Page 2 of Summer Escapes on the Scottish Isle (Coorie Castle Crafts #2)

‘Fantastic turnout, Freya,’ a man she didn’t recognise said.

‘Congratulations. Your best work yet!’ A woman placed a hand on Freya’s shoulder as she eased through the crowded art gallery, and Freya smiled politely.

‘Give me a call and we’ll chat about commissioning some pieces, yeah?’ someone else told her, and Freya barely had time to register who they were before they’d gone.

‘Here.’ Sean Pickles, the vice chancellor of the prestigious London art college where Freya taught ceramics, handed her a half-filled fluted glass of pale liquid.

Freya sipped it gratefully, the bubbles of the sparkling wine tickling the back of her throat. ‘Thanks, I needed this.’

Sean gazed around the gallery with a satisfied smile. After all, having one of his staff be the draw for a successful exhibition would help enormously with the profile of the college.

He said, ‘It was a good idea of yours to combine three strands with the same theme. It makes for a cohesive message. The punters seem to like it.’

‘The punters’ were her peers and colleagues in the art world, as well as a carefully curated selection of the press, businesspeople, critics, and patrons of the college.

So far, the exhibition appeared to be a roaring success, with each of the three artists showcased (Freya being the most well-known) receiving enthusiastic praise.

The title of the event was Colour in Motion , and the three strands of artwork complemented each other.

Several large and striking oil-on-canvas paintings adorned the gallery’s plain white walls, and fabrics created by an up-and-coming textile designer were draped and folded to show off their jewelled colours.

Freya’s ceramic pieces were placed at strategic points in between to bring the elements together.

A man caught her eye as he approached, and she recognised him by his purple goatee as the renowned critic Gustav Horn.

‘Freya, my darling, so lovely to meet you at last,’ he gushed. ‘I’ve been a fan of your work for some time.’ He held out a hand, and she shook it.

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Horn,’ she replied.

He offered her a humble smile, as though surprised she knew his name, even though he expected everyone at the exhibition to have heard of him.

‘Call me Gustav.’ He scanned the room, before his gaze returned to her. ‘How does it feel to be called the new Betty Woodman ?’

‘An honour I don’t deserve,’ she replied honestly.

‘Come now, you’re being modest.’

She actually wasn’t. Betty Woodman was one of the most important ceramicists in post-war America, her work inspiring a whole generation of potters due to her innovative and original use of colour and form. Freya’s work didn’t come close.

The critic was scrutinising her. ‘You mean it,’ he declared, sounding surprised. ‘How very refreshing.’

‘Freya isn’t one to blow her own trumpet,’ the vice chancellor said.

Gustav Horn blinked, as though he had only just noticed him. ‘And you are…?’ He shook his head and wafted a hand in the air. ‘Never mind. It was a pleasure to meet you, Freya.’

‘You too, Gustav,’ she said. Freya watched him work his way through the crowd, bemused.

An arm encircled her waist as Hadrian, her significant other, appeared at her side. ‘Was that Gustav Horn?’

‘It was.’

‘What did he say? Did he like the exhibition?’

Sean offered Hadrian his hand. ‘Hadrian, how are you? Gustav was most complimentary.’

Hadrian smiled. ‘So he should be. Freya’s work is outstanding.’ He leant in and kissed her hair, just above her ear. Only she could hear him whisper, ‘You look gorgeous.’

She inclined her head. ‘Thank you, kind sir.’

‘I can’t wait to get you out of that dress,’ he murmured, his breath tickling her skin.

She edged away, knowing she wasn’t going to be in the mood for bedtime antics when all this was done.

Hadrian snagged another glass of bubbly. It was the fourth one she’d seen him drink, but he may well have had more. If he carried on at this rate, even if he did manage to get her out of the dress, he wouldn’t be capable of doing anything.

Freya couldn’t wait to take the dress off either, but for a different reason.

Although she scrubbed up well enough when she had to, cocktail dresses and heels weren’t her preferred attire.

Freya was happiest in dungarees and Doc Martens, with an apron on top to protect her old, worn clothes.

She’d dressed up this evening because it was expected, but she didn’t feel comfortable.

