alexis_raven

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