Three Years of Renovation with No Guests
Monday, 23rd May
Putting my cup down on the window sill, I heard Emily stop in the hallway. I could sense her pause without even turning around. The sort of silence you could sink right into.
Youve put your cup on the window sill, I said at last. More a statement than a question.
Yes. I put my cup on the window sill, she replied.
Thats varnished wood. The heat will mark it.
I know.
Then why?
She turned around, facing me. I was forty-eight then, dressed in an old grey t-shirt, holding a spirit level in my hand. It had become a part of me at weekendsother blokes clutched their mobiles, I walked around with a level.
Because theres nowhere else, Tom, she answered. The tables covered in dust sheets. The second chairs upside down. Floor in the halls still drying after the primer. I drink my tea standing by the window, Tom. Ive been drinking my tea standing here for three years.
I looked from the cup to her, and back.
Ill get you a coaster.
I dont need a coaster.
But therell be a mark.
Let there be.
She squinted at me, just the way she did when she wasnt sure whether I was joking, or being painfully literal. Truth was, Id stopped knowing myself.
Em, why are you
Thats it, she interrupted, soft but sharp enough to break the quiet. Thats it, Tom.
I didnt immediately catch her meaning. Whats it?
Im packing my things.
Shed always spoken plainly, but this time the silence stretched for ages. Outside, a car horn faded into the distance while I lowered my arm with the spirit level.
Is it about the window sill?
No. Not about the window sill.
She drank the last of her tea and put the cup back deliberately, unrepentant, right there on the varnished wood.
She was forty-five. Worked as a bookkeeper at a small firm. Loved reading before bed, kept a tiny cactus called Felix on her desk at work, and hadnt had friends round for ages. Three years, to be precise.
She walked out to the bedroom.
Three years before, when wed bought this two-bedroom place on the top floor of a brick terrace in a quiet street in Oxford, Emily had been truly, physically happy. She spoke often about looking through those drafty windows at the autumn sycamores and thinking: this is it. Our home.
I think I was different then. Or maybe she just believed I was. I measured out the rooms with my tape, made notes, the familiar fire in my eyes. The determination to build something solid, lastinga proper home.
Look, Em, Id say, unrolling my sketches. Heres the kitchen-diner, all open plan. Well build wall-to-wall shelves, floor to ceiling. And dimmable spotlights. All bespoke.
It looks lovely, shed replyand she meant it.
Well do it all ourselves. No rush. Do it once, do it right, forever.
Now, that do it forever I shouldve heard more keenly. It was more than thriftit was an obsession hiding beneath sensible words.
The first half year, it was almost fun. We lived among the rubble, cooked on a camping hob because the gas wasnt connected. Slept on a mattress on the floor. Disposable plates, as the sink was full of paint pots. Awkward, yes. Romantic, a bit. Doable? Absolutely.
But then, things began to shift. Just a little, like an uneven crack spreading unnoticed beneath a polished floor.
Every Saturday, and often a weeknight if I took time off, I was working on the house. Project manager by trade, I knew materials and methods better than most. That was good. Sometimes, I fancied myself too good.
The problem wasnt skill. The problem was stopping.
At first Emily didnt mind. It was probably around eight months in, at a coffee shop with her friend Alice, that the cracks appeared.
Will you be finished soon? Alice asked. I want to see your new place! You promised me shepherds pie.
Another little while, Emily replied. Tom says well be done by Christmas, definitely.
Christmas came, and we spent it amidst half-built wardrobes and plasterboard by the fridge. Just us, eating some salad, clinking cheap prosecco in the kitchenthat was nearly sorted. Nearly.
Lets have a proper party next year, Emily said, pouring the fizz.
Yes, I nodded. Once I finish the lounge ceiling and get the wood floor down, well do it.
The living room ceiling got its finish in March. But by then, the bathroom piping had to be redone, because the original plumber botched it and I couldnt stand the thought. Then the balcony door needed refittingthe frame had a three-millimetre gap. I measured it. Obsessively.
Emily even joked about it to her mates: My husbands fighting World War Three against a three-mil gap. They laughed. She did too. It was funny, back then.
