Three Years of Renovation, No Guests
Emily placed her cup on the window ledge and, even before turning, sensed Christopher pausing in the hallway. Though her back faced him, she felt it keenlya silence so deep it was almost tangible.
Youve put your cup on the ledge, he finally said. Not a question. Just a fact.
Yes, Chris. I put my cup there.
Thats a varnished surface. Heat leaves a mark.
I know.
Then why?
She turned to face him. He was forty-eightlooked it too. Neither older nor younger. He stood in the kitchen doorway, grey T-shirt, spirit level in hand. Always the spirit level on weekends, as if others carried mobile phones.
Because theres nowhere else for it, she answered. The table is covered in sheeting, the other chairs upside down. The hall floors still drying after primer. I drink my tea standing by the window, Chris. Ive been drinking my tea at the window for three years.
He looked at the cup. Then at her. Then back at the cup.
Ill put down a coaster.
No need for a coaster.
But itll leave a mark.
Let it.
He narrowed his eyes, the look he gave when unsure if she was joking. Of late, even Emily herself couldnt be certain.
Em, really
Thats enough, she whispered, her voice dropping like a stone in the quiet. Thats enough, Chris.
He didnt follow. He asked,
What do you mean, enough?
Im packing my things.
A long silence. Through the window came the fading sound of a lorry horn. Christopher let his hand fall, the spirit level clattering softly.
Because of a window ledge?
No. Not because of a window ledge.
Emily finished her tea and set the cup back on the varnished surfacedeliberate, unremorseful, steady.
She was forty-five. She worked as an accountant at a modest firm, enjoyed reading before bed, kept a tiny cactus at work named Henry, and hadnt invited her friends round for yearsthree, to be precise.
She walked to the bedroom.
Three years prior, theyd bought this two-bedroom flat on the fifth floor of a quiet block in Oxford. She remembered her happiness, a true and physical gladness, as shed looked out at the autumn plane trees and thought, this is it. This is our home.
Christopher was different then. Or perhaps she only thought so. Hed moved through the empty rooms, tape measure in hand, jotting notes in a pad, eyes lit with the energy shed always admired: that drive of a man who knows what he wants and can do it himself.
Look here, hed said, spreading out squared paper sketches, This is where well open the kitchen onto the sitting rooma lovely open space. Floor-to-ceiling shelves here; see? And spotlights with dimmers over there.
Its beautiful, shed said, and meant it.
Well do it right. Ourselves. Only once, and itll last a lifetime.
That only once, for a lifetimeshe realised now, she should have heard it for what it was. There was something behind it, beyond saving on contractors.
The first six months were an adventure. They lived with the dust of renovation: Emily cooking on a portable hob, as the gas wasnt yet connected, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, eating from paper plates as there was nowhere to wash up. It was inconvenient, a little romantic, and entirely bearable. Then.
Later, things changed. As slowly as ground shifting beneath old houses.
Christopher spent every weekend on improvements. Some evenings, after time off work. He was a site manager, knew everything about construction. That was a blessingat first. The real trouble was that he couldnt seem to stop.
At first, Emily failed to see it. Eight months into renovations, she sat with her friend Claire in a little café.
So, will it be finished soon? Claire asked. I want to visit at lastyou promised us your shepherds pie!
Soon, Emily replied. Chris says by Christmas itll be done for certain.
But Christmas passed amid dust and noise. The front room a jumble of saw horses and plasterboard; they ate their festive meal for two in a nearly-but-not-quite-finished kitchen.
Chris, next year lets have a proper partyinvite the lot, she said as she poured champagne.
We will, he assured. Once I finish the ceiling and lay parquet in the lounge.
The ceiling was finished in March. But by then the bathroom wiring had to be ripped out and replaced; Christopher couldnt bear the shortcut a previous builder had taken. Then it was the turn of the balcony doorsthe sealing foam had shrunk, a three-millimetre gap between the frame and brick. Only three millimetres, which Christopher had found with his measuring probe.
At the time, Emily made jokesthe same ones to her friends: My husband is at war with the three millimetres! Theyd laugh, she laughed with them. It was funny, then.
They laid the parquet in May, when they could have the windows flung wide. Emily would pass him planks, hand him tools, sweep away dust. Christopher worked silently, with a concentration akin to a surgeons, checking each row with his spirit level and laser. If something wasnt to his standard, hed pull it all up and start again.
You cant even see the difference, she protested one day.
I can, he replied, not looking up.
