Page 11 of Healing Hearts on Thistledown Lane: Part 4
Jamie nodded. ‘I am.’ He fixed her with a sincere look. ‘Take care of yourself, Maura. Be happy.’
Now it was Maura’s turn to feel tears welling up in her eyes. ‘You too,’ she said, and watched as he stooped through the door and disappeared. For a moment, she thought the ache in her chest might overwhelm her, but the sadness ebbed away, leaving only a bruised, raw space. With deliberate care, she eased thetension from her shoulders and returned to the workbench, staring down at the uneven, lumpy vase for a moment. With a gentle exhale, she started to roll a fresh coil of clay, muscle memory guiding her hands even as the significance of Jamie’s visit sank in. She’d thought they’d said all that needed to be said, and yet he had given her something she hadn’t known she needed – an ending. Perhaps it also held the seeds of something else.
Her fingers stilled as she gazed at the length of clay on the workbench, and then at the stubborn vase that was resisting all her efforts to impose symmetry. With a sudden, decisive movement, Maura flattened the walls into the base and squeezed everything together into a ball. As symbolic gestures went, it was as subtle as a brick, but perhaps it was time for a fresh start with more than just this pot.
‘Wow,’ Kirsty said when Maura told her about Jamie’s visit the next evening. ‘I did not have that on my Jamie-is-a-bastard bingo card.’
‘Me either,’ Maura admitted. She shifted the phone from her ear and switched it to speaker phone as she stirred the chilli she was making for dinner. ‘But I’m pleased he’s getting help. Now that I’ve come to terms with what happened, I want him to be happy.’
‘Hmmm,’ Kirsty said, sounding as though the jury was very much still out for her. ‘You’re more generous than I would be.’
Maura grimaced. Her sister had suggested any number of unpleasant ways to make Jamie’s life a misery, none of which she had accepted. ‘There’s no point in hanging on to negative emotions,’ she said in a practical tone. ‘Everything worked out for the best.’
‘Hmmm,’ Kirsty said again, and hesitated. ‘Any news from Fraser?’
There it was again, Maura thought with an inward sigh, that sixth sense for subjects she would rather avoid.
After the photo in the newspaper, she’d made a conscious effort to distance herself from Fraser, in part to prevent the ache whenever his name appeared on her screen but also to wean herself off the support she’d come to rely on after breaking up with Jamie. She would always be grateful for the way he had helped her move past the initial hurt, but it was also blindingly obvious she’d mistaken his kindness for something deeper. It wasn’t Fraser’s fault – he had been very clear that he saw her as a friend, nothing more – but there was no doubt in her mind that she had teetered on the brink of making a fool of herself. Thankfully, his decision to go back to acting had arrived just in time to save her from embarrassing them both again.
‘Not really,’ she said, deciding not to mention that she’d left Fraser’s most recent message unread for two days. ‘I’ve been in the studio and I imagine he’s got a lot going on too.’
There was a distinct sniff. ‘It doesn’t take a moment to say hello. Making these ghosts was his idea and now he’s vanished and left you to do all the work.’
‘Hardly,’ Maura said, uncomfortably reminded of the unread messages. ‘I deal with Tom at Dead Famous now. There’s no reason for Fraser to be in touch.’
‘If you say so,’ Kirsty replied. ‘Look, I know you think I’m poking my nose in but I’m just worried about you. We all are.’
‘You don’t need to be,’ Maura said, wanting to reassure her without fuelling her concerns. ‘I know you think the ghosts are too much work but at least they sell and give me a steady income. And over half the pieces from the exhibition have been reserved and three galleries have been in touch about stock.’
Kirsty gave an impatient sigh. ‘Yes, your career is flying, but that’s not what I asked. What about you? Are you happy, Maura?’
Feeling very much as though she was under interrogation, Maura took refuge in honesty. ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ she admitted. ‘But I’m better than I was. I’m enjoying my work a lot more, taking time to cook proper meals and sleeping better. Is that enough for now?’
