were thick rather than emulating the clean flowing lines moulded by the slip case – but it was recognisably a ghost and substantially different from her reference point. Using a damp sponge, she smoothed the edges, flicking some into soft upward curves to create the illusion that the figure was hovering just above the ground. When at last she was satisfied, she used the end of a wooden paintbrush to create two empty eye sockets and sat back to admire her work.
‘Very nice,’ Effie said, glancing across from the jug she was coiling. ‘Not a hint of the erotic about that one.’
‘Thanks,’ Maura said. ‘I quite like him.’
‘Make sure you put your mark on it,’ Effie said, peering over the top of her glasses. ‘I know it’s only a prototype but it’s still your work.’
It was a good point, Maura thought. She had a specially designed stamp with her signature embossed upon it for her larger pieces but that wouldn’t work here. Lifting the ghost with care, she scratched her initials into the underside of a fold of clay. ‘Done,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘What else can I try?’
Sharon frowned thoughtfully. ‘What about adding some hands? Hidden underneath the sheet, I mean. A bit like the one from that kids’ film back in the day.’
‘Casper the Friendly Ghost,’ Effie supplied. ‘My daughter loved him.’
Immediately, Maura could picture the cheery cartoon character. It would mean a more rigid structure, she mused, taking up another ball of clay. And perhaps she could add a hidden foot beneath the folds of clay, to raise the figure up and enhance the impression that it was floating. She kept the rounded head but added a protruding bump to the right and left, as though the draped cloth was concealing two outstretched arms. The overall effect was different, perhaps a little too cutesy, but she had to concede it was also recognisably a ghost.
‘They’re great,’ Sharon said, when Maura placed them side by side on the shelf to dry. ‘I’d buy one.’
Effie winked. ‘You could use Wyrd Willy to tap into the hen do market. I bet he’d be popular – the ghost of boyfriends past.’
It was probably a genius idea but Maura doubted it would fit in with the overall Dead Famous vibe. ‘I don’t think I’ll suggest that to Fraser. That particular prototype is never leaving this studio.’
It wasn’t until her students were gone that Maura felt the inevitable creep of creative doubt. The ghosts were very different from the pieces she usually produced. What would Fraser think of them? Would he be offended that she’d listened to his spine-chilling tales and produced something less threatening, quite unlike the slip cast model he had given her? She supposed only time would tell; her efforts needed to dry, to be fired and glazed before they could be presented to Fraser, and that would take a few weeks. There was no point in fretting about his reaction until then. In fact, she told herself sternly as she wiped the workbench with damp yellow sponge, there was no point in fretting at all. If the ghosts weren’t what Fraser wanted, then she would simply go back to her usual work and have no reason to stay in touch with him. Given how much he seemed to be occupying her thoughts recently, perhaps that would be no bad thing.
Maura was weary by the time she locked the door to the studio and trudged upstairs to the flat that evening. She’d spent the afternoon working on a few pieces for the gallery show she was taking part in the following month, finishing up a leaf-shaped bowl inspired by a copper beech tree that grew in her parents’ garden. It wouldn’t be exclusively her work on display – the space would be shared with three other potters – but she wanted to supply the gallery with some larger items that would show her range, as well as hopefully tempt one or two buyers. The plant pot she’d made on New Year’s Day also needed to be glazed; it had sat on the bottom shelf in mute accusation for weeks and Maura found she couldn’t bear to neglect it any longer. On a whim, she decided to use a stencil and underglazes in various shades of green to create a rainforest effect. The finished design was bold and different but she liked it and she thought the gallery would too.
The apartment was dark and empty, as it often was when Maura finished work. Jamie rarely made it home before six-thirty, and was much later on the evenings he had rugby training or after-work drinks. On those nights, Maura usually made whatever she wanted to eat and curled up on the sofa to watch the television. But tonight, he’d messaged to say he was picking up a curry from their favourite takeaway and she was glad she wouldn’t have to cook. Her work was not especially physical, unless she was manhandling a delivery of clay from the wholesaler or emptying out the clay trap from beneath the sink in the studio, but it did take concentration and she was often tired when Jamie arrived home. It was an occasional source of friction between them but, this evening, he seemed to have read her mind.
