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 the 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 the door that opened onto the street.
Thistledown Lane was empty, the terraced apartments as 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 were best 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 fused 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.