For the first time, his words gave her pausenot hurt, merely stayed her. She stood, cloth in hand, considering the nape of his neck, feeling she had grasped something important, though not quite what.
The floor was finished in Junelight oak, finely edged, perfectly lined. Emily ran her hand over it: Its beautiful.
Well varnish next, said Christopher. Found a German lacquerscratch resistant.
When?
Next week.
But next week, he noticed the skirting board had a half-millimetre gap in one corner. Varnishing was postponed.
That June, Emily rang Claire. They met at a pub garden on a sultry afternoon, sipping cold Pimms.
How are you? Will we ever get to visit? asked Claire.
Soon, said Emily. And left it there.
Has something happened?
No. Only I keep thinking hell never finish.
They all drag things out, Emily.
No, hes not dragging it out. Its like he doesnt want it finished. So long as theres something to do, hes got an excuse not to have people round, not to settle the furniture, not to just live.
Claire looked grave.
Have you told him any of this?
I try. He always tells me its nearly done, then itll be perfect.
Do you want it perfect?
Long pause.
I just want a home, Emily eventually confessed. A real home.
That night, Christopher laid out a rainbow of paint samplestwenty shades of white.
See, warm white, with a cream undertone; this ones cold, a bit greytheres a blue tinge here. Not much difference, but daylight makes it critical. I think we should choose this.
He pointed. All Emily saw was white. Just white.
I dont mind, Chris. Honestly.
A look of disbelief on his face.
How can you not care? Well be living here.
Yes. Thats just it. People live herereal people. They cant see the difference between these whites.
They can, they just dont know it.
Fine. Pick whatever you want.
Christopher picked, as always. First it was a genuine relief, having him take the leadhe knew best. Later, she noticed her opinion was seldom sought. Then, never. If she liked a particular tile, he explained why the other was superior. If she suggested the sofa go there, he pointed out on his phones room-planner why it disrupted the flow. If she liked something, hed say, But this is right.
She stopped saying what she liked. What was the point?
One chilly autumn, during their second year, his old mate Harry from Bristol called, asking for a bed for the night. Emily bought in groceries, brought out the nice dishes, wiped down the table.
Christopher insisted Harry couldnt staythe bedroom was undergoing work.
There was no work. The bed was made, the wardrobe up. Emily knew.
Chris, she asked softly, what work in the bedroom?
He paused.
The floors not right beneath the wardrobe. Thered be a smell.
What smell? Theres none.
Em, why have someone see the place like this?
Like what?
Not finished.
Emily watched him, feeling the ground shift under herphysically, not metaphorically. For the first time, she understood: he was ashamed. Ashamed of this flat hed built himself, not because it wasnt livable, but because it wasnt the perfection in his mind. Hed rather lie to an old friend.
Alright, she said. Nothing more.
Harry visited, shared tea at the kitchen table, had dinner out with Christopher, then stayed in a hotel. Emily cooked alone, ate alone.
She lay awake that night, gazing at the perfect, unblemished ceiling above the equally perfect beda room without guests for two years.
That winter, her mother fell illnothing serious, just fluso Emily spent nights at her mothers, crossing all of London. Christopher didnt objecthe was busy repainting the balconys interior with a treatment that needed two coats, a day apart.
Once, Emily came back early, to find him on the hallway floor with a magnifying glass, scrutinising the skirting board.
Whats up? she asked as she hung up her coat.
Theres a gap, he muttered, still hunched.
She didnt ask how much. There was no point. He would tell her, in millimetres.
Chris, have you had anything to eat today?
Pause.
Dont remember.
Nothing since morning?
Morning, perhaps.
She went to the kitchen, made some pasta and eggs. He came when she was nearly done, sat, looked at the plate.
Thank you.
Youre welcome.
They ate in silence. Snow fell outside. On the table, a catalogue of handles for a built-in wardrobe theyd discussed over a year earlier.
Chris, she said.
Mm?
Tell me something. Not about the flat.
His eyes met hers, as if shed asked him to say something in Greek.
Like what?
Anything. Your day, your worries, what made you laugh, or sad, anything really. As long as it isnt a gap or some material.
He pondered, genuinely. She saw he was trying, searching for anything not related to construction. Nothing came.
Honestly, I dont know. Perhaps nothing.
That left her staring into the dark, wondering: when did he become only a collection of functions? Or was he always like that, and shed missed it? Noshe remembered the Christopher who pointed constellations on late-night trips, telling their names by heart. She remembered.
Where had that gone?
