Page 17 of Healing Hearts on Thistledown Lane: Part 4
‘Come on,’ she said. ‘Gordon will have my guts for garters if we let that pizza get cold.’
It wasn’t until much later, when Fraser was watching the Pacific Ocean lap at white gold sand, that he realised how exhausted he was. Venice Beach was almost deserted; the clusters of skaters, footballers and volleyballers had long since gone, leaving only a handful of people to watch the sun dip below the horizon. He’d laughed earlier when an enthusiastic musician had tried to get him to listen to his music, offering him a special deal if he bought a CD. This is what Sam meant, he’d realised, and moved on quickly, still grinning to himself. It had been good to laugh, after the tension of the day.
Juno Crosby had been blonde-haired and less classically beautiful than Priscilla, but Fraser had liked her more. Their scenes together had been easy; fun, even when she was slapping his cheek and calling him an asshole. He’d tried to ignite the fires of antagonism, mindful that their characters needed to go from dislike to the first stirrings of love over the course of the film, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was. Judging from the expression Minelli wore, he hadn’t been convinced either. He’d stopped the final scene just short of the kiss, exactly as he had with Priscilla, and Fraser had been relieved again. The image of Maura had floated into his mind at the exactly the same moment and he wasn’t sure it was healthy to keep imagining what it would be like to actually kiss her.
After the screen tests were over, Krystal had been keen to discuss his fitness routine ahead of the start of filming. She wassurprised to learn he didn’t belong to a gym and made a note to find him a personal trainer – one who understood the rigours of preparing to star in a Hollywood blockbuster. She also suggested he work with a nutritionist to help him stay in the best shape possible. ‘Not that you’re overweight,’ she said hastily, when his lips had twitched. ‘But we’re all carrying a little bit more than we’d like, aren’t we?’
Privately, Fraser had thought that Krystal could do with eating more than green salads but that was a minefield he knew better than to approach. Would it have been any better than her suggestion that he could lose a few kilograms? He didn’t think so. And then it had been time for him to say goodbye to Minelli and Krystal, with firm handshakes and their fulsome thanks for his hard work.
They’d told the driver to escort Fraser back to his hotel but once in the car, he’d asked to head to the beach instead. The driver had baulked at the idea of leaving Fraser there – clearly, he had his instructions – but in the end, Fraser’s determination had prevailed. And now here he was, at just after seven o’clock in the evening, somehow both glad to be on Venice Beach and wishing it was Portobello.
Krystal had told him when he’d left that she’d booked an extra day in case one of the potential co-stars didn’t turn up, or filming took longer than it should. But as they’d wrapped up on schedule, despite Priscilla’s best efforts, he had the following day to himself. ‘Let me know if there’s anything you need,’ Krystal said. ‘And of course we’ll make sure you’re collected on time for your flight tomorrow evening.’
Except that Fraser was overcome by a sudden desire to feel Edinburgh’s cobbles beneath his feet instead of golden sand. He knew a lot of successful film actors relocated to California, but he couldn’t imagine living here himself. He might acclimatise to the heat, but he’d miss the way Scotland showed off throughoutthe seasons; snowy in winter, cautiously green in spring, vibrant in summer and spectacular in autumn. He’d miss the dour humour of his fellow Scots – Priscilla aside, he’d found LA to be relentlessly sunny in more ways than one. But most of all, he would miss Maura. The distance between them over recent weeks had troubled him more than he’d realised, and he’d been in the same city. How could he expect the situation to change if he moved to another country?
Pulling out his phone, he checked flights back to London; the last one departed just after ten o’clock that evening, landing him back in Edinburgh at 9.30pm the following day. There appeared to be seats available. The urge to settle his feet on Scottish soil once more was almost tangible, only beaten by the desire to see Maura’s smile again. Before he could change his mind, he reached for his credit card. It didn’t matter that he had a flight already booked for the following evening. Sometimes, the heart had to have its way.
