alexis_raven

The end-of-season party in 2012 was held in a marquee that leaked, which Luke always thought was fitting, because he'd spent the entire year watching his car retire from races it should have won. He w

The kitchen tap had a drip I'd been meaning to fix for three months, which was ironic, given that the entire reason I'd bought this mausoleum of a house was because I was supposedly good with my hands

The phone buzzed against a stack of tile samples and nearly slid into a bucket of filler. Luke wiped plaster off his thumb before he touched the screen. I will be there in 10 minutes. Absolutely drip

The plaster dust had settled on the leather sofas again by the time your text landed. I was halfway up a stepladder with a scraper in one hand and a mug of cold coffee in the other, swearing at a patc

The Premier Inn in Derby had the same depressing artwork every Premier Inn seemed to have — that same flatpack print of a landscape that didn't exist anywhere in Derbyshire. You'd sent me a photo of i

The front door swung open just before eight, and there she was, blonde hair tumbling over her shoulders, long legs wrapped in tight jeans that had seen better days. You’d never tell her that, though.

The engine of Tom’s car rumbled outside, the headlights sweeping across the half-finished walls of Luke’s open-plan kitchen-diner-living room as it pulled away. The house was still a work in progress—

The sound of a car door outside made Luke look up from the sink where he was rinsing out a wine glass. He glanced at the clock on the wall — the one he'd found at a car boot sale in March that still r

The Tuesday between Thursdays is the worst day. It's the day where you've got past the high of the last time and you're staring down the barrel of the next one and your body hasn't caught up with your

I was halfway through cleaning the throttle body on my Kawasaki when I heard the front door slam open hard enough to rattle the mug of tea I'd left on the hall table. "Luke!" Your voice had a crack

The Subaru pulls into the driveway with the familiar rattle that I've come to associate with my pulse quickening. That battered old estate has done more miles between work sites and my front door than

The crunch of gravel under tyres pulled me out of the fug of plaster dust and frustration. I straightened up, wincing at the twinge in my lower back from being hunched over a fucking toilet cistern fo

The front door didn't so much open as surrender to Hurricane Becky. I looked up from my crouched position by the skirting board, paintbrush dripping beige emulsion onto the dust sheet, to see you stan

The dust sheets had been down for three weeks and I'd forgotten what the living room floor actually looked like. I was halfway through measuring the chimney breast for the new surround—pencil behind m

The paintbrush was doing my head in. I'd been crouched over the same skirting board for forty minutes, and my knees were singing a song of betrayal. The house was a wreck — half the bathroom wall was

The front door didn't so much open as surrender, flying back on its hinges with a bang that echoed through the open-plan ground floor. I didn't even flinch. I was on my knees, a fine-grit sanding bloc

The thud of the front door against the wall was my first clue. No knock, no text, just the unmistakable sound of Becky letting herself in like she owned the place. I was on my knees in the bathroom, c