We laid the floor in May, when you could finally open the windows for air. Emily helped carry planks, handed me tools, hovered with a Henry Hoover. I grew quieter, more intense, like a surgeon checking every row with a laser level. Sometimes, Id lift and relay planks for fractions of a gap.
But you cant even see it, Tom! shed say.
I can, Id reply, never looking up.
That was probably the first time my words seemed to halt her. Not hurt her, not quite. But stop hershe stood there, cloth in hand, giving me a look that suggested shed noticed something important about us, but couldnt yet name it.
Come June, parquet finished, she ran her hand along the oak and admitted: It looks beautiful.
Ill lacquer it properly, I promised, found the best German stuff for scratch resistance.
When?
Next week.
Next week, of course, I found a skirting board lifting by half a mill. So the lacquer was postponed.
That summer, Emily called Alice again for a catch-up. They sat on a café terrace, drinking iced tea.
So, Em, whens the housewarming?
Soon, she replied, and fell silent.
Something wrong?
No. Its just Alice, I dont think hell ever finish.
They all drag it out.
No, you dont understand. Its not that hes dragging. Its like he doesnt want to finish. Like, so long as its unfinished, he has an excuse. Not to invite anyone. Not to put the furniture where it should go. Not to actually live.
Alice eyed her seriously.
Have you told him?
I try. He says we just need a little more time, and then it will be perfect.
Do you want perfect?
Emily paused. I just want home, she said eventually. A home.
That night, I laid out twenty samples of white paint for her on the kitchen table. Warm whites, cool whites, whites tinged with blue. The difference only crucial during daylight, I explained.
Tom, she said, looking at those samples, its all the same to me.
I stared at her as if shed uttered nonsense.
How can it be all the same? Well live here.
Exactly. People live here. Real people in a real house. They dont notice the difference in whites.
They do. Subconsciously.
Fine, she said, tired. Pick the paint.
I did. I always did. Gradually, she stopped offering opinions. At first shed been glad I took the leadabove her pay grade, shed joke. Then, as my way became the only way, she realised her voice no longer factored in.
If she liked a tile, I explained the technical faults. If she wanted the sofa somewhere, Id demonstrateusing a floor planhow it would spoil the layout. If she said I like it, Id say, No, this is right.
Eventually, she stopped saying I like it.
That autumn, in October, my old mate Jack rang from Manchester and asked if he could crash a night, passing through. Emily was genuinely excited, even bought nice biscuits and found proper plates.
But I told her Jack couldnt stay. Ive got work in the bedroom.
There was no work in the bedroom. The bed was up, the wardrobe built. Emily knew.
Tom, she asked quietly after the call, what work?
A pause. The floor needs redoing. Hed smell the glue.
What glue?
Look, Em, why should anyone see the flat in this state?
In what state?
Unfinished.
Emily stared at me, as if her world had shifted slightly on its axis. I didnt want Jack to see the flat until it matched the perfect version in my head. Jack stayed at a Premier Inn. Emily and I ate separately.
That night, she watched the perfectly painted ceiling for a long time, beneath soft, seamless white, in a room with no guests for two years.
That winter, her mum was illnothing serious, just flubut alone, so Emily stayed with her a few nights a week. While she was away, I painted the balcony frame with special anti-mould paint, two coats every twenty-four hours.
One evening, she got home early and found me crouched in the hall, magnifier in hand, peering at the join between skirting and wall.
Something wrong? she asked, brushing off her coat.
Theres a gap, I replied without looking away.
She didnt even ask how big a gap. She already knew the drill.
Tom, have you eaten?
A beat. Cant remember.
She made me a quick supper without a word. We ate in silence. The only thing on the tablea catalogue of door handles wed picked over a year ago.
Tom, she said, tell me something. Not about the house.
He looked at her as though shed asked him to speak Sanskrit.
Anything, she pressed. How was your day? What are you thinking about? Make me laugh.
I tried. I racked my brain. But every thought revolved around gaps, angles, tiles.
A builder poured a floor without mesh, I muttered. Sent him home.
Thats work.
Well, yes.
Nothing else?
I genuinely could not think of a single thing beyond sandpaper and spirit levels. I dont know. Nothing, I suppose.
