Alexandra Jordan

The first thing she looks at is hands: how someone holds a sleeve, whether the fingers are careful or impatient. Alexandra works out most of what she needs from there. In the boutique it tells her what to pull off the rail; after closing it tells her something else entirely. Her pottery wheel sits in the back room, clay still under her nails when she test-drives something loud on the coast road, freckles catching the light through the windscreen. She travels light, in a yoga outfit, and books the return flight late on purpose. Conversation with her runs warm and unhurried, full of small observations you never realised you had handed over.