The Plasterer
Copyright© 2026 by Craig Robinson
Chapter 1
Imogen had forgotten he was coming.
She was still in bed when she heard the van. A low diesel rumble, then the handbrake. She checked her phone. Nine o’clock. Shit.
She’d slept in her white vest and little cotton shorts. The vest was old, washed thin as tissue paper. She looked down at herself. Her nipples showed through clearly, two dark points against the white fabric. No bra. She’d been asleep.
The knock came. Firm. Professional.
She considered running upstairs to change, but he’d already seen her car in the drive. He knew she was home. So she opened the door.
He was in his thirties, maybe early forties. Plaster dust in his hair, tools in hand. He looked at her. His eyes went to her chest, just for a second, then back to her face.
“Sorry, love. They told me nine. It’s nine.”
She laughed, flustered. “I know. I lost track. Come in, come in. I’ll just—let me get changed.”
She hurried upstairs and pulled on some leggings and an old sweater. When she came down he was standing in the middle of her living room, looking at the crack in the ceiling.
“You’re the one who called about the ceiling, yeah?”
“That’s right.”
He nodded, set down his tools. “We’ll need to move the sofa. Get it out of the way.”
She hadn’t moved anything. She’d meant to, but the week got away from her. So she helped him, taking one end of the heavy sofa, backing up as he guided it toward the wall.
He was tall. She’s five-three. When she leaned forward to get a better grip, she felt his eyes on her chest again. Her nipples had been visible through the vest when she answered the door. He’d seen them. He was remembering.