Page 1 of Kiln Me Softly

Juniper was lost. Geographically, that was. Probably emotionally, too, but she wasn’t thinking about that at the moment on account of the fact that it was the first day of her new and improved life – or would be if she could just find the building where all her hopes and dreams lay.

She swiped her sweaty curtain fringe from her eyes, nerves jangling as she looked around the grand college campus situated in the heart of London.

RACA, the Royal Academy of Ceramic Arts, was a small university in comparison to most, but no less intimidating, especially to a northern lass who had spent the last couple of years away from education.

She currently stood in Potter’s Square, a paved open space surrounded by tall, modern blocks of classrooms on one side and a cluster of historic Georgian buildings on the other: a far cry from the industrial red bricks and Gothic architecture of Manchester.

In front of her, the vast exhibition gallery gleamed like a temple, supported by elaborate pillars.

Behind, the library was almost as grand, housing a turret clock that reminded her she was quite late.

Late, and officially out of her depth. Even the majestic bronze statue of Magdalene Wells – also known as one of the earliest pioneers of modern ceramic sculpting, so Juniper had researched – seemed to know it, narrowed eyes looking down haughtily at her.

‘I know, Mags. I’m buggered,’ she muttered, and took out her phone just to make sure the clock wasn’t lying to her.

Okay, she was doubly buggered. Her workshop introduction had started five minutes ago.

She cursed herself for taking that extra ten (okay, twenty) minutes in the shower this morning and ran to the first person she could find, who happened to be a short man with a very red, very wiry beard.

He didn’t seem all that happy when Juniper touched his arm, quick to put distance between them with a Magdalene-like cock of his head.

‘Hello. Sorry!’ Juniper blurted. ‘First of all, do I have ketchup on my chin?’ She’d eaten a bacon butty – sorry, sandwich now she was down south – on the way in and couldn’t be certain.

He blinked, then said, ‘No.’

‘Are you just saying that to get rid of me?’

‘Yes.’ He made to continue on his way, leaving Juniper to dash after him.

Despite being barely taller than her five-three height, his strides were surprisingly long and difficult to catch up to.

She’d known Londoners wouldn’t be quite as patient as the friendly northerners she was used to, but bloody hell.

‘I just wanted to know where the Whiteread Building is?’ she asked between trying to catch her breath. Powerwalking was not her strong suit, especially not with anxiety tightening her lungs.

‘No idea,’ he said as he reached a heavy black door on the left side of campus, the name of which read Whiteread Building.

Without deigning to glance her way, the red-haired stranger pushed through, leaving the door to swing shut in Juniper’s mystified face. Not before she shouted, ‘Arsehole!’ loud enough to garner a few perplexed looks from passersby.

She flexed her fingers tighter around the straps of her black leather backpack, trying to ignore the heat crawling up her throat. She would not cry. Not even if she wanted to turn back and go home, where everything was familiar and people were at least a little bit nicer to her.

But also where she’d always felt aimless and out of place.

C’mon, Juni. You’re here. You made it. Just go in.

She wiped her clammy palms on her jeans and followed the rude man inside before she had the chance to talk herself out of it. She’d be damned if some tweed-wearing ignoramus ruined this opportunity for her.

Juniper was hit by the smell of paint chemicals and earthy clay, a sign she was in the right building and enough to set her skin tingling with anticipation. Soon, she’d be able to call herself a real ceramicist, just like Mags.

All right, not quite like Mags, but she’d try her best.

The lobby was modern and bright, with a noticeboard spanning one wall.

A cluster of posters were tacked to the cork, advertising upcoming events both on and off campus.

A few loudly dressed students loitered around glass coffee tables and yellow couches with their laptops, the patchwork cushions making the space feel less like a college and more like a common room.

The walls were just as eye-catching, painted a powdery shade of sky-blue that Juniper had been longing for all summer.

A sign laid out workshop rooms, studio spaces, and classroom numbers on a map.

Using her phone to quadruple-check she hadn’t misread, she searched for WS2 and followed directions into a lift to get to the first floor.

Here we go, then, she thought as the lift clunked up one flight.

When the doors slid open, she headed down an echoey corridor filled with abstract paintings and pictures of sculptures, just like she’d imagined. She was surrounded by art, and she’d never felt more at home as she knocked on the door—

‘ You ?’ she blurted.

In her workshop room, the rude man stood in front of a PowerPoint presentation, shirt rolled up to the elbows and that same completely unimpressed expression on his face.

Lazily, he leaned against the corner of his desk. ‘Glad you could ketchup to the rest of us.’ And then, when Juniper only stared: ‘Come on, that’s quite funny for an arsehole like me.’

The smirk rising under his beard did nothing to quell Juniper’s dismay… or her steadily growing embarrassment.

Mutters rippled through the students, who were now all staring at Juniper, likely wondering why the hell she’d interrupted their class to shout at their tutor.

‘I, er…’ Should she apologise? She didn’t really want to, not to him. But if her timetable was correct, this was Christopher Curtis, one of RACA’s most experienced professors, and she didn’t fancy being on his bad side.

‘Dig your hole later.’ Christopher pointed to one of the only empty seats by the window. A collection of chairs had been arranged around the whiteboard, which was not what she’d hoped for. She was ready to get comfortable at one of the workstations laid out behind.

Dipping her head like a scolded puppy, Juniper went to her chair, trying to ignore the burn of a dozen pairs of eyes on her.