By the third year, Emily stopped telling friends itd soon be finished. It wasnt true. The renovation ended and began again. Christopher would find a new flaw, a new round would start: the bathroom tiles not quite tough enough, the paint shade wrong when dried, the door handle good, but the hinge squeaked in the cold. Every discovered imperfection begged remedy.
Emily bought herself a simple bedside lamp, a fabric shade. Set it on her nightstand. Christopher soon noticed.
Wheres that from?
I bought it.
Why? We agreed on recessed spots.
I want to read before sleep.
Spots will be better.
When?
No answer.
Exactly. I want to read now.
The lamp stayed a week. Then Christopher put his metal lamp next to it for better spread. Hers was shifted to a shelf, then found its way into the cupboard with the primer tins.
She didnt protestjust brought it back. He moved it again. She returned it.
Neither spoke of it. The lamp stood its ground; it was a tiny victory and a small sadnessbecause in any other home, it would have meant nothing at all.
That spring, in April, Emily texted Claire mid-workday: Claire, fancy a few days away? Somewhere outside town, without the chaps?
Claire replied at once: Absolutely! When?
Off they went, four days at a little countryside guesthouse. Basic room, battered wooden furniture, garish bedspread, a tiny window through which drifted the scent of damp woods. Everything a bit scuffed, imperfect, pocked with tiny flawsand Emily realised how comfortable she felt. So comfortable, in fact, that she lay on the bed the first night, stared at a ceiling with a crack near the bulb, and cried.
Claire simply lay beside her, quiet.
I live in a museum, Emily finally admitted, staring upward. A beautiful, dead museum.
Claire was silent, then: Have you told him?
Yes.
And?
He says a bit longer and things will be better. He always does.
See someone together? A therapist?
He wont. Chris says therapys for people with real problems. He just has a renovation.
In that room, upon that garish bedspread, Emily understood what was missing: that window, the smell of leaves, a crack in imperfect plaster, the bedspread chosen simply because she liked it. Life.
She returned home four days later. The flat smelled of plaster. Christopher met her with news of a new niche in the bathroomperfect symmetry.
Well done, she said.
See? Now both sides are even. Was one and a half centimetres off before.
I see.
Spent days working how best to do it, not to damage the tiles. Managed it.
Good for you.
She changed and flopped onto the bed, staring at the flawless ceiling.
That June, one conversation stuck in her mind. It was a Sunday evening, eight oclock. Christopher was painting somewhere; Emily cooked dinner and heard the fuss of masking tape, shifting tools.
Chris! she called.
What? came his voice through the wall.
Dinner in twenty.
Alright.
Twenty minutes passed. He didnt come. Neither after forty. She knocked.
Dinners going cold.
Five minutes.
Five came and went.
She ate alone, cleared away, washed up. He came out at half ten, noticing the bare table.
Lost track of time, he said.
I know.
Ill heat something?
Suit yourself.
She went to bed, reading or pretending to. When he joined her, she asked, eyes on the page,
Chris, are you happy?
A long pause.
Well yes. Probably.
Are you sure?
What sort of question is that?
Just a question.
He lay beside her, silent. Then,
Once this is done, just the balcony left. Insulate it, fit the new floorthen this flat will be perfect.
She closed her book.
You realise thats your answer?
How?
I asked if you were happy, and you told me about the balcony.
He was silent.
Good night, she said.
Good night.
She left the lamp on for a while, watching the ceiling, listening to his breathing. In some other version of life theyd have lain together like this and talkedabout nothing important: a series they watched, a joke her mother told, a new menu at their favourite place. In this life, there was silence. Perfect, like plaster.
That morning, as she set her cup on the ledge, Emily remembered all this. She understoodthe word enough had been born long ago, simply requiring a cup to let it out.
She packed her things methodically, dry-eyed. Only what was hers for certaina few books, makeup, clothing, that lamp with its fabric shade, passport and papers, the phone charger, and the small cactus Henry, brought from work half a year back for lack of any living plant at home. He never objected to the cactus. Cacti dont leave marks.
Christopher stood in the bedroom doorway, watching her fold shirts into a bag.
Em.
Yes?
Lets talk.
About what?
Youre leaving.
Yes.
Because of the cup?
Oh Chris, please. You know very well.
I dont. I really dont.
She stopped and took a long look at himtall, hands empty of tools, for once unguarded. For the first time in years, he looked truly lost.
Chris, she said, weve lived here three years.
Yes.
Havent had a single proper dinner with friends. Not once, Chris, in three years.
