In her memories, it was always the sound she remembered first. Marisa’s own childhood had been studded through with noise. ‘Yes, it’s got a lovely sense of calm to it.’ It was this that ultimately persuaded her.
When she commented on this, the woman who was showing her around nodded. She noticed the quiet, which was rare for London, especially when you were this close to a main road. Marisa stood on this terrace, her sandals shadowed on biscuit-coloured patio stones, and she looked down to the garden below, which had a strip of lawn lined with potted plants, the soil newly turned. Someone had made the odd decision to put a bathroom on the second floor with doors that led out onto a roof terrace.
The plantation shutters were plastic and layered with thin spores of dust. The flooring, which had clearly been bought in bulk by the developer, was a shade too light, the wood-laminate a touch too smooth to pass for real. Well, not perfect exactly, because houses never are, but at least the imperfections were liveable with.
0 kommentar(er)