‘I’ve got a dopiaza, a jalfrezi, sag aloo, onion bhajis and more poppadoms than we can possibly eat,’ he called as he climbed the stairs, bringing with him the delicious smell of hot, mingling spices. ‘Did you remember to warm the plates?’
‘I did,’ Maura said, taking the bag from him and heading for the kitchen to start unpacking. ‘Did you get mango chutney?’
He nodded, stripping off his suit jacket and loosening his tie. ‘Of course. But we’ve been going to the same takeaway for the last five years. If they don’t know our standard order by now then they never will.’
Maura smiled. ‘Great. I’ll serve up.’
She expected him to leave her to it, as he usually did. Instead, he stood in the doorway, watching her open containers and spoon the contents onto the plates she’d taken from the oven. ‘This kitchen is too small,’ he said, after a few moments spent observing her move things around to accommodate the lack of space.
‘Small but perfectly formed,’ she said, reaching into a drawer for knives and forks. ‘It has everything we need.’
Jamie wrinkled his nose. ‘Apart from enough worktops, a bigger fridge-freezer and a dishwasher that takes more than four dinner plates.’
Maura frowned as she opened the brown paper bags that held the poppadoms. It was true that the kitchen was smaller than either of them would like but that was because the flat also held two double bedrooms and a decent-sized living room. She’d inherited it from her aunt, who had died childless ten years earlier and left it to Kirsty and Maura. It was a kindness Maura appreciated every day – she would never have been able to buy a property in Dean Village on the money she made from her business. One day, she hoped to buy her sister’s share and own the apartment outright but she would need to sell a lot more pots for that to happen. Or perhaps she would give in to Jamie’s increasingly more frequent suggestion that she and Kirsty sell the flat, which would provide Maura with enough equity to put into buying somewhere with him. The difficulty there was finding a property with a garden big enough to add a studio; those were few and far between in Edinburgh and she liked living in the heart of the city. ‘Luckily, there are only two of us,’ she reminded Jamie. ‘We don’t need more than four plates.’
He didn’t laugh. ‘I’m being serious. There are new developments springing up all over the city. We could move into one of those.’
It wasn’t the first time Jamie had mentioned them – he’d left brochures on the coffee table too. But now she was reminded of Fraser, and his assertion that he didn’t have much space in the shiny new flat he shared with Naomi. ‘We’ve been over this,’ she replied, holding out a laden tray to Jamie. ‘None of them have space for a studio.’
‘You can rent somewhere nearby to work in.’ His tone was as reasonable as ever. The suggestion wasn’t a terrible one, but they’d had this conversation before and she’d had to remind him that her work needed a very specific environment to operate safely and efficiently. Kilns needed ventilation, she needed space to store the pots she made, and she needed enough workbenches to give her students room to work. And that was before she considered the convenience of having her studio right downstairs. Why would she go searching for somewhere new when she had everything she needed here? But she also knew from experience that Jamie failed to appreciate how much more difficult her life would be if they moved to the wrong place, and she wasn’t about to ruin her favourite takeaway with another argument. ‘I’ll look at the brochures,’ she said, hoping that would be enough to placate him.
Jamie beamed at her. ‘Thanks. I brought some new ones home with me. John at work went to a viewing and said they’re really nice. We could arrange to have a look, if you like.’
She’d met John a number of times; he’d once suggested she give up pottery and get a proper job, so she wasn’t convinced their tastes would align on much, let alone on living space. But she was probably being unfair. A brand-new home had its appeal, even if the apartments she’d seen going up around the city seemed a little soulless. It was not an observation she was about to share with Jamie, however. ‘Maybe,’ she said, and picked up her own tray. ‘Come on, let’s enjoy this before it gets cold.’