The Clean Half

"Running a studio teaches you that some parents think commitment is optional. The children are the ones who pay for it—though not always in the way they should."

The horn came first.

Then the screech of brakes—not mine, someone else's—and a blur of red metal filling my windscreen, too close, impossibly close, and my foot slamming down on a pedal that might have been the brake or might have been the accelerator, I couldn't tell, couldn't think, couldn't do anything except watch the world rearrange itself into shapes that meant collision, meant impact, meant something terrible about to happen.

The car stopped.

Not mine—theirs. The red ute, angled across the intersection, its bonnet maybe two metres from my door. Close enough that I could see the driver's face through his windscreen, could see his mouth moving, could see the fury twisting his features as he gestured at me with one hand while the other gripped his steering wheel.

I couldn't hear what he was saying. Couldn't hear anything except a high-pitched ringing that might have been in my ears or might have been somewhere else entirely. The world had gone strange, edges too sharp, colours too bright, everything slightly disconnected from everything else.

The ute reversed. Swung around me. Roared away down the road, leaving behind only the fading sound of its engine and the lingering shape of the driver's anger, burned into my retinas like an afterimage.

I sat there.

The intersection was empty now. No traffic, no pedestrians, nothing except me and my car and the stop sign I'd driven straight through without seeing. The red octagon stood at the corner of my vision, accusatory, impossible to miss now that I was looking at it. Had it been there the whole time? Had I really just... not seen it?

My hands were shaking.

I watched them, these hands that were supposed to be mine, trembling against the steering wheel with small involuntary movements I couldn't control. The vibration travelled up through my wrists, my forearms, into my shoulders. My whole body was trembling now, a fine continuous shudder that seemed to originate somewhere deep in my core.

I'd almost died.

The thought arrived with a strange flatness, as if it were happening to someone else. I'd driven through a stop sign and almost been hit by a ute and I could have died, right here, at this intersection I'd passed a thousand times, and my children would have been motherless and Paul would have—

Paul.

I'd been looking for Paul. That's why I hadn't seen the sign, why I'd driven straight through without stopping. I'd been scanning the car parks and the side streets and the driveways, searching for his vehicle, searching for him, and I'd forgotten that the world contained other things—stop signs and cross traffic and consequences for not paying attention.

A car appeared behind me. I could see it in the rearview mirror, waiting, the driver probably wondering why I was just sitting here in the middle of the road. I made myself lift my foot from the brake. Made myself press the accelerator, gently, guiding the car forward through the intersection I'd already violated once.

I needed to stop. Needed to pull over somewhere and sit and breathe and wait for my hands to stop shaking. Needed coffee—the thought surfaced from somewhere practical, somewhere that still remembered how to function. Coffee would help. Caffeine would cut through the fog, would steady me, would give me something to hold onto while the adrenaline worked its way out of my system.

The café on Chloride Street was three blocks away. I drove there slowly, carefully, my eyes fixed on the road ahead, my hands gripping the wheel like a learner driver terrified of making a mistake. Every intersection I approached with exaggerated caution, braking early, checking both ways twice, three times, before proceeding.

A parking spot appeared outside the café, and I pulled into it with the excessive precision of someone who no longer trusted her own judgment. The engine died. The silence rushed in.

I sat there for a moment, both hands still on the wheel, staring through the windscreen at the café's front window. People inside, moving shapes behind the glass. Normal people doing normal things on a normal Tuesday afternoon.

My reflection looked back at me from the rearview mirror. The sunglasses helped—hid the worst of the damage, the swollen eyes, the evidence of everything I'd been through. I adjusted them slightly, tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, checked my face for anything that might give me away.

I looked fine. I looked like someone who was fine.

The café wrapped around me as I pushed through the door—warmth and noise and the rich dark smell of coffee, a sensory embrace that was almost overwhelming after the cold silence of the car. My skin prickled with the sudden change in temperature, goosebumps rising on my arms beneath my jumper.

The space was half-full, the lunch crowd either not yet arrived or already faded. A couple at the window table, leaning towards each other over shared plates. A man in a hi-vis vest hunched over his phone near the counter. Two women my mother's age occupying the corner booth, their heads bent together in quiet conversation.

And there, at a table near the back, Denise Hartley.

I recognised her before I'd consciously registered her presence—the highlighted hair, the particular way she held herself, the handbag on the chair beside her that probably cost more than it should have. She was alone, a vanilla slice and a cup of tea in front of her, her fork moving in small, distracted bites as she scrolled through her phone.

Denise Hartley. Chelsea Hartley's mother.