Her boyfriend, however, did. He was clad in an expensive navy suit, loafers and a crisp white shirt which was open at the neck. Designer stubble, carefully tended, graced his chin, and his dark brown hair curled artfully over his forehead.

‘Look at you!’ someone cried, and Freya turned to see Wanda, the chancellor’s PA, walking towards her.

Wanda held out both hands and Freya grasped them with a smile. She was touched and humbled that so many of her college colleagues had shown up this evening, considering today was the last day of the academic year and the summer break would start tomorrow.

‘Congratulations,’ Wanda said. ‘I’ve heard nothing but good things. You must be so proud.’

Freya was. She’d put her heart and soul into it. Her best items were on display and even though this was only the opening night, she was delighted to see quite a few sold stickers on her work, as well as that of the other two artists.

But she was also so done with it. The exhibition was the culmination of months of work, and she was ready for a new challenge. What form that challenge would take, Freya had yet to determine.

It seemed greedy to want more, though. After all, she had not one, but two dream jobs.

She held a professorship at one of the top universities in the world, and she also made a decent living from doing what she loved: pottery.

Not only that, she lived in an airy apartment in a converted warehouse and had a seriously handsome boyfriend.

Hadrian had wandered off, probably to do some networking.

He was ambitious and hungry for success, and sometimes (very occasionally) Freya got the impression he was envious of her.

He needn’t be, because he certainly had talent.

His speciality was abstract expressionism, and his paintings were in the style of Jackson Pollock.

But what he lacked, Freya thought, was the passion and determination to succeed.

If Freya could, she would spend every second of every hour in her studio.

Hadrian, although dedicated to his art, wasn’t driven in the way she was, and she suspected he preferred the hype that went with being an artist to knuckling down to the task of producing said art.

She’d once heard someone unkindly call him an ‘art groupie’, and while she hated the term, it did have a ring of truth to it.

As she strolled around the series of interconnecting rooms, Freya couldn’t understand why she felt so restless this evening. She’d worked so hard and for so long on the pieces for this exhibition, that she’d have thought she would be ecstatic that it was the opening night. But she felt oddly flat.

Was it because she needed a new challenge, a new creative direction? Or was it simply the result of being so intensely focused over these past few months that now the exhibition was up and running, such intense focus was no longer needed?

She became aware of a woman staring intently at her and smiled uncertainly, wondering whether she’d seen her before.

The woman approached and when she was close enough, she asked in an American accent, ‘Freya Sinclair?’

‘That’s me,’ Freya replied.

The woman said, ‘I love your work. It’s so innovative – the shape and form, and those colours.’ She fanned herself and fluttered her lashes. ‘It makes me giddy with excitement.’

Freya blinked in surprise. She didn’t think her ceramics had ever made anyone giddy before, but she was happy to accept the compliment.

She took great delight in making a pot, a bowl, a vase, a platter – whatever the size and shape – and contorting it.

The inspiration came from her native Scotland (the Isle of Skye, to be exact) and the swirling colours emphasised the flowing lines of her ceramics. It was what she was renowned for.

‘Can I give you this?’ The woman pressed a business card into Freya’s hand.

Freya glanced at it and her eyes widened. ‘Jocasta Black? That’s you ?’ Gosh! No wonder she’d thought the woman looked familiar. Jocasta Black was the founder of the Black and White Art Academy in New York, which was considered the top place in the world to study ceramics.

Freya looked up from the card to examine the woman properly. She’d seen photos of her, but Jocasta was less flamboyant in real life: a toned-down version who wasn’t wearing one of her signature scarves.

‘It’s lovely to meet you,’ Freya said weakly, glancing around to check Hadrian’s whereabouts. He was nowhere to be seen, and she felt relieved, although she couldn’t pinpoint why. It was something to unpick later. Right now, she needed her wits about her if she wasn’t to make a fool of herself.

Jocasta’s eyes were boring into hers, and Freya shifted uncomfortably; such intense scrutiny was making her self-conscious.

Jocasta nodded as though agreeing with an unspoken statement. Then she said, ‘I’ve got a proposition for you.’

