4.1
The hotter than average autumn lingered on. Yvette woke to the comforting sounds of Heather moving about in the kitchen. The fridge door opened and closed. There were c****s of cutlery and plates, the rustle of paper. Before long a soft knock on her door and in walked her friend with a mug of tea.
‘Here you go,’ she said with a motherly smile.
‘Thank you.’
‘Breakfast in five,’ she said, drawing the curtains on her way out.
Yvette turned on her side. She could scarcely believe she’d woken in this room every morning for months, ensconced by Heather’s earthy femininity that was in every colour of paint and texture of fabric, in the vibe her friend created that emanated from even the floorboards that shone honey brown, a room that had replaced her bedroom in Carlos’s house in her hear