Chelsea, who was in my Saturday intermediate class. Chelsea, whose fees for last term were still outstanding—two invoices sent, one follow-up email, all of them met with silence. Chelsea, whose mother always smiled and waved at pick-up but somehow never had time for a proper conversation about the account that was now nearly three months overdue.

I joined the queue. The boy in front of me was taking forever to decide, his attention split between the menu board and his own phone, but I didn't mind. The wait gave me time to think, to compose what I wanted to say, to find the right approach.

It wasn't about the money. Not really. It was about respect—respect for the work I did, the expertise I offered, the years of training that went into every class I taught. Other parents paid on time. Other parents understood that running a dance school wasn't a hobby, that invoices weren't suggestions, that professional services required professional compensation.

Denise had been dodging me. I could see that now, looking back. The quick exits after class, the unanswered emails, the way she always seemed to be on her phone when I approached. She'd been avoiding a conversation she didn't want to have, hoping perhaps that I'd forget, that I'd let it slide, that the debt would simply evaporate if she ignored it long enough.

But I didn't forget. I never forgot.

The boy finally ordered and moved aside. I stepped forward.

"What can I get you, love?"

The woman behind the counter was small and round, her name tag reading Jess. Not someone I recognised—new, probably, hired since my last visit.

"Flat white. Large. Strong."

I paid, collected my plastic number, and turned to survey the room.

Denise was still looking at her phone. Still hadn't noticed me—or was pretending she hadn't, her thumb scrolling slowly, her face arranged in concentration. The seat across from her sat empty, waiting.

I walked over.

"Denise!"

Her head came up. For just a moment—a fraction of a second—something moved across her face. Then her expression smoothed into a smile that showed her teeth.

"Claire. Hi."

"I thought that was you. Do you mind?" I was already pulling out the chair, already settling into it. "I hate sitting alone in these places. Feels like everyone's watching."

"Oh—no, of course." Denise set her phone face-down on the table. Her fingers lingered on it for a moment before withdrawing. "I'm just waiting for someone, actually. Meeting a friend in a bit."

"I won't keep you long. Just nice to see a familiar face." I arranged my bag on the floor beside me, taking my time, getting comfortable. "How have you been? I feel like I haven't had a proper chat with you in ages."

"Good. Busy, you know. The usual."

"Tell me about it. The holidays are chaos—everyone wants makeup classes, rescheduled lessons. I've barely had a moment to myself." I smiled. "But I shouldn't complain. Busy is good. Busy means the studio's thriving."

Denise made a sound of agreement. Her hand moved toward her phone, then stopped, fingers curling on the tabletop instead.

"How's Chelsea going?" I asked. "I've been meaning to catch up with you about her progress."

"She's good. Yeah, she's really enjoying it."

"She's a lovely girl. Always so enthusiastic in class." I paused, let the words settle. "Her technique has really come along this term. The work we've been doing on her port de bras—have you noticed the difference? The way she's carrying her arms now?"

Denise's posture shifted slightly. She sat up straighter, a flicker of something—hope, perhaps, or pride—crossing her face.

"She has been practising more at home," she said. "Watches videos on YouTube, tries to copy the moves."

"It shows. It really does." I nodded slowly, warmly. "She's at an important stage now. The foundations she's building—these are the skills that will carry her through to the more advanced work. If she keeps progressing like this..."

I let the sentence trail off, suggestive, full of possibility.

Denise leaned forward slightly. "Do you think she could be ready for pointe soon? She's been asking about it constantly."

"Well, that depends on a few things. Her age, her strength, her commitment to the training." I tilted my head, considering. "But more importantly, it depends on whether she's able to continue with her classes consistently. Without interruption."

Something shifted in Denise's expression. A small tightening around the eyes.

"What do you mean?"

My coffee arrived—Jess from behind the counter, setting it down with a brief smile. I thanked her, wrapped my hands around the cup, and took a moment to enjoy the warmth before continuing.

"I wanted to talk to you about the account, actually. Since we're here."

Denise's smile had frozen in place, a rictus that no longer reached her eyes.

"The account?"

"Chelsea's fees. For last term." I kept my voice light, pleasant, as if we were discussing something of no particular consequence. "I sent a couple of invoices, and an email as well, but I haven't heard back. I'm sure it just slipped through the cracks—these things happen, I know how busy life gets—but it has been nearly three months now."

Denise's hand found her phone again, fingers wrapping around it like a lifeline.

"Right. Yes. I've been meaning to—things have just been—" She stopped, started again. "Mark's work has been a bit up and down lately. We've had some unexpected expenses."