Not many people would understand why, when given the opportunity to

purchase the top-floor apartment of a converted warehouse in Fulham,

Freya had opted for the ground floor, especially since the ground-floor

flat had been only marginally less expensive.

Another potter would, though. Her kiln was heavy and dangerous, and needed adequate ventilation.

The ground floor of the former warehouse had an exterior brick building which was large enough to house her studio, and Freya had paid over the odds to purchase it along with the flat.

To her, it had been worth every penny, especially since she’d been able to knock a doorway through to it, connecting the two together.

The two areas often became blurred. Several times Hadrian had quipped that Freya’s apartment could be better described as a pottery studio with a bed in it, rather than a flat with a separate studio.

She didn’t think he had been joking. If it wasn’t for the invasive clay dust, which could get everywhere if she wasn’t scrupulous about cleanliness, she had a suspicion she may well have set up her bed next to the kiln.

As it was, her open-plan living space was littered with photos, sketches and paintings: the 2D ideas behind her 3D creations.

Many of the completed pieces found their way from her studio to her flat, where they were photographed and packed, although it was rare that she sold directly from her website.

Most of her work was sold through galleries and upmarket shops.

Increasingly, she did commissioned pieces, but she often found it too restricting.

Freya had to make what was in her heart, not what was in someone else’s head.

Right now, her heart was in turmoil and it had nothing to do with Hadrian.

After being approached by Jocasta Black, Freya had found it difficult to enjoy the remainder of the opening night and had decided to leave.

She hadn’t left with Hadrian, though. Despite having told her that he couldn’t wait to take her dress off, he hadn’t appeared to be too put out when she’d informed him that she was tired and just wanted to crash out.

He hadn’t seemed put out at all , in fact. When she’d found him, he’d been deep in conversation with a journalist who was known for his scathing reviews.

Freya had briefly kissed Hadrian, then silently wished him luck as she made her way to the door.

She’d learnt early on in her career that sucking up to journalists and critics rarely did any good.

Friendly and polite, with the same degree of wariness that you’d reserve for a wasp, was Freya’s preferred method of dealing with them.

She was stripping off almost before she’d got through the door to her flat. By the time she’d reached her bedroom, her shoes had been kicked off and her dress was a puddle of emerald silk in the sitting room.

Thirty seconds later she had pulled a T-shirt over her head, had donned a faded pair of dungarees and had shoved her feet into a pair of Crocs.

The only remnant of the evening was the make-up she still wore, as she scooped up her bright chestnut hair and tied it on top of her head with a pink bandana.

Working with clay always soothed her, and tonight she needed to be soothed.

Freya’s mind was racing, her thoughts all over the place, and she needed the serenity of her studio to calm her.

The repetition of familiar movements as she unwrapped the lump of clay and tore off a piece had an instant effect, and she let out a slow breath as she began to focus.

But no sooner had she slapped the clay on the wheel, her hands wet, her foot on the pedal, than Jocasta Black’s words slipped into her head – ‘I’ve got a proposition for you…’

New York. Was this the new challenge she had been hankering after? Or was it a step too far? She loved her job at the college, and she adored her flat and studio.

And what about Hadrian? How would she feel about leaving him behind?

As she dug her thumb into the spinning ball of clay and gently pulled, drawing the material up, she let out a muted snort as she realised that she’d put him third on the list of things she would miss if she moved to New York.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to decide just yet. She had a couple of weeks. She’d give it time to cure, time for the offer of working as a course director in the New York academy to sink in, time to think about it rationally – because right now her heart was screaming yes.

When Freya sliced through the base of the final vase and lifted the piece off the wheel, it was light outside. She’d worked through the night, and she was utterly exhausted.

After scrupulously cleaning her equipment and the area around the wheel (she would never, ever leave her space in a mess), she closed the door on the studio and dug something out of the freezer to reheat, eating it slumped over the table, barely able to keep her eyes open.

She desperately needed sleep. A shower first, though.

With a face scrubbed clean of make-up and her hair damp at the neck, Freya climbed into bed and fell into a dreamless sleep, only to be woken several hours later by a phone call.

The news wasn’t good.