Janet Berry

Under the shrug and the it-was-just-a-weekend line, every seam on her costumes is finished by hand. Press her and she lets slip that the leather was moulded on a form she cut herself. Modelling pays, and Janet knows exactly what she is worth in front of a lens, but the real craft happens at the table at two in the morning with a seam ripper and no audience. Thirty-five suits her. She decides where the evening is going before anyone else has taken their coat off, and she is rarely wrong about what people actually want. Talking to her feels like being sized up by someone who likes what she sees and intends to prove it.