There was a brief pause, in which she pictured her sister fighting the desire to traverse the Firth of Forth to shake her into enforced happiness.
‘I suppose it will have to be,’ Kirsty said, her tone suggesting she remained a long way from convinced. ‘For now.’
Chapter Six
It wasn’t that Fraser disliked having to spend more time in London. The city was as bright and bustling as ever, its brash charm beguiling and energising now that he had a concrete reason to be there. And he couldn’t complain about the way he’d been looked after. On the day he was due to meet the producers, he’d been picked up from his hotel by a chauffeured car and whisked to an expensive restaurant, where Minelli and Sam were already waiting. The meeting had gone better than he could have dreamed, although he suspected he had Minelli’s influence to thank for that, and Sam had been full of praise when they’d caught up the next morning. ‘You wowed them,’ he said over breakfast. ‘It’s the start of something big, I can feel it.’
Even so, Fraser had been glad to get back to Edinburgh. No smartly dressed chauffeur had held up a sign bearing his name when he’d made his way through the arrivals gate at the airport, and he’d taken the bus into the city centre before hopping onto the tram to Leith.
There’d been a cluster of photographers outside the restaurant, shouting Minelli’s name as their cameras whirred and flashed – Fraser hadn’t enjoyed that. A day or two later, one of the tabloids had leaked the news that he’d been cast in Minelli’s new blockbuster. But in Edinburgh, no one had the faintest idea who he was, and no one cared. It was a blessed relief after the whirlwind of London.
He’d been glad to slip back into the routine of the walking tours too. Thankfully, it seemed the gossip columnists had yet tofind out what Fraser did when he wasn’t being wined and dined by Hollywood executives, but he had a sinking feeling it was only a matter of time. In the meantime, he was determined to savour the comfortable familiarity of the stories he’d been telling for more than a year while he still could.
Maura’s silence was another thing that had been troubling him. Now that he’d handed over responsibility for the day-to-day ghost production to Tom, he’d missed seeing his phone light up with her name. He suspected she was focused on work; he’d managed to squeeze in a visit to the exhibition at the castle and had been blown away by the talent and skill she’d poured into it. Every piece was unique, but she had somehow managed to create a sense of symbiosis between them all, plunging her audience into the majesty of both the city and its castle. His heart swelled with pride as he listened to the awed comments of those stood near him in the barracks. Several pieces had stickers denoting they had been reserved – he thought the centrepiece must have been snapped up by the same buyer – and he was certain more would be sold before the exhibition closed. He had hoped to see her, that they might share a bottle of champagne to toast each other’s success, but she’d replied to his suggestion with an apology that she was up to her elbows in unfinished pots. While he had no doubt that was true, he also had the sense that she was pulling back. The realisation left a leaden feeling in his stomach. After the night she had asked him to stay, he’d relived the moment more than once and each time he had been certain he’d done the right thing. But he was beginning to appreciate that it had come at a cost, one that his own change in fortunes had only increased. His instinct then had been to protect Maura and the friendship they shared, but he couldn’t shake the nagging suspicion that he’d accidentally pushed her away.
His phone vibrated and he saw a message pop up on the screen. After the customary stab of disappointment that it wasn’t from Maura, he opened it and began to read.
Hey Fraser, thought I’d give you a heads up that I took a call just now from someone asking if the Fraser Bell who runs the walking tour is the same person as Fraser Bell, the actor. I said I had no idea what they were going on about but I got the feeling it might have been a reporter. Thought you’d want to know.
Tom
And so it begins, Fraser thought wearily, closing the message. He’d known this would happen, or course, but he’d hoped he might be able to fly under the radar for a little while longer. It was time to speed up his plan to bring another storyteller on board and step back from Dead Famous as soon as he could.
It took three days for the first journalist to turn up at Fraser’s ghost walk.