That night, she lay awake, remembering the version of me whod name every constellation on midnight drives. The Tom whod point out Cassiopeia over the Welsh hills, the Seven Sisters. Where had that man gone?
By the third year, she stopped telling friends the end was in sight. It wasnt true. Renovation always ending, and always starting. I kept finding new flaws. The tile in the bathroom not robust enough; the paint didnt dry right; door handles perfect except for a hinge creaking in winter. Every fault led to another round.
Emily bought herself a small, bedside lamp with a fabric shade. I came home, saw it.
Wheres this from?
I bought it.
Why? We said wed have built-in spots.
I want to read at night.
The spots will be better.
When?
No reply.
Exactly. The spots will come when they come. I want to read now.
The lamp lasted a week before I brought in a brighter one, superior light distribution, I explained, placing it beside hers.
Emilys lamp was moved to the corner. Then the shelf. Then it disappeared into storage.
She retrieved it, placed it back on the bedside.
I moved it away.
She put it back.
We didnt argue. No more words needed.
The lamp stood, her tiny victory. And a little tragedybecause in any normal home, a lamp shouldnt be a battle.
That spring, she messaged Alice. Just one mid-morning line:
Alice, fancy a few days away? A spa, or a seaside break? Just us?
Alice replied instantly: Yes! When?
They went in May, to a modest lodge in Devon. Emily took time off. I was busy rerouting pipes in the shower, lost to the job.
Her room at the lodge was small, a bit battered, pine furniture marked with old dings, a patchy floral duvet and a window smelling faintly of oak woods. Nothing perfect, everything loved. That first night, lying on the clashing coverlet, she cried.
Alice didnt ask. Just listened.
I live in a museum, Emily admitted, staring at a hairline crack above the light fixture. A perfect, dead museum.
Alice was quiet. Heard that before?
Yes.
And?
He says soon everythingll be better. He always does.
Ever thought about a therapist? Together, maybe.
Hed never go. Tom says therapys for people with real problems. Hes just renovating.
She breathed in the woodsy air, thinking: this is what Ive been missing. A crook in the ceiling, real life.
Back home after four days, the flat smelt of plaster. I met her at the door, eager to show her how Id made the bathroom alcove perfectly symmetrical. The right-hand side was 1.5cm wider now its perfect.
Great.
She dressed for bed, lay down, eyes on the flawless ceiling.
June brought the conversation I remember by heart. Sunday, 8pm, I was fiddling in the storage room, rustling tape, shifting tins.
Tom! she called.
Yes?
Dinners in twenty minutes.
Right.
I kept working. Twenty, forty minutesshe knocked.
Dinners getting cold.
Five minutes.
Twenty-five more. By the time I came, shed eaten, tidied, washed up. Alone.
I apologised. Lost track of time.
I know.
Shall I reheat?
Do it yourself.
She retreated into the bedroom. Didnt look up from her book as I entered, but asked:
Tom, are you happy?
Long pause.
Um yes. I think so.
You sure?
Why do you ask?
Just do.
I lay next to her. After the storage room, Ill do the balcony. Insulation, then well be fully finished.
She closed her book. Dont you see you just answered my question?
How?
I asked if you were happy. You told me about the balcony.
I had no reply. Just lay there, silent.
Good night, she said shortly.
Good night.
She left the lamp on a while after, flicked pages; I watched the shadowless ceiling and thought how, in another life, we might have talked about her mums jokes, or Netflix, or restaurant menus. Anything.
In this life, only the perfect hush remained.
That morning, when she set her cup on the window sill, I realisedher thats it wasnt sudden. It had been building for ages. It just needed a cup on varnished wood to speak it.
Emily packed systematically, without tears. Only her things: a handful of novels, make-up, clothes, her lamp. Passport, paperwork, phone charger. Felix the cactusfrom her work, the lone plant the flat allowed. Id never minded Felix. Felix made no marks.
I stood in the bedroom doorway, watching her zip up a bag.
Em.
What?
Lets talk.
Talk about what?
Youre leaving.
Yes.
Over a cup?
Oh, Tom. You know its not that.
I dont. I swear I dont.
