Page 14 of Healing Hearts on Thistledown Lane, Part #4

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 the Wild Scotland website wanted to explore the way she took inspiration from the natural world.

But the message from a Sunday Times journalist 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-fashioned notebook 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 the Sunday Times need 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.’

Her palms began to sweat as she fought to keep her expression neutral. Something wasn’t right but she wasn’t entirely sure what.

‘Not necessarily the brightest, either,’ the journalist went on, his tone still nostalgic. ‘I suppose that’s got something to do with it.’

‘I don’t see what it has to do with anything,’ Maura replied, frowning.

Charlie waved an apologetic hand. ‘Thinking out loud. It’s an occupational hazard.’

Still suspicious, Maura took a sip of tea. ‘Do you think we could move onto the pottery?’ she asked. ‘That’s what you said you were interested in.’

‘Absolutely,’ he agreed. ‘The pottery. So you’ll forgive me for saying this, but the exhibition at the castle seems like a leap forward in your career. How did that come about?’

She took another sip of her drink. Ordinarily, she would have credited Fraser and the ghosts with introducing her to Ewan McRae, but she had the definite sense that would cause Charlie’s ears to prick up even further.

‘The castle is trying new ways to boost visitor engagement,’ she said, picking her words carefully.

‘They asked me to undertake some work as a local Edinburgh artist and I said yes. But I exhibit my pottery in galleries all over Scotland, including a couple here in the city. It’s a step up but it hasn’t come out of the blue. ’

‘Right,’ the reporter said, tapping his pen against his notepad. ‘So it wasn’t a direct result of your affair with Fraser Bell?’

‘What?’ Maura felt her jaw drop.

Charlie’s gaze hardened. ‘Your affair with Bell,’ he repeated.

‘According to my source, the two of you met at a New Year party. Jamie’s drinking problem drove you and Fraser to rekindle your romance from your school days, behind his girlfriend’s back, while you pretended to be business partners. Isn’t that what happened?’

A dull roaring filled Maura’s ears. ‘No!’

He smiled but there was no humour in his eyes. He reminded Maura of a weasel baring its teeth. ‘You might as well admit it. My source has proof. Times, dates, locations of hookups – the works.’

And suddenly, everything clicked into place.

This wasn’t an interview about her career at all, Maura realised.

It was a trap to get dirt on Fraser, and she had walked right into it.

Unsteadily, she pushed her chair back. ‘Which newspaper do you really work for?’ she asked, fighting to control the wobble in her voice.

‘Because I don’t think it’s the Sunday Times . ’

Charlie shrugged. ‘The Daily News . You’re about to be famous for a whole lot more than crappy pottery, Maura.’

She glared at him, shaking with shock and rage.

Ordinarily, she wasn’t a violent person, but his sly insinuations had made her want to hurl the sugar bowl at his head.

It would be a mistake, she knew, but the thought did give her another idea; perhaps one that would hurt him more.

Without a word, she picked up her barely touched cup of tea and splashed the contents onto his open notebook.

‘Hey!’ He leapt backwards to escape the tide of hot brown liquid flooding the table and snatched at the sodden pages. ‘That’s my work.’

‘I know,’ Maura said, watching the ink run on the dripping paper. ‘I hope you had a backup.’

Praying her shaking legs would not let her down, she turned on her heel and walked out.

For a moment, the bright afternoon sunlight dazzled her, but every instinct was screaming at her to put as much distance between herself and the despicable Fleming as she could.

Pausing briefly to get her bearings, she set off at pace along George Street, blinking back furious tears.

She wasn’t sure who she was angrier with – Fleming, for his lurid accusations and lies, or herself for trusting him in the first place.

The email address should have been a red flag – Gmail rather than an official Sunday Times account – but so many journalists were freelance these days and it hadn’t occurred to her to suspect an ulterior motive.

Snatches of the conversation leapt out as she walked; had she said anything to corroborate his story?

She didn’t think so, but it was hard to be sure.

And she couldn’t even call Fraser to explain what had happened, to warn him about the lies that were almost certainly about to be splashed all over the tabloids.

He was in Los Angeles, living his lifelong dream – he’d sent her a photo of a glorious sunrise only yesterday.

Never mind that the same bloody dream had just tipped Maura’s life upside down.

While she knew it was unfair to blame him for what had just happened, it was also true that his burgeoning fame had caused it.

But even so, she couldn’t bear the thought of spelling out the lurid details of her encounter with Fleming – the idea was simply too mortifying.

Instead, she pulled out her phone and rang her sister. ‘I think I’ve just done something really stupid,’ she said, when Kirsty answered. ‘And I don’t know what to do next.’

‘That utter toe-rag!’ Kirsty exploded when Maura poured out the awful story. ‘And pretending to be from a broadsheet so you’d talk to him – that’s low.’

Beside her on the sofa, Maura hung her head. ‘I know. I feel like such an idiot.’

‘It’s not your fault. How were you supposed to know you’d be targeted by tabloid journalists?’