"I understand completely. Times are tough for everyone." I nodded sympathetically. "That's why I've been so patient, actually. I know not everyone can just hand over cash without thinking about it. But the thing is, Denise, I have expenses too. Rent on the studio, insurance, the accompanist—it all adds up. And when fees don't come in, it makes it very difficult for me to keep offering the level of training that the girls deserve."

Denise was nodding along, her head bobbing in small, rapid movements.

"Of course, of course. I totally understand. I'll sort it out this week, I promise. I'll transfer it as soon as I get home."

"That would be wonderful. I really appreciate it." I smiled, took a sip of my coffee. Let a moment of silence stretch between us, just long enough to feel deliberate. "And the fees for this coming term—they're due at the start of classes, as usual. I'm sure you got the invoice?"

"Yes. Yes, I did."

"Good." Another sip. The coffee was excellent—hot, strong, exactly what I needed. "Because I wanted to talk to you about the Eisteddfod as well. Chelsea's been working so hard on the group piece, and I know how much she's looking forward to performing."

Denise's face brightened slightly, cautiously. "She talks about it all the time. It's all she wants for her birthday—to be in the Eisteddfod."

"She's earned her place. She really has. The commitment she's shown, the improvement in her technique—I'm very proud of how far she's come."

I paused. Set my coffee cup down on the table. Looked at Denise with an expression of regret, of reluctance, of a woman who was about to say something she wished she didn't have to say.

"The thing is, though, I have to be fair to all the families. The ones who pay on time, who honour their commitments. It wouldn't be right for me to let some students participate in performances while their accounts are in arrears, when other families are making sacrifices to meet their obligations."

The colour drained from Denise's face.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm not saying anything, Denise. I'm just explaining how it works. How it has to work, for the sake of fairness." I reached across the table, let my fingers rest briefly on her arm—a gesture of connection, of solidarity. "I don't want Chelsea to miss out. I really don't. She's worked so hard, and she deserves to be up there with the other girls. But I need to know that the account will be brought up to date—both last term and this term—before the Eisteddfod registration closes."

Denise's arm was rigid beneath my touch. I withdrew my hand, gave her space.

"When does registration close?" Her voice had gone thin, tight. Her fork rested abandoned beside her plate, the vanilla slice in front of her only half-eaten, its layers of custard and pastry listing slightly where she'd cut into it.

"Two weeks. I'll need everything sorted by then."

Denise's eyes flickered past my shoulder, and she gave a small, awkward nod. I took it as acknowledgment—agreement, perhaps, or at least understanding.

"I know it's a lot to ask," I continued. "And if it's really not possible, I understand completely. Chelsea can still continue with her regular classes—we can work something out for those. But the performances, the competitions—those are extras, and I have to prioritise the students whose families are fully committed."

"No." The word came out sharp, almost panicked. "No, I'll sort it. I'll talk to Mark tonight. We'll figure it out."

"I knew you would." I picked up my coffee, took a sip, savouring the warmth. "Chelsea's lucky to have parents who support her like this. So many children don't get the same opportunities. You'd be amazed how many families just... give up. Pull their kids out the moment things get difficult. But that's not you, Denise. I can tell. You understand the value of commitment."

Denise nodded again, that same tight movement. Her fingers had found the edge of her napkin and were folding it into smaller and smaller squares.

"The thing about dance," I said, settling back in my chair, "is that it teaches children so much more than just movement. Discipline. Perseverance. The ability to push through when things are hard. Chelsea's learning all of that, whether she realises it or not. And those lessons—they'll serve her for the rest of her life."

"Mmm." Denise's eyes darted sideways again, toward the counter. She seemed distracted, her attention fragmenting.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine. Yes. Just—."

I took another sip of coffee, enjoying the moment. This was nice, actually—sitting here, having a proper conversation with one of the parents. So often it was just quick exchanges at drop-off and pick-up, rushed hellos and goodbyes with no time for real connection. But this—this felt more substantial. More meaningful.

"You know," I said, "I've been thinking about offering some parent workshops. Basics of ballet terminology, how to support your child's practice at home, that sort of thing. Would that be something you'd be interested in?"

"Oh. Um." Denise's napkin was now a tiny, tight square. "Maybe. I'd have to check my schedule."

"Of course. It's just an idea at this stage. But I think it could really help the parents feel more involved, more connected to what their children are learning. And it would give us more opportunities to chat, like this."

Something flickered across Denise's face—there and gone before I could identify it.

"That sounds... lovely."

"Doesn't it? I might put together a survey, get a sense of what topics people would find most useful. I could email it to you, if you like. Along with the invoice reminder." I laughed lightly. "Kill two birds with one stone."

Denise didn't laugh. Her eyes had moved toward the counter again, and this time they stayed there for a long moment before returning to me.

