Page 3 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

‘Call me Gustav.’ He scanned the room, before his gaze returned to her. ‘How does it feel to be called thenew Betty Woodman?’

‘An honour I don’t deserve,’ she replied honestly.

‘Come now, you’re being modest.’

She actually wasn’t. Betty Woodman was one of the most important ceramicists in post-war America, her work inspiring a whole generation of potters due to her innovative and original use of colour and form. Freya’s work didn’t come close.

The critic was scrutinising her. ‘Youmeanit,’ he declared, sounding surprised. ‘How very refreshing.’

‘Freya isn’t one to blow her own trumpet,’ the vice chancellor said.

Gustav Horn blinked, as though he had only just noticed him. ‘And you are…?’ He shook his head and wafted a hand in the air. ‘Never mind. It was a pleasure to meet you, Freya.’

‘You too, Gustav,’ she said. Freya watched him work his way through the crowd, bemused.

An arm encircled her waist as Hadrian, her significant other, appeared at her side. ‘Was that Gustav Horn?’

‘It was.’

‘What did he say? Did he like the exhibition?’

Sean offered Hadrian his hand. ‘Hadrian, how are you? Gustav was most complimentary.’

Hadrian smiled. ‘So he should be. Freya’s work is outstanding.’ He leant in and kissed her hair, just above her ear. Only she could hear him whisper, ‘You look gorgeous.’

She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

‘I can’t wait to get you out of that dress,’ he murmured, his breath tickling her skin.

She edged away, knowing she wasn’t going to be in the mood for bedtime antics when all this was done.

Hadrian snagged another glass of bubbly. It was the fourth one she’d seen him drink, but he may well have had more. If he carried on at this rate, even if he did manage to get her out of the dress, he wouldn’t be capable of doing anything.

Freya couldn’t wait to take the dress off either, but for a different reason. Although she scrubbed up well enough when she had to, cocktail dresses and heels weren’t her preferred attire. Freya was happiest in dungarees and Doc Martens, with an apron on top to protect her old, worn clothes. She’d dressed up this evening because it was expected, but she didn’t feel comfortable.

Her boyfriend, however, did. He was clad in an expensive navy suit, loafers and a crisp white shirt which was open at the neck. Designer stubble, carefully tended, graced his chin, and his dark brown hair curled artfully over his forehead.

‘Look at you!’ someone cried, and Freya turned to see Wanda, the chancellor’s PA, walking towards her.

Wanda held out both hands and Freya grasped them with a smile. She was touched and humbled that so many of her college colleagues had shown up this evening, considering today was the last day of the academic year and the summer break would start tomorrow.

‘Congratulations,’ Wanda said. ‘I’ve heard nothing but good things. You must be so proud.’

Freya was. She’d put her heart and soul into it. Her best items were on display and even though this was only the opening night, she was delighted to see quite a few sold stickers on her work, as well as that of the other two artists.

But she was also so done with it. The exhibition was the culmination of months of work, and she was ready for a new challenge. What form that challenge would take, Freya had yet to determine.

It seemed greedy to want more, though. After all, she had not one, buttwodream jobs. She held a professorship at one of the top universities in the world, and she also made a decent living from doing what she loved: pottery. Not only that, she lived in an airy apartment in a converted warehouse and had a seriously handsome boyfriend.

Hadrian had wandered off, probably to do some networking. He was ambitious and hungry for success, and sometimes (very occasionally) Freya got the impression he was envious of her. He needn’t be, because he certainly had talent. His speciality was abstract expressionism, and his paintings were in the style of Jackson Pollock. But what he lacked, Freya thought, was the passion and determination to succeed. If Freya could, she would spend every second of every hour in her studio. Hadrian, although dedicated to his art, wasn’t driven in the way she was, and she suspected he preferred the hype that went with being an artist to knuckling down to the task of producing said art. She’d once heard someone unkindly call him an ‘art groupie’, and while she hated the term, it did have a ring of truth to it.

As she strolled around the series of interconnecting rooms, Freya couldn’t understand why she felt so restless this evening. She’d worked so hard and for so long on the pieces for this exhibition, that she’d have thought she would be ecstatic that it was the opening night. But she felt oddly flat.

Was it because she needed a new challenge, a new creative direction? Or was it simply the result of being so intensely focused over these past few months that now the exhibition was up and running, such intense focus was no longer needed?

She became aware of a woman staring intently at her and smiled uncertainly, wondering whether she’d seen her before.

The woman approached and when she was close enough, she asked in an American accent, ‘Freya Sinclair?’

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