She mutters under her breath about something that includes ‘chronically late’ and ‘liability’, but it’s too quiet to be sure.
The instructor turns to glare at us.‘Ladies.If we could hold comments until after the demonstration?’
Abbey and I share a look – we’re fifteen again and about to get sent to detention.
We try to focus.
Trybeing the operative word.
The teacher does a whole delicate, sensual demonstration of throwing clay on the wheel, hands gliding over it like something out ofGhost, except it’s just her, a very intense low ponytail and a zero-tolerance policy on backchat.
When it’s our turn, she crouches next to me, guiding my hands, and I prepare myself to hear her whisper life-changing wisdom into my ear.Instead, she says, ‘Your pressure is uneven.Breathe with the clay.’
I breathe.I press.I overcorrect.My mug collapses.
The instructor inhales sharply and shoos me away.She takes over my wheel to ‘salvage what’s left’ while I step aside and watch her work with the guilt of someone who ran over a houseplant.
Abbey, meanwhile, has created something vaguely dick shaped.Whether on purpose or by accident is unclear, and I’m not brave enough to ask.
We look at each other and burst out laughing – actual belly laughter.
It’s the kind of laugh I haven’t had in months.Maybe longer.
Our instructor couldn’t be more pissed.
Afterwards, Abbey and I grab dinner at the little Italian place across the street.The waiter gives us bread and a bottle of wine without asking.We arethatkind of table.
Abbey takes a slice of pizza and says, ‘So, Project Jamie.How’s the rebirth going?’
I shrug, tearing myself a piece.‘I tried being mysterious in museums.Educated in bookshops.Dipped a toe into the true-crime doco lifestyle.’
‘Any standouts?’
‘I lost two nights of sleep over a man with a history of childhood trauma and taxidermy.So, no.’
Abbey winces.‘Yikes.’
‘I also tried rock climbing.’
‘You?’
‘I know.’
She chews slowly.‘And?’
‘I discovered I’m terrified of heights and possess the grip strength of a damp paper towel.So that hobby’s out.’
She nods thoughtfully as if she’s compiling data.‘What about surfing?’
‘And end up onBondi Rescue?’I ask, taking another bite of pizza.‘No thanks.’
‘Painting?’
I nod and swallow.‘I was thinking maybe OnlyFans.’
Abbey levels me with a look.
‘Or,’ I offer, ‘the foot pic one?No face, just toes.Anonymity and income.’