"I should probably—" she started.

"Oh, don't rush off on my account." I smiled warmly. "Tell me more about Chelsea. How's she finding school this year? She mentioned something about a project—history, I think?"

"Science, actually. The solar system." Denise's voice had taken on a mechanical quality, words emerging without animation. "She's making a model. Papier-mâché planets."

"How wonderful. Mack did something similar last year. Made an absolute mess of the kitchen, but he was so proud of the result." I paused, tilted my head. "Does Chelsea talk about the other girls in class much? The dynamics seem good this year—better than last year, certainly. There was that little clique that formed around the Morrison girl, remember? Made things quite difficult for a while."

"I don't really—Chelsea doesn't tell me much."

"They never do at that age, do they? Everything's a secret. But I see it all, of course. You can't hide anything in a dance studio—the mirrors show everything." I laughed again. "Including the girls who think they can get away with not pointing their feet properly when my back is turned."

"Denise! There you are."

A woman appeared beside our table. Tall, angular, her light hair cut short in a practical style. She was holding two takeaway coffee cups, one in each hand, and her eyes moved briefly to me before settling on Denise with an expression of exaggerated urgency.

"Jan." Denise was already pushing back her chair, already reaching for her bag. "I didn't realise—"

"We're going to be late." Jan's voice was bright, apologetic, but beneath it ran something harder. "The meeting's been moved up. Linda just texted me—something about the room booking. We need to go now if we're going to make it."

"Right. Yes. Of course." Denise was on her feet, her bag clutched against her chest, her vanilla slice abandoned on the plate. "Claire, I'm so sorry, I have to—"

"The P&C thing," I said, nodding. "You mentioned. Don't let me keep you."

Jan was already turning away, one of the takeaway cups extended toward Denise. "I grabbed you a coffee. Figured you'd need it for the walk."

"Thanks." Denise took the cup, her relief almost palpable. "Claire, I'll—we'll sort out the invoice. This week. I promise."

"I know you will."

They were already moving, Jan's hand at Denise's elbow, guiding her toward the door. Neither of them looked back. The door swung shut behind them, the bell above it chiming once, and then they were gone—two figures disappearing past the window, walking quickly, heads bent together.

I sat there for a moment, watching the space where they'd been.

The vanilla slice sat on the table where Denise had left it, the custard beginning to weep slightly at the edges, the pastry going soft. Such a waste—she'd barely touched it, had taken maybe three or four bites before abandoning it entirely.

I pulled the plate toward me.

The fork Denise had been using rested on the edge of the plate. I picked it up, examined it for a moment, then set it aside on the table. From the cutlery holder in the centre, I selected a clean fork, still wrapped in its paper napkin.

The slice had been cut from the left side, Denise's fork marks visible in the layered pastry and custard. I positioned my own fork on the right, well away from where she'd been eating, and pressed down through the layers. The blade of the fork cut a clean line through the middle, separating what had been touched from what hadn't.

The damaged portion—the part her fork had violated, the part that had been near her mouth—I pushed to the far edge of the plate. It sat there, oozing slightly, contaminated.

The remaining half was pristine. Untouched. Mine.

I took a bite. The custard was sweet, the pastry flaking against my tongue, the icing on top cracking slightly as my teeth broke through. It was good—better than good, actually. Rich and creamy and exactly what I needed after the day I'd had.

I ate slowly, working my way through the clean half while my coffee cooled beside me. The café hummed along around me—conversations rising and falling, the espresso machine hissing, someone laughing at something near the counter. Normal sounds. Ordinary afternoon.

The two women in the corner booth were looking at me. I caught them at it—a glance held just a moment too long before sliding away. But I didn't care. Let them look. I was just a woman having coffee and cake, enjoying a quiet moment in the middle of a difficult day. There was nothing unusual about that.

When the slice was finished—my half, the clean half—I pushed the plate away. The discarded portion sat at the edge, custard congealing, pastry gone soggy. Someone else's problem now.

I gathered my things. Stood. Smoothed down my jumper, adjusted my bag on my shoulder.

The walk to the door took me past the corner booth, past the two women who had suddenly found their own coffees intensely fascinating. I pushed through into the afternoon light.

The sunlight was harsh after the café's warmth, and I fumbled my sunglasses onto my face.

The conversation with Denise replayed in my mind, and I felt a small glow of satisfaction. I'd handled it well—firmly but fairly, making my position clear without being aggressive or unkind. That was the professional approach. That was how you ran a business.

Chelsea would get to perform at the Eisteddfod. Denise would pay her fees. Jan had seemed in a rush, but that was just how things were sometimes. Everyone was always rushing somewhere.