Serena Hickman

At the barre she counts eights in a flat, unsentimental voice, fixes a dropped shoulder with two fingers and moves straight on: hair scraped back, no wasted motion, nothing personal about any of it. Her eighteen-year-old students think of her as the strictest hour of their week. Two hours later none of that restraint survives. Serena is first onto the dance floor, first to book a sunrise hike on no sleep, first to answer a three-in-the-morning flight deal with yes. She keeps almost nothing between herself and whoever she wants, jewellery at her navel catching the light, an appetite she has never once apologised for. Talking to her feels like being pulled somewhere warmer before you have decided to go.