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She raised her brows at the compliment. ‘I’m not?’

‘I think you would have liked her exhibit last month,’ Chris insisted. ‘A little darker than your pieces, Coco, but very illustrative. She’s a talented sculptor, indeed.’

Juniper eyed him closely, checking for evidence of sickness or cloning. ‘Who are you and what have you done with Chris?’

‘Good question. I’m disturbed about it, myself. But these things need to be said. Occasionally.’ He patted her head like she was a dog, which felt much more characteristic of him.

Coco laughed, her golden bracelets rattling as she folded her arms. ‘Well, I’d love to see your work, Juniper. Have you considered your career plans?’

‘I’ve barely considered my lunch plans,’ Juniper admitted, overwhelmed at the prospect. Still, there had been a time before RACA when the idea of selling her jewellery and sculptures alone had brought her unbridled joy. Of course,people didn’t go to the most prestigious ceramics college in the country just to learn how to sell things on Etsy. She should have been aiming higher now.

But then, why had Chris brought them here otherwise?

‘How did you decide to do this?’ she was eager to ask. ‘Did you study ceramics first?’

Coco shook her head. ‘Nope. It started as a hobby, purely for fun. My friend and I spent the summer before uni doing as many new things as we could, and one of our plans just happened to be throwing at the Potter’s Arms around the corner. I fell in love with it immediately, ended up booking a few classes, and saved up through my business degree to get my own throwing wheel.’

Juniper was too awed to so much as blink – and too envious. Coco made the whole thing sound so easy, like pottery had justfoundher and decided to keep her.

‘How long have you had your business?’

‘Six years, now. I started out by selling on eBay and at local markets, anything I had the time to make, and when that took off, I took out a business loan and managed to get my first shop front. It was a tiny little building most people walked right past, but I managed to find my way here through blood, sweat and tears.’

So it wasn’t just luck, then. Coco had worked hard to get here. It hadn’t been handed to her the way it was for some.

A million thoughts clouded Juniper’s brain. This was what she’d dreamed of, too, and she didn’t need RACA to do it. But she did need something. The education, the practice, the workshop. A few lessons here and there wouldn’t cut it, but she couldn’t afford the tools and materials to learn any other way.

‘You look deep in thought,’ Coco noted.‘Is it a lot to take in?’

‘I just find it difficult to know where my place is in ceramics sometimes,’ Juniper admitted. ‘I’m not sure I’d have the patience to build a business the way you have, but I’m not finding the academic route any easier, either.’

‘I think it’s natural for an artist to wonder which approach is best. There isn’t always a right answer.’ Coco’s voice was soft. Understanding. ‘You’re allowed to take time to figure it out. By the sounds of it, you have a lot of talent.’

But not a lot of room to explore it. Not without her bursary, and certainly not when she was driving herself towards another burnout. All she could think about was the contrast between Middleport and here: the traditional versus the abstract. If she wanted to succeed in academia, and with that competition, it seemed as though she needed to fit into a box. Yet every instinct in her body screamed to break out of boxes, not crawl into them.

‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to me,’ Juniper said gratefully, avoiding Chris’s assessing gaze. She drifted away to look around the rest of the shop, fidgeting with the hair tie on her wrist. She wasn’t ready to confront the root of her inner conflict, not yet, telling herself that as much as she’d love a store like this one day, art school had been the dream she’d chased for years. She couldn’t let it go, at least not without a fight.

A good potter would know how to do both surely: fit the mould, and break out of it. If she could do that for the contest,maybe she’d finally have the resources, the experience, to work out what kind of artist she truly was.

‘Get her number,’ she whispered in Tilly’s ear as she returned to her by a rack of interestingly textured mugs. ‘She’s extremely great, and I want you to marry her.’

Tilly snorted, but her gaze still lingered towards where Coco conversed with Chris and, now, Luc. ‘In the harsh light of day, she’s even more out of my league than I thought.’

‘Shut up. You’re gorgeous, and she clearly thinks so. She keeps looking at you.’

To prove it, Coco’s dark eyes drifted back towards Tilly, causing Tilly to duck and feign interest in a twisted mug handle.

Juniper tutted and decided it was time to reassume wingwoman duties. By the end of their visit, Coco had Tilly’s number, neither of them having noticed Juniper slipping Tilly’s contact details in Coco’s pocket. Aiden might have picked the better suitor, but Juniper had made sure to keep them together. Thatclearlymade her the better friend, and she couldn’t wait to brag about it on the train home – once she heard back from Aiden.

She only hoped he was okay in Manchester.

32

Jonathan hadn’t changed a bit since the last time Aiden had seen him. He sat at his usual restaurant table by the tall, arched windows, his flinty features carved deeper by the light of his laptop screen while Deansgate hurtled into the lunchtime rush hour behind him.

Aiden wrung the pins and needles from his hands, glad he hadn’t yet been noticed. It allowed him a moment to get his bearings, remember who he was supposed to be, and how this was supposed to go. He wouldn’t show weakness if he could help it, even if he felt it all over.

The soles of his trainers squeaked against the restaurant’s glossy teak floorboards as he approached, finally alerting his father to his presence. With a disdainful glance, Jonathan shut his laptop and pushed it away to replace it with his cappuccino. As always, his dark hair was combed away from the harsh lines of his temples, revealing more threads of silver than before. He wore his usual pristine navy suit and tie, as though he was here for a client meeting rather than a chat with his son. He’d always been that way: businessman first, father when convenient, which was almost never.