She stopped, looked at me properly. Id unconsciously put the spirit level away; standing empty-handed I seemed lost, really lost. Not a man with a plan. Unexpectedly vulnerable.
Tom, she said, Weve lived here three years.
Yeah.
We havent had a normal dinner with friends. Not once. In three years.
Because the flat isnt
Because it isnt finished, yes. It never will be. Dont you see?
I said nothing.
Therell always be something else. Thats who you are, not inherently wrong. But I cant go on living on a building site. Im tired of tiptoeing, using coasters. Tired of hiding my lamp. I stopped inviting friends because you were ashamed of the mess. I
Her voice shook, but she continued after gathering herself.
I want to live. Really live. With scratched floors and coffee rings on sills. Sunday roasts with friends crowded round. Your old jacket over a chair. All the life of a real home. Ours isnt.
Heard her out. Couldnt argue.
Where will you go?
Mums. For now.
How long?
I dont know.
Bag zipped, Felix in hand, she strode past me. Buttoned her coat, laced up her trainers, eyes fixed away from the glossy parquet.
Em
Yes?
I didnt know it was this bad.
You did, she said quietly. You just didnt face it.
The door clicked behind her. Even the doorquiet as the rest of the flat.
I was left in the hallway. After a minute, I wandered into the lounge and sat on the sofa. That fine sofa took three months to selecta fabric that couldnt fray or pill. I looked around.
The flat really was stunning. Warm, balanced walls. The floorno gaps. The ceilingsmooth. Shelvesperfect, book-ended, ornaments equidistant. Balcony door sealed. Bathroom tiles seamless.
It should have felt triumphant. Instead, I felt nauseous. Not in my stomachsomewhere higher.
Her books still sat on the shelf. When had I last seen her read by the living room light, not hiding behind a book at bedtime? A long, long time ago.
I drifted to the kitchen. Her teacup still sat on the window sill. The varnish was unharmed. The tea was long cold.
I washed it up and stood a while. Then went to the bedroom, lay on top of the coversnever something Id do, until nowjust to stare at that flawless ceiling.
An hour, maybe two. Time lost meaning. Later, I wandered to the storage room full of paint tins, rollers, packets of filler. Everything sorted. Only me out of place. I picked up a small sample tile, turned it in my hand; put it back.
Nothing extraneous here. Only loneliness.
By evening I microwaved leftovers, not tasting a thing. The whole flat was silent. No sawing, sanding, never-ending DIY. Only flawless quiet.
I tried the telly. Couldnt follow the film. Switched it off.
I brought up her name on my phone, thumb hovering. Didnt call.
I thought, not about winning her backnot yetbut about all those little things: guests, her lamp, the way shed been a stranger in her own home. The word that stuck: guest. In her own place.
I remembered Jacks visit, my lie about needing to work on the bedroom. Why had I lied? I told myself, the flat isnt ready. But that wasnt true. It hadnt been about readinessit had been about control, about my fear shed spot the imperfections only I saw.
Id wanted an ideal flat. Chased it. Never caught itbecause perfection isnt achievable. It retreats like the horizon, a line on the far side of every improvement.
Emily understood. I didntor wouldnt.
After three days of circling the flat in gloom, leaving things untouched, making errors at work, a colleague asked if I was alright. Yeah, fine, I said.
On the fourth day, I texted: Em, can we talk?
She replied in an hour: Alright.
I rang. She answered, quiet but not cold.
Hi, Em.
Hi.
How are you?
Fine. Mums well.
I hesitated, struggling with how to start. She was always the one with words.
Em, Ive been thinking.
I thought you might.
You know what Im going to say?
I can guess.
I get it nowthat Ive lost sight of what matters. I chose the wrong goal.
She listened.
All those things: guests, lamps, how you never felt free in the houseI remember. I see it now. At the time, I didnt see.
Why are you telling me this?
Because I want you to come back.
She paused.
Tom
I dont mean now. Just I want to try, differently this time. No promises. But I want to try.
Another long silence, shuffling sounds in the background.
You know try isnt enough? she asked.
I do.
You know if I come back, I cant live like before?
I know.
I dont think you really do. Youre scared, saying the right wordsbut you cant just decide to be another person.
