I’m soaked through by the time I’ve hammered in the last few nails, skidding through the mud up the bank as I gather up my things and try to get a decent shot of my finished railings. My boots are definitely past it. Their grip is useless as I try to keep my footing, and my arms are too full of tools to keep my balance. I go tumbling, tits first into a sloppy pile of mud, and if I were an indoor kind of girl I’d be pissed, because my clothes are plastered with mud and sheep shit and fuck knows what else. My open jacket did little to protect my cami and bra, and any other colour than white would have definitely been a better choice for doing this kind of work in if I had all that many options to choose from. But I don’t.
I can’t stop laughing as I pull myself up. The rain on my muddy skin feels amazing. Getting so up close and personal with the outdoors sings to my soul, even if I am filthy now. I ditch my jacket in the mud and spin on the spot, not caring that my muddy hair is plastered to my scalp, or the rain is trickling down between my tits, or that I can taste the earth on my tongue.
It’s a moment I want to keep forever, so I dig my mobile out of my pocket and angle it for a selfie. I hardly ever take photos of myself, and it feels weird. I make sure I hold the camera up high so you can see the fencing down below behind me, and I blink the rain from my eyes and give a smile.
And then I see how low my cami is now it’s wet through. I see how you can see the scrappy lace of my old bra and the shape of my nipples poking through the fabric.
I think about Jack and Michael seeing me like this.
I think about Jack wanting me and Michael seeing how wrong he was for turning his back on having what could have been his.
I think about them getting hard when they see how much of a woman I really am under my baggy clothes and messy hair.
So I tug my top down just a bit more. Just enough that the camera shows more than it should. And then I smile a dirty smile and take the photo.
By the time I’ve finished up ditching Jack’s tools back where I found them, it’s later than usual. The lights are on in the kitchen when I kick off my muddy boots by the back door, and the kettle is already on. My heart is pumping as Jack steps in from the hallway, and my cheeks burn up as he does a double take at the state of me.
“What the–” he begins, and marches his way over.
“I’ve been out,” I tell him.
“No shit,” he says. He reaches behind me to grab a couple of mugs from the cupboard.
“I fell,” I tell him and he cocks an eyebrow.
“You look like you’ve been mud bathing.”
I fold my arms across my filthy tits. “I’ve been working.”
“Working?”
I nod, already feeling self-conscious about the big reveal I’ve been planning for days.
It feels so much more stupid now it’s nearly here.
I notice Jack’s only pulled out two mugs. “Where’s Michael?”
“Leaving do. Some temp worker from his office. He’ll be over tomorrow.”
My heart drops. “Tomorrow?”
Jack nods. “Will probably be a late one, these crappy socials normally are.”
“Only if you want to stay at them.” I can’t help feeling rejected, even though it’s stupid. I can’t help feeling like he should be as excited to get here as I am excited to see him, even though I hate him now.
“He’ll be over in the morning,” Jack says. “Give the guy a break, will you? He’s been fawning around you all pissing week already.”
He hasn’t been fawning around me at all, just trying to get me some shitty council accommodation, but I don’t say it.
I must look sad because Jack tips his head and sighs. “If you miss him so fucking much, maybe you should stop being such a cow when he’s here.”
“It’s complicated,” I say and he laughs.
“You’re fucking complicated, Carrie.” He stirs my tea, and I love the way he knows just how I like it now. He puts in just the right amount of milk and hands it over. “Where did you go?”
I gesture to my top. “For a browse around the shops, where does it look like I’ve pissing been?”
“Good. I’m glad you got out for some fresh air. Better for you than watching crappy daytime TV all your life. That shit will rot your brain, you know.”
And that’s when I decide to show him. Michael be damned.
I reach inside my pocket and pull out my mobile, and my fingers are shaking as I call up the gallery app. “I don’t watch fucking TV,” I tell him as I select the very first photo I took of my fencing. “I’ve been working.”
“Working?”
I nod and shove the handset at him. “Working, yeah. Sorting your shit fucking fencing out.”