TURBINE | KAPOHAU

Like every white woman with a disposable income, Missy is into ceramics.

She asked me to meet her at a mysterious address across town, wanting to take me out for a Happy Promotion drink after work. I was instructed to wear something comfortable but knowing now that this is code for something a lot dressier, I changed in the loos at work, swapping my denim jacket for a leather one, and my flats for heels – both hastily purchased during my lunch break. For once, I will not show up looking like I belong on the cover of a Baby-Sitter’s Club book.

I met her outside what looked like an old abandoned warehouse, worried I had the wrong address until I saw a hot pink neon sign for Sculpt & Sip. My only reference point for pottery is the movie Ghost, and against my will, I pictured Missy’s arms around me like Patrick Swayze, moulding clay together, her grey chalky fingers threading through mine.

When Missy showed up with Alice and some other women from her engagement party, my heart sank. I thought this was going to be just the two of us. But when I was hit with a chorus of congratulations, you deserve it I decided I was okay with it after all. Being around these supportive women and receiving their praise makes me think I do deserve it – for once not letting my self-doubt eat away at me.

‘I don’t understand how you found out about my promotion before me,’ I say to Missy.

‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,’ she says, ‘so just enjoy it.’

‘But I’d like to know,’ I say, keeping the tone light, even though I am desperate for information.

‘Wouldn’t you just,’ she says playfully. She’s wearing a pair of billowy, oversized trousers. My mother’s disembodied voice creeps into my head: Men won’t like that.

I think back to my chanting the other night, to Missy’s wolfish grin in my mind.

‘It’s the strangest thing,’ I say, ‘when I was saying my affirmation, for a second I thought I saw—’

‘Seriously,’ says Missy, leaning closer to me, ‘don’t overthink it.’

She leads our group through the building’s side door, where a metal staircase leads us to a bright, airy loft. Sort of like an airplane hangar, or the headquarters of a trendy start-up where employees brew their own beer and play laser tag instead of attending meetings. It has exposed brick, so many indoor plants it looks like someone has pillaged a rainforest, with boisterous pop music blaring through an invisible speaker. Two rows of industrial looking benches divide the room at the centre, with individual stations set up with sculpting tools, clumps of clay and wine glasses.

I follow Missy to a long, high table at the front of the room, where everyone dons an apron and takes their seat. I am the only one wearing heels – yet another sartorial misstep – forcing me to clumsily trot over knock-kneed like a baby giraffe, before trying to balance on a stool the size of a thumbtack. Luckily, I’m still riding high on the meeting from earlier today, so the humiliation isn’t as searing as it usually would be.

It was strange and surreal to have Work Daddy, a man I hate, say so many words that I love. Words like asset to the company. Proven potential. And then the best words of all: pay rise. No kid dreams of growing up to be middle management at a mid-tier agency, but maybe they should, because it feels fucking fantastic. I had tried to be gracious, thinking of the women in business seminars I’ve attended over the years and their advice about balancing confidence with professionalism, celebrating accomplishments while practicing respect for others and so on, but I was too giddy. I wanted to gloat. I asked about Thomas, whether he had been told the news and if not, could I please have the honours. But Work Daddy said Thomas is no more. He’s not even a copywriter anymore. His desk had been cleared overnight. I wasn’t expecting that. It made me feel … not guilty exactly, but something. That something must show on my face, because Missy shoots me a questioning look.

‘I feel kind of bad for Thomas,’ I say, wincing.

‘Why? You earned that promotion fair and square.’

‘I know. But it sucks trying to find a new job.’

‘That’s not your problem. Do you think he’d spare the same thought for you?’

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘Probably not.’

‘You’re the one that wanted him erased from the universe,’ says Missy, winking. ‘Don’t pretend like you’re not a bad girl. I’ve seen your true colours.’

Is she talking about the waiter? I want to remind her it wasn’t my idea to key his car, but I don’t want to lose this feeling, this sense of us being in cahoots.

Olivia comes in late, taking the stool next to me and leaning in for a double air kiss, her Miss Piggy lashes softly batting my cheeks. She clinks her glass of rosé (organic, vegan) against mine in congratulations, before asking lots of questions about my promotion. I’m only half-listening, distracted by thoughts of getting clay on my clothes, the apron providing only minimal protection. But the other women seem unfazed about potentially ruining their objectively nicer outfits, so I feel like I have to suck it up. Alice is wearing another high neckline, ankle length dress, presumably purchased from some kind of Juliette Hogan x Morticia Addams collection.