No. I swallowed. I know you cant change like that.
So, what are you actually suggesting?
A pause. Lets meet. Out. Talk for real.
Alright, she said after a moment. Lets meet.
We met at a standard caféwobbly chairs, specials on a chalkboard. She wore a beige jacket I remembered, looking tired but steady.
We ordered coffee. I looked at her, just looking, no diagrams in mind.
Hows your mum?
Better. Bought more plants, started on seedlings. Happy to have company.
Im glad.
After a moment she said, Tom, you need to understandthis isnt about hating good work. Its about priorities. A home should help you live. You made it a goal in itself.
I do understand, I said.
Do you? Or are you just agreeing?
She arched an eyebrow. I ran my finger along my cup, set it down.
You have no reason to believe I can change, I admitted. But I know it cant go on like this. When you left, all I had left was a fancy shell.
She mulled that over. A fancy shell Yes.
So I pressed: Will you come home?
She looked out at the rainy street, red tulips wilting in a shop over the road.
Ill try. On conditions.
Name them.
First, no more DIY for a month. No drills, no samples, no paint, just living.
Agreed.
Second, next Sunday we invite Alice, her husband, Jack if he can make it. We eat together here, in the flat, however it is.
Yes.
Third, if you start making every scratch a disaster, Ill call you up on it. And you listen.
I promise.
She looked at me hard, as if hunting for something past my words.
Alright.
We walked home, drizzle still falling. She tucked Felix in her coat pocket; I carried her bag. At the door, she glanced at the house, up at our top-floor window.
Nice house, she murmured.
It is, I agreed.
Upstairs, I let her in first. She put Felix on the window sill straight off.
I watched the little pot on varnished wood.
Said nothing.
Emily headed to the kitchen. I listened to her filling the kettle, flipping the switch.
I sat on the sofa, eyes on the shelf. That little glass heart Emily picked up at a market two years agoit was misaligned, but I left it as it was this time.
Sunday, we rang Alice. At last! she laughed, delighted. Jack couldnt make it but promised next time. Alices husband brought wine, she brought cake, Emily made shepherds pie, finally keeping her word.
We ate in the lounge. I noticed the plates werent symmetrical, started to adjust, but caught myself and left them.
Someone knocked over a wine glassred staining the tablecloth. My insides clenched, and I automatically glanced at Emily.
She looked at menot anxious, just steady. I used a napkin to dab the stain and said, No worries.
Alice let out a breath; Emily half-smiled at me.
After dinner, we sat long into the night, drinking tea, laughing. When they left after midnight, I wiped plates, Emily washed. The silence between us was differentcomforting.
The stain will wash out, I said, motioning to the cloth.
Perhaps not, she shrugged.
Oh well.
She handed me another plate.
Tom.
Hm?
It was nice today.
Yeah. I smiled. It was.
In the lounge, cups still stood on the table, the cloth bore a purple bloom, the heart sat on the shelf, Felix on the window ledge.
I thought, I must soak that tablecloth tomorrow. Felixs pot might mark the sill. A cup sat lopsided.
But more than that, I remembered Emily laughed today, twiceonce when Alice told a story about her cat, again during a mixed-up toast. Laughed as she once did, long ago, when I thought: thats her.
She went to bed, pausing in the door.
Coming?
In a minute.
I looked round the loungeat the mess, the jokes, the evidence of life.
Switched the lights out.
Slid into bed beside her. Shed turned on her own lamp, the fabric shade making a soft dome of light.
Em.
Mm?
When I talk about gaps and measurements, what do you really think?
She dropped her book, meeting my eyes.
I hear you, she answered simply.
And?
I just think: youre far away, then.
Yeah. I suppose I am.
She returned to her novel.
I lay there, not knowing if wed truly fix thingsa crack, once filled, is never the same wall. I knew that, more than most.
I thought about moving Felix back onto a coaster in the morning, to protect the varnish. Opened my eyes for a last look at the perfectly smooth ceiling.
A page turned beside me.
Felix could wait. For now, things were imperfect. But alive.
Thats what I learned: a living home, like a living love, can never be flawlessand shouldnt be.
