Page 4 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle

‘That’s me,’ Freya replied.

The woman said, ‘I love your work. It’s so innovative – the shape and form, and those colours.’ She fanned herself and fluttered her lashes. ‘It makes me giddy with excitement.’

Freya blinked in surprise. She didn’t think her ceramics had ever made anyonegiddybefore, but she was happy to accept the compliment. She took great delight in making a pot, a bowl, a vase, a platter – whatever the size and shape – and contorting it. The inspiration came from her native Scotland (the Isle of Skye, to be exact) and the swirling colours emphasised the flowing lines of her ceramics. It was what she was renowned for.

‘Can I give you this?’ The woman pressed a business card into Freya’s hand.

Freya glanced at it and her eyes widened. ‘Jocasta Black? That’syou?’ Gosh! No wonder she’d thought the woman looked familiar. Jocasta Black was the founder of the Black and White Art Academy in New York, which was consideredthetop place in the world to study ceramics.

Freya looked up from the card to examine the woman properly. She’d seen photos of her, but Jocasta was less flamboyant in real life: a toned-down version who wasn’t wearing one of her signature scarves.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Freya said weakly, glancing around to check Hadrian’s whereabouts. He was nowhere to be seen, and she felt relieved, although she couldn’t pinpoint why. It was something to unpick later. Right now, she needed her wits about her if she wasn’t to make a fool of herself.

Jocasta’s eyes were boring into hers, and Freya shifted uncomfortably; such intense scrutiny was making her self-conscious.

Jocasta nodded as though agreeing with an unspoken statement. Then she said, ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’

Not many people would understand why, when given the opportunity topurchase the top-floor apartment of a converted warehouse in Fulham,Freya had opted for the ground floor, especially since the ground-floorflat had been only marginally less expensive.

Another potter would, though. Her kiln was heavy and dangerous, and needed adequate ventilation.

The ground floor of the former warehouse had an exterior brick building which was large enough to house her studio, and Freya had paid over the odds to purchase it along with the flat. To her, it had been worth every penny, especially since she’d been able to knock a doorway through to it, connecting the two together. The two areas often became blurred. Several times Hadrian had quipped that Freya’s apartment could be better described as a pottery studio with a bed in it, rather than a flat with a separate studio. She didn’t think he had been joking. If it wasn’t for the invasive clay dust, which could get everywhere if she wasn’t scrupulous about cleanliness, she had a suspicion she may well have set up her bed next to the kiln. As it was, her open-plan living space was littered with photos, sketches and paintings: the 2D ideas behind her 3D creations.

Many of the completed pieces found their way from her studio to her flat, where they were photographed and packed, although it was rare that she sold directly from her website. Most of her work was sold through galleries and upmarket shops. Increasingly, she did commissioned pieces, but she often found it too restricting. Freya had to make what was in her heart, not what was in someone else’s head.

Right now, her heart was in turmoil and it had nothing to do with Hadrian.

After being approached by Jocasta Black, Freya had found it difficult to enjoy the remainder of the opening night and had decided to leave. She hadn’t left with Hadrian, though. Despite having told her that he couldn’t wait to take her dress off, he hadn’t appeared to be too put out when she’d informed him that she was tired and just wanted to crash out.

He hadn’t seemed put outat all, in fact. When she’d found him, he’d been deep in conversation with a journalist who was known for his scathing reviews.

Freya had briefly kissed Hadrian, then silently wished him luck as she made her way to the door. She’d learnt early on in her career that sucking up to journalists and critics rarely did any good. Friendly and polite, with the same degree of wariness that you’d reserve for a wasp, was Freya’s preferred method of dealing with them.

She was stripping off almost before she’d got through the door to her flat. By the time she’d reached her bedroom, her shoes had been kicked off and her dress was a puddle of emerald silk in the sitting room.

Thirty seconds later she had pulled a T-shirt over her head, had donned a faded pair of dungarees and had shoved her feet into a pair of Crocs. The only remnant of the evening was the make-up she still wore, as she scooped up her bright chestnut hair and tied it on top of her head with a pink bandana.

Working with clay always soothed her, and tonight she needed to be soothed. Freya’s mind was racing, her thoughts all over the place, and she needed the serenity of her studio to calm her. The repetition of familiar movements as she unwrapped the lump of clay and tore off a piece had an instant effect, and she let out a slow breath as she began to focus.

But no sooner had she slapped the clay on the wheel, her hands wet, her foot on the pedal, than Jocasta Black’s words slipped into her head –‘I’ve got a proposition for you…’

New York. Was this the new challenge she had been hankering after? Or was it a step too far? She loved her job at the college, and she adored her flat and studio.

And what about Hadrian? How would she feel about leaving him behind?

As she dug her thumb into the spinning ball of clay and gently pulled, drawing the material up, she let out a muted snort as she realised that she’d put him third on the list of things she would miss if she moved to New York.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide just yet. She had a couple of weeks. She’d give it time to cure, time for the offer of working as a course director in the New York academy to sink in, time to think about it rationally – because right now her heart was screaming yes.

When Freya sliced through the base of the final vase and lifted the piece off the wheel, it was light outside. She’d worked through the night, and she was utterly exhausted.

After scrupulously cleaning her equipment and the area around the wheel (she would never, ever leave her space in a mess), she closed the door on the studio and dug something out of the freezer to reheat, eating it slumped over the table, barely able to keep her eyes open.

She desperately needed sleep. A shower first, though.

With a face scrubbed clean of make-up and her hair damp at the neck, Freya climbed into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep, only to be woken several hours later by a phone call.

The news wasn’t good.

---