Everyone is chatting and sculpting and drinking, and it’s just nice. It’s nice being around women after being surrounded by men all day, every day, for eight years, who usually want to espouse the virtues of marathon running (Work Daddy) or corner you into a show-and-tell about the latest smartwatch (Thomas). Missy and her friends are so supportive of one another, so invested in each other’s happiness and success. They give compliments and praise freely. Even Alice, coldness incarnate, managed to compliment the vase I’m moulding.

When we’re nearing the end of the sculpting, one of the staff members doles out cupcakes, placing one at each station.

‘Not quite as good as Tuesday Treats,’ I whisper to Briar, peeling back the polka dot wrapper. She groans theatrically but smiles.

‘I’m so embarrassed,’ she says, looking anything but.

‘Don’t be, your husband’s Tuesday Treat videos are super cute.’

‘Super cheesy you mean,’ she says, ‘but he likes doing that stuff for me.’

‘Is everyone here married?’ I ask, looking around the room.

‘Mel’s the last one,’ says Olivia, sounding a touch bereft.

As she and Briar give me the low-down on all of Missy’s friends, I learn that, incredibly, none of their husbands work outside the home. Every woman is the sole breadwinner, coming home in the evening to an immaculately clean house and a home-cooked dinner. After that, their husbands run them a bath, do the laundry, iron their clothes, take out the recycling, feed the cat, take the dog for a walk, and on and on it goes.

Briar turns to me. ‘What does your husband do?’

She glances to my left hand, embellished with a tarnished, plain gold wedding band that belonged to my Gran. Grandpa proposed to her during a Sunday stroll along Petone beach. He was so nervous that when he proposed, he opened the ring box backwards, towards himself. The ring is too small for most of my fingers except for my ring finger, where it has sat for the last few years since she died.

‘I’m not married,’ I laugh, realising the mix-up.

‘Oh!’ says Briar, beaming. ‘Missy didn’t tell us you were engaged as well.’

‘I’m not.’

Several perfectly coiffed heads turn in our direction.

Olivia chews her lip. ‘But you do have a partner?’ she says, warily. ‘A boyfriend? A girlfriend?’

I shake my head. ‘Single.’

Something about those two syllables changes the air in the room, which suddenly crackles with opportunity. The group chatter stops, wine glasses and sculpting tools are rested on the table, and slowly all of the women shift towards me, like flowers to the sun.

Missy seems to notice the change in atmosphere too, the sudden fascination with me. Her eyes dart between me and everyone else.

‘Oh. My. God.’ says Olivia, with the glee of a MECCA employee on the verge of a sale. ‘You have to let us find someone for you.’

‘That’s okay,’ I say, reaching for my standard response, ‘I don’t really have time for dating.’

Two women at the end of the table exchange whispers and glance in my direction.

‘No – you don’t understand,’ says Briar. ‘Alice has a gift for finding perfect husbands.’

‘Hannah doesn’t want our help,’ Alice interjects emotionlessly, nicking the icing off her cupcake with her forefinger and pressing it to her tongue.

‘Please, Alice?’ coos Briar. ‘It’s been ages since you’ve introduced someone.’

‘Well, it wouldn’t be special if we did it all the time now, would it?’ says Alice, causing a few of the women to giggle. ‘Though I suppose if it’s what Hannah really wants, I might consider it.’

Missy stills, frowning at Alice. ‘Don’t force Hannah into it.’

‘Who’s forcing? I don’t have a gun to her head.’

Alice’s gaze locks onto mine, challenging me. I know it’s a challenge, because she’s smirking. Her smirk says go ahead, bitch. Tell me no. Reveal yourself to be the wet blanket I know you are.

But I’ve had three glasses of rosé now, and I refuse to give Alice the satisfaction.

‘Sure,’ I say, drawing on my promotion confidence. ‘If you think you know someone who’d be a good fit for me.’

‘That’s not how it works,’ Alice shakes her head. ‘You have to choose.’

‘Alice,’ says Missy, sharply. A warning.

‘What? You said to make her feel like she’s one of us.’

‘It’s too soon. She’s only just dipped a toe in.’

Alice crosses one leg over the other, ignoring Missy, her eyes hooked into mine. ‘Friday night. My place. That’s where you’ll meet him.’

The women erupt into excited titters and whispers.

‘Meet who?’ I ask.

Alice looks at me harder, wearing the conspiring grin of a cartoon sea witch. 

‘Your dream man.’