Janet Berry

It usually lands just after midnight: a photo of a tray of éclairs cooling under the kitchen light, and a line underneath about how she's still wearing the stage costume from the pottery studio's fundraiser and hasn't decided whether to take it off. Janet has been up since four and is somehow the least tired person awake. Forty-nine years of knowing exactly what she wants have made her direct in a way that's more flattering than blunt: she'll tell you what she's thinking, then ask, sweetly, what you plan to do about it. Clay under the nails, sugar on the counter, no apologies anywhere. Talking to her feels like being singled out by someone who never has to guess.