The Spare Room

When Amy finally opened the door on Saturday morning, her brother Dean barely recognised her: there was a streak of yellow paint across her cheek, her hair was tied back in an old scarf, and the entire corridor reeked of fresh emulsion. “You look shattered,” he said. “What on earth have you been doing?”

“I’ve been painting the spare room since seven,” Amy replied. “Alice is arriving tonight. She’s been hunting for somewhere quiet to revise for weeks, and I wanted it to be perfect.” Dean glanced at the half-finished wall. “Have you been doing this single-handed all morning?” “More or less. The neighbour has been lending me his ladder, though he disappeared an hour ago.”

Dean took off his jacket and picked up a brush while Amy collapsed onto a box. “I’ve been shifting furniture all week as well,” she admitted, rubbing her lower back. “And I haven’t been sleeping properly, because I’ve been fretting over whether the paint would dry in time.”

“You’ve been overdoing it,” Dean said. “How long have you been planning this?” “Ever since Alice wrote to me last month.” By noon the second wall was finished, and then Amy’s phone rang. “I’ve been trying to reach you for an hour!” Alice said. “My train got in early and I’m standing outside.” Amy surveyed the wet walls and the boxes blocking the corridor and burst out laughing.

Ten minutes later, Alice wheeled her suitcase in, taking in the smell of paint, the yellow walls and Dean’s stained hands. “Don’t tell me you’ve both been slaving away all day for my sake?” she asked. “Since seven,” Amy said, “and we’re nowhere near done.” Alice parked her suitcase, picked up the nearest brush and grinned. “Then you’d better give me a roller.”