Websites that bring customers to your door

Confident and photographic, for a firm whose advantage is that it turns out at three in the morning. Deep slate, one burnt orange, and every price on the page. The preview above is the real site. Scroll it.

Deliberately the opposite of Ironclad rather than a recolour of it: cream, serif, calm, and split rather than full-bleed. A firm you let into the house every Tuesday reads differently from one you ring at 3am.

The first that changes the LAYOUT rather than the skin: a fixed rail down the left, services as an editorial index instead of a card grid, and photographic bands that break the column. Charcoal and amber.

A precision instrument rather than a trade brochure. Near black, one electric cyan, a hairline grid under everything and values set in mono. It leads with the work instead of a person, and lays the services out as a breaker panel.

The plainest of the set, on purpose. White, one blue, generous spacing and a quote card in the hero. Nothing on it animates. The whole page is rendered and legible before a line of script runs.

Heating and cooling are one business and two opposite jobs, so the services split into two full-height halves: cold on the dark side, warm on the light one, meeting in the middle. The only centred hero in the set, and the only one with maintenance plans.

The first outside the trades, and the first whose problem is not price or trust but dread. Deep pine and mint, a whole section for nervous patients, the fees printed like the sheet on the reception wall, and the first visit laid out minute by minute.

The only one with something you can actually use: a list of twenty small jobs you tick, which totals the time, charges you whichever rate works out cheapest, and hands the list to the booking form. Navy and putty, and the only design in the set with no brand colour.

Built around the one dishonesty everybody in estate agency knows about: the easiest way to win an instruction is to overvalue the house. So it publishes a ledger of every sale: what was asked, what it got, how long it took. Losses included. Bone, near-black and one metal.

Two feelings bring somebody to a pest control site. They are frightened and they are embarrassed, and the page is built for both. Everything is ranked by how fast you actually need to act, down to a tier of things it tells you not to ring about at all, and a whole section on the unmarked van.

The first one that sells an object instead of a visit, so it is the first with a product grid and prices per item. Built around what a florist actually knows: a dated board of what is in the buckets this week, and a column of what is not and why.

The first professional practice in the set that is not a trade, and the only one built around a grievance rather than a service: you cannot get hold of your lawyer. Five attorneys, five direct lines printed on the page, and the answering promise written with its exception attached. Deep forest, bone and one coral, and the most photographic template in the set: a wide plate under the hero, a full-bleed band with the copy on a card laid over it, and eleven frames put through one treatment so eleven stock sources read as one commission.

The loudest design in the set, and the first business in it that nobody rings in a bad mood. Electric blue, lime and hot pink, a Bodoni wordmark at the full width of the footer, and photography saturated up rather than down — the opposite of what Verity does, because a desaturated bounce house looks like a repossession. Built around the one failure a party cannot survive: it publishes a thirty-minute arrival window with the hire free if it is missed, prints the last wash date beside every unit’s price, and lists all eight late deliveries it made last year, the two that were its own fault included.

Warm paper, olive and terracotta, and an arch motif borrowed from the shape of a lifted slab. Built for a trade nobody photographs well: the work happens under a driveway and is invisible the moment it is finished, so the site leads on the before and the after rather than on the crew. No webfont anywhere, which is why it still renders exactly like this with every part of our platform switched off. Salt City Concrete is an invented business and the site says so on every page — it is here to show the design, not to claim the customer.