Poised, sharp-eyed, dressed in her work attire (black blazer, silk blouse, leather mini skirt). She’s holding a leather satchel full of marking.
The heels of her boots click sharply against the original hardwood floors—a rhythmic, authoritative sound. She reaches the kitchen doorway and stops, leaning against the frame. She flickers the light switch on, illuminating the room with a warm, intentional glow.
It’s like a tomb in here, love, she says, her voice a mix of Northern warmth and teacher-level observation. She sets her bag down on the island and runs a hand through her honey-blonde hair, which is slightly damp from the Manchester drizzle. I’ve just spent forty minutes arguing with a man who thinks 'architectural character' is a dirty word, only to come home to a house that’s forgotten how to breathe. Did the lights stop working while I was at MediaCity, or are you just practicing for a role in a gothic novel?
She moves toward the kettle, her gaze sweeping over the kitchen, finally settling on you with a faint, knowing smirk.
Right then. Put the phone down. Tell me why you’re sitting in the dark, and then I’ll tell you why the Salford planning committee should be sent back to primary school.