Page 44 of Just a Number

I’ve just spent almost an hour engrossed in them. The photos of his work drew me in and I get now what Abby was saying about how talented he is. But the videos, the videos have me hooked. What a genius idea. He’s got over 5,000 followers and I can see why. I would lay good money on ninety per cent of his audience being female. When I hear a knock on the door, I drop the phone in my haste to close the app and not look suspicious.

Alex opens the door after waiting a moment and his brows lift in surprise at seeing me sitting there.

“Should I come back later?”

“No, no, it’s all good. Go for it.” I gesture to the laundry room and then use the same hand to tuck my hair behind my ear. I pick my phone back up and flick to my work emails, deleting any junk and marking a few to read later when I’m less distracted.

I hear him switching the laundry from the washer to the drier and he comes back out with some damp clothing over his arm.

“Uh, these don’t go in. I’ll hang them up to dry. I’ll be back again in an hour.”

“Wait, Alex,” I call out without thinking about it. Something makes me want to engage him in conversation, to get to know him better. “Do you want a coffee?”

His head tilts to the side, his eyes sparkling, “Sounds good, thank you.”

“There’s a clothes airer in the laundry—you can hang those items on that if you like.”

I prepare his coffee and one for myself and bring them over to the breakfast bar as he comes back into the kitchen.

“Grab a seat.” I pat the stool next to me. “I’d love to hear more about your pottery work. How long have you been doing it?”What am I playing at?After weeks of avoiding him, I’m now suddenly chatty.

“I had an art teacher who was a potter. He had a kiln at school. We did a term of pottery and then he set up a club. I was hooked. I love getting my hands dirty. It’s always been kinda magic to me that I can take a lump of clay and turn it into something beautiful.”

I can’t look away, entranced by his passion for the craft. His whole face lights up as he talks about it.

“What sort of stuff do you make?” I know fine well after my recent Instagram stalking, but I want him to tell me about it.

“All sorts. As part of my apprenticeship, I need to learn and be able to demonstrate different forms and techniques. I really love creating on the wheel. I’ve been working up with sizes. Last week I made a huge vase with a massive lump of clay. It took several attempts to get it right.” A satisfied grin tugs at the corners of his mouth, causing dimples in his cheeks. My hand twitches with the need to reach up and stroke his face.

“How many times does it go wrong?” I ask.

“Loads. And at all stages of the process. It could look amazing and then end up exploding in the kiln. You really have to be able to let go of perfectionism and just go with the flow.”

“That sounds difficult,” I respond with a wince. “Going with the flow isn’t exactly my strong suit.”

“But in your line of work, you must have to be flexible, right?” he asks. “I guess stuff changes all the time when you’re running events.” I look across to the window while I ponder his question to stop myself from staring at him.

“Yeah, I guess I can be flexible. But I find it difficult when I’m not the one making the decisions.” Our eyes meet, lighting up afire deep in my belly. He’s so easy to talk to. I could sit here for hours.

“I think there’s more beauty in imperfection than perfect things,” he says earnestly, our gazes still locked. “I can spot flaws and things I could improve in every single piece I’ve ever made. But they make the pieces unique. The blemishes and faults tell the story of the piece and all the work I’ve put in to complete it.”

“I’d love to see your work and watch you on the wheel.”

“You should come down to the studio. I can give you a demo and you can have a go if you like. We could go for lunch afterwards?” His tone is hopeful.

I can picture everything he’s suggesting. How fun it would be to learn from him. How wonderfully normal it would be to go to lunch together and chat, just like we are today.

“I’d like that,” I tell him, unable to hold back my joy-filled grin.

“You’d have to leave your perfectionism at the door though,” he warns with an amused tone. “If I held myself to ridiculously high standards, I would never finish anything. And I’d love for you to end up with your own completed piece of pottery.”

“I can try. And I’d love to learn from you.” Hope sits lightly on my shoulders at the thought ofmore.

“I better head off. I need to get some stuff sorted before my shift. But let’s make a date to do it soon, yeah?”

And with that, he’s gone.

While I’m still sitting there, a stupid grin on my face, daydreaming about a date with Alex, I reopen the Instagram app and before I can question it, hit follow on his account. With that many followers, perhaps he won’t even notice my name.

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