Chapter Seven
There had been a pleasing flurry of interest from the press since Maura’s exhibition opened at the castle. Some had been simple requests for a quote; a pottery magazine had been in touch about a feature and theWild Scotlandwebsite wanted to explore the way she took inspiration from the natural world. But the message from aSunday Timesjournalist was the biggest she’d received so far. It came through her website, praising the exhibition as it drew to a close, and asking if she would consider an interview about what the future held. He suggested meeting for coffee at a venue of her choice and Maura saw no reason to turn him down.
She arrived at the Copper Kettle ten minutes early, but the reporter was earlier still. He rose from a table opposite the door when she entered the café, waving in a slightly self-conscious way to get her attention. ‘Maura, hi,’ he said when she approached. ‘I recognised you from the photo on the castle website. I’m Charlie Fleming.’
She shook his hand and sat down. ‘Lovely to meet you. Thanks for getting in touch.’
‘Not at all,’ he said warmly. ‘Thanks for agreeing to the interview. But first things first, what can I get you to drink?’
She asked for a pot of tea, which he went to the counter to order.
A moment later he was sliding into his chair once more and regarding her with friendly curiosity. ‘Down to business, then,’ he said, and she was a little surprised to see an old-fashionednotebook and pen on the table. She’d assumed he’d have a laptop or tablet to make notes on. He saw her looking and grimaced. ‘I’m a bit old-school. I once lost months of research when a laptop crashed and I hadn’t backed it up, so I prefer a pen and paper approach these days. More difficult to hack, too.’
She smiled, although the final comment confused her. Did the arts correspondent at theSunday Timesneed to worry about being hacked? She had no idea – journalism could certainly be cut-throat. Perhaps there was a thriving dark web trade in stolen articles about regional potters. ‘It’s refreshing,’ she said. ‘I’m quite old-school myself.’
Charlie nodded, as though that was exactly what he’d expected her to say. ‘So, I’ve managed to glean a fair bit about your career path from the internet. You went to St Ignatius School here in the city until you were eighteen, then left to study at Saint Martin’s college in London, is that right?’
‘That’s right.’
He glanced down at the notepad. ‘St Ignatius seems to be a hotbed of talent. That’s the school Fraser Bell went to – the actor who’s just been cast in the new Minelli blockbuster.’ A faint frown creased his forehead. ‘Did you know him?’
Maura felt her shoulders stiffen and forced herself to relax. She’d expected him to segue into her master’s course at Glasgow School of Art but she supposed it was only natural that he would ask about Fraser, given his imminent rise to stardom. ‘I knew of him,’ she said carefully.
The tea arrived, giving her an opportunity to arrange her cup and saucer, and fuss with the pot. When she looked up, she saw Charlie was watching her. ‘You must be around the same age,’ he said. ‘Were you in the same year?’
There was no point in lying, Maura decided. ‘Yes, but we weren’t friends. I was always in the art block and he was into drama. As you’d expect.’
She watched Charlie jot down a few notes. ‘Just background,’ he said easily. ‘After you graduated from Saint Martins, you studied in Glasgow, and then came back to Edinburgh, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s where you met your long-term partner…’ He paused to flip back to a previous page. ‘Jamie.’
She shifted uneasily. It wasn’t impossible for him to have gleaned Jamie’s name but it would have taken more than a cursory bit of digging to unearth it. She’d never been one for posting personal information on social media and stuck mostly to pots. ‘Yes.’
The journalist didn’t look up. ‘He’s a rugby player, isn’t he? Plays for Inverleith Warriors?’
And now Maura had a cold prickling sensation between her shoulder blades. ‘Sorry, how is this relevant?’
Charlie’s eyes widened at the question. ‘Oh, just background info. Painting a picture of your everyday life; readers love to peek behind the scenes to see how artists work.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘I played a bit of rugby myself, back in my uni days. Big drinkers, as I recall.’
