**Unflappable**
After her divorce and the sale of their shared flat, Abigail found herself moving to the outskirts of town. She’d ended up with a two-bedroom flat that looked like it hadn’t seen a lick of paint since the ‘70s—or at least, that was her first impression. But Abigail wasn’t the type to be easily rattled. Years with her controlling ex-husband had left her with nerves of steel.
She’d trawled through countless listings before settling on this place—most were wildly overpriced, but this one? Just about manageable.
“Nan used to live here,” the perky young estate agent explained. “She’s poorly now, so the family moved her in with them. Bit far out for my taste, though. Dad’s promised to chip in so I can get something closer to them.”
Abigail eyed the girl as she rambled on.
“Granted, it needs work, but it’s priced to sell. Open to offers, if you like.”
And just like that, Abigail became the proud owner of a flat begging for refurbishment. On the plus side, her office was only three tram stops away—cutting her commute to a breezy forty minutes.
Her ex, Jeremy, had been a brute. She’d realised too late—after five years of marriage and a son later—that love shouldn’t come with flying crockery. She was a homebody, really. Kept things tidy, enjoyed cooking, took pride in making a space cosy. But Jeremy? His rages turned their flat upside down. Plates, vases, clothes—nothing was safe when he’d had a few.
“What are you sitting around for? Get up and clean this mess!” he’d roar once the storm had passed.
He got a kick out of watching her scrub the place spotless, especially after he’d knocked through next door’s flat to expand theirs. She’d made it lovely—until the next tantrum. At least he’d never raised a hand to her.
The rages started occasionally, then more and more. When their son left for uni in Edinburgh, she finally filed for divorce. She’d fought hard to keep Jeremy from knowing where she’d moved, and somehow scraped together enough for the flat *and* a little decorating fund. She even booked two weeks off work to tackle the renovations herself.
“I *can* do this,” she muttered, surveying the peeling ceiling. “Plumbing’s fine, fresh enough. Wallpaper, paint, maybe a false ceiling… and if I get stuck, I’ll call someone.”
The false ceiling was up in days—handyman sorted. Wallpaper? Bought. Glue? Check. She threw herself into it, fuelled by that giddy “doing it for me” energy. Her mate Liz helped slap up the wallpaper, and when they stepped back, Liz whistled.
“Bloody hell, Abby, look at this! Bright, clean, cosy. Just needs new flooring—light laminate, I reckon. My Gary’s good at that. Did ours himself, dead cheap. I’ll get him to sort it.”
“Oh, brilliant! But first—those radiators. Need painting to match the walls.”
“Right, I’m off. We’ll do a housewarming once it’s all done,” Liz grinned.
There was a tiny hardware shop nearby—nothing fancy, but it saved a trek to the big DIY stores. Inside, the lighting was dismal.
“Skimping on bulbs, are we?” Abigail thought dryly.
Behind the counter, a man was hunched over a paint tin, stirring methodically.
“Hello?”
He looked up—and Abigail froze.
Tall, fair-haired, blue-eyed—he looked like he’d walked straight off a *Poldark* set. Even in the grotty light, he was unfairly handsome. She’d been mulling over what this dreary suburb could possibly offer her. *Well, now we know.*
“Hi,” he said. “Need something?”
“Paint! Uh… ivory-coloured?”
“What kind? Enamel, oil-based—”
“Er…”
He led her to the shelves, pointing out tins. “This one’s for wood, that’s better for pipes…”
“Radiators, actually,” she blurted.
He handed her a tin. She paid and fled, cursing herself all the way home.
“Typical. One chat with a fit bloke, and I turn into a stammering wreck. Should’ve asked for help with the radiators!”
She painted furiously, finishing by evening, then collapsed onto the camp bed in her kitchen—the only room with an open window.
“It’s actually nice out here. Quiet, not like the city centre,” she mused, drifting off. “Just the kitchen to do tomorrow.”
Morning came, and she grabbed her brush—only to find it rock-hard.
“Right. Back to the shop it is.”
The handsome shopkeeper was there again.
“Hello,” Abigail chirped, suddenly bold. “Practically a regular now!”
“Need something?” Same flat tone.
“Two hundred-watt bulbs,” she said, deflating as he rang her up without a flicker of interest.
*Seriously? Still nothing? I rehearsed that!*
Day four, she barged in grinning. “Hi again! Recognise me?” Not waiting for an answer: “I’ll be in here loads—doing up my place solo. Fancy introducing yourself? I’m Abigail.”
“Stephen,” he said evenly. “What do you need?”
“Trowel.”
He showed her options, explained each, she paid—and left fuming.
“Maybe I’m not his type?” she fretted, though she knew she was attractive. “I’m a great cook, graduated with honours, and somehow I *know* he’s my kind of person.”
Next day, she tried again.
“Hi, Stephen.”
“Hello.”
“Paint roller, please.” She grabbed it, paid, and stormed out.
“Sod it. Not one more step in there.”
Her fortnight off was nearly over. The flat looked brilliant. She and Liz planned a celebratory coffee.
“Let’s meet after work. Your place or a café?”
“Café. Gary can come—he did your floors, after all.” Liz paused. “So… how’s Blue-Eyed Shop Boy?”
“Nothing. Haven’t been in a week.”
“Abby! You can’t give up *that* easy!”
“He’s probably married. Men like that don’t stay single.”
Saturday evening, trudging back from Tesco, she heard:
“Abigail?”
Stephen stood there, shifting awkwardly.
“Hi,” she said, stunned.
“I… I’ve walked past a few times. Why’d you stop coming in?”
“Finished the reno. Back to work Monday.”
“Oh.” He scuffed his shoe. “Can I… see it? Maybe help with anything?”
She nearly laughed. *Now he asks!*
“Actually,” she said sweetly, “I don’t need help. I need *you*.”
His eyes lit up. “Really? I thought—I was scared you were married!”
“And I thought you were *bored* of me!”
He laughed—properly, warmly—and she felt that flutter again.
“Funny,” he said, stepping closer. “I was just too nervous to say anything.”
Abigail’s heart tripped. Calm, kind, unflappable—exactly what she’d been missing.