She’d forgotten how demoralising education could be, or perhaps she’d expected better in an undergraduate course.

She wasn’t a kid anymore, and she’d had enough talent to earn her place here with a full tuition bursary to cover the expenses.

Fine, she wasn’t anything special, but didn’t she deserve at least a little bit of respect as an adult who had come here to learn?

She plopped her bag down on the floor, intending to sit, but the student beside her chair was still staring. She snapped her head up, intending to ask if the dark-haired lad would rather take a picture instead, only the words didn’t come out quite like that.

Instead, they were a sharp utterance that conveyed the dread, memories, disgust, rising inside her: ‘You’ve got to be shitting me.’

Again, the room fell silent. Again, Juniper had trouble noticing, too busy wondering why the hell the seat beside her was currently occupied by somebody she’d assumed she’d never, ever see again.

Aiden Twatface Whittaker, the definition of wealthy white male privilege, and Juniper’s greatest enemy.

He’d made her adolescence miserable, mainly because he’d tried half as hard as her in art class and still had their teacher wrapped around his finger, along with everyone else in that miserable little high school.

It wasn’t even the way he’d patronised her that had pissed her off, or the silly nicknames he and his mates had thought up to get under her skin.

No, it was the way he’d walked around like he was owed something just by existing.

Sure, he’d been a talented painter, but wouldn’t anyone who had a father that worked as a renowned dealer in the industry be?

Not to mention, he’d always bragged about having a private studio decked out at home.

Juniper might have rivalled him if she’d had the same money, the same connections, but her parents were working-class, her school uniform and supplies all second-hand.

She wasn’t surprised to find that he hadn’t changed much, though his once-short hair had grown out to be a floppy, brushed back assortment of chestnut waves that ended in curls around his jawline.

Of course, his pretty hazel eyes and chiselled features had done him favours, too, now made rugged by a hint of stubble.

He’d grown into his square jaw, and his face and brawny body had filled out in a way that was both hard and soft, muscular and not, as though his scrawny arrogant arse hadn’t already taken up enough space.

That obnoxious little smirk, always reserved just for Juniper, made its appearance, smarmier now thanks to the deepened dimple in his cheek and the asymmetry of his plump bottom lip versus his thin top one.

He might have been one of those sculptures outside, carved by deft ancient hands.

How Juniper would love to smash him up into pieces.

‘Nice to see you again, too, Juni.’ His gravelly voice – had it been that deep before?

– sent a zap of goosebumps down Juniper’s arms, just like it used to.

It didn’t take much to make her skin crawl, but he’d always commanded a physical reaction with only a few words, an abject disgust she felt now more than ever.

What was he doing here ? This was her dream. Her moment. Not his !

‘Oh, my apologies. I thought we were done with this little performance,’ Christopher said behind her, dragging her back to the present. For a moment, she’d been in Mrs. Park’s classroom again, sent to the corner for being ‘disruptive’ while Aiden mimicked disappointed tuts, oozing cocky immaturity.

She would not let history repeat itself. He’d taken enough from her already.

With an unwavering glare at Aiden, she took her seat, willing the twist in her gut to ease. It didn’t. His presence seared a hole through her layers of clothes, and she could still feel his scrutiny as Christopher began to speak.

‘Well, now that we’re all finally here and finally quiet, shall we begin?’

Christopher had only gotten two slides into his presentation when Aiden leaned towards her, a pen jiggling between his thumb and forefinger. ‘Aren’t you going to say hello to me properly, Juni?’

‘ Per ,’ she hissed out.

His dark brows dipped in confusion. ‘Eh?’

‘Juni per. Only my friends call me Juni.’ Not that she had many of those lately. She’d been too busy working her arse off at a fast-food chain, trying to earn enough money to get here. Even with the bursary, and even living in dorms, London wasn’t cheap.

‘Ouch. Here I thought we were old chums.’ His hot breath tickled her ear and she squirmed away, too aware that she’d yet to register a single thing Christopher had said about the course.

She at least pretended to engage, dragging her notebook from her backpack along with her pen. She’d hoped for prettier stationary, but settled on plain Poundland stuff after discovering textbooks were the biggest form of daylight robbery she’d ever seen.

‘Last I heard, you were off to Elmington for a degree in snooty-prick-ology. If you ask me, you wouldn’t have needed it.

You’re already excelling in your field.’ Elmington School of Fine Arts was one of the leading art universities in Europe.

Only one artist from each county was selected per course, their attempt to make things fair – only it wasn’t.

It hadn’t surprised her one bit when, after receiving her own rejection letter, she’d opened Instagram to find old friends celebrating Aiden’s acceptance.

She’d unfollowed all of them, then spent the following two years trying to convince herself that she just had to be patient.

That her time would come. That she didn’t want to attend some elite school that favoured the rich anyway.

And then, when she’d decided to give education a second chance with RACA, that everything would be different.

Only it wasn’t, because he was here. A walking, smirking symbol of all the ways she fell short.

He snorted. ‘You haven’t changed a bit. Always so testy.’

Yes, I have. I wouldn’t have gotten here otherwise, she wanted to reply, but rage had wired her jaw shut.

This was supposed to be her new life, and that meant no more of the things she’d struggled through in the past.

If Aiden Whittaker was anything, it was one big, neon-red reminder of everything she’d like to forget.

She shrank in her seat and ignored him until, finally, he returned his focus to Christopher’s presentation. Meanwhile, hers remained on him.

Just like old times.