‘You realise no one is going to buy this place, right?’
Adam’s hand appeared above the back of the sofa, stray screwdriver retrieved. Sally took it off him, one knee wedged so firmly between the cushions that she stayed stuck when she tried to stand.
‘It’s a fixer-upper,’ she shrugged. ‘People like that sort of thing.’
‘No, they think they like it,’ said Adam. He’d stood up and Sally choked down a laugh at the dust wig haloing his bald head.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘Nothing, nothing,’ Sally spluttered. ‘Just maybe you’re right. It might be time to get a hoover.’