Because the flats not
Because its never finished. It never will be. Do you understand?
He was silent.
Youll always find something to redo. Thats how you arenot inherently bad, but I cant live with it anymore. Im tired of living on a building site.
Soon
No. She was gentle but firm. Its not about waiting. Its about the way Ive spent three years as a guest in my own home. I tread carefully, use coasters, hide my lamp, never invite friends because youre ashamed of the flat not being finished. I
Her voice caught, she paused, steadied herself.
I want to live. Just live. With scuffs on the floor and coffee rings on the sill. Guests for Sunday lunch. Your old coat over a chair. All those things that make a house alive. And ours ours isnt.
He was silent for a long time before whispering,
Where will you go?
Mums, for now.
For long?
I dont know.
She zipped up her bag, took Henry, brushed past without looking at the perfect oak floor.
Em, he called as she left the hall.
What?
I I didnt realise it was like this.
You did, she said, you just never thought about it.
The door closed gently behind her. Carefully, just like everything in that flat.
He stayed.
Christopher stood in the hall for a minute, then sat in the loungeon the sofa hed chosen after months of fabric samples, tough, dense, and lint-free. The room was truly beautiful: warm walls, flawless parquet, seamless ceiling, fitted shelves. Not a hint of unevenness or shadow where it shouldnt fall. The bathroom tiles met at perfect corners.
He gazed at it all and feltnothing like pride. Something closer to nausea, somewhere not quite his stomach.
Left on the shelf were books she hadnt packed. He stared at the spines, racking his brain for the last time he saw her readingon this sofa, relaxed, evening light. Long ago.
He wandered into the kitchen. The cup sat upon the window ledge. No mark. The tea was cold.
He washed it up, left it to drain. Stood for a while, blank. Later, he lay on the bed, fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. An hour passed, or two. Time blurred.
Eventually, into the storeroomtins of paint, masking tape, primer stacked by size, tools arranged like a diagram. Nothing extraneous, only himself.
That evening, reheated something from the fridge. Sat in absolute quiet. Before, there was always the bustle of activity, a crackle of tools, the faint tang of lacquer or primer. Nownothing but stillness in impeccable rooms.
He tried watching television. Nothing stuck. Turned it off. Opened his phone, stared at Emilys name in contacts. Didnt ring. Thought.
Not about having her backbut what shed said. About guests, a lamp, living as a guest, three years in her own home. That wordgueststuck tight. Guest, in her own place.
He recalled Harrys visit. Had lied about the bedroom. Why? Even then, he had no honest answer. Hed told himself the flat wasnt ready. But it was, actually. It simply didnt match the blueprint in his headthe promise hed made himself.
Hed wanted the perfect flat. And the closer hed got, the further it always seemed. Perfection was no ceiling to paint and finish, but a horizonalways out of reach.
She had understood that. He hadnt.
Or perhaps, hadnt wanted to.
He moved from room to room, switching on lightsa habit from his building days. Stopped at the shelves. Every item arranged by size, space, purpose. In the centre, a glass heartamber, slightly misshapen, a trinket Emily had bought at a market two years before. Hed said, Whats that for? Just collects dust. Shed replied, Because I like it. He hadnt pressed her, and the heart remained. Now he held it. The glass felt warm. Or so it seemed.
He thought about this for three days. Listless, eating anything, sleep elusive, muddled at work. A colleague asked, Chris, you alright? Yes, fine.
On the fourth day, he sent her a message.
Em, can we talk?
An hour later, she replied: Yes.
He called. She answered on the second ring.
Hello, he said.
Hi.
How are you?
Alright. Mums well.
Pause. He could hear her breathing, unsure how to begin.
Em, Ive been thinking these past days.
I gathered.
You know what Ill say?
Roughly.
I know I missed something vital. Ornot missed, just got it wrong.
She waited.
You spoke about guests, lamps. I remember. I now see it. I didnt then.
Why do you want to say this?
Because I want you to come back.
Long pause.
Chris
Not right away. Just being honest. I want you back. I want to try to change. Dont know if Ill manage, but I must try.
She was quiet for a long time. He could hear a cup being set somewhereon a window sill or a table, no matter which.
You know just saying Ill try isnt enough? she asked.
I do.
You know I cant come back and live the same way?
I do.
Im not sure you do. Honestly. Youre frightenedyoure saying all the right things, but it isnt something you decide overnight. Its not hammering a nail.
I know.
Then what exactly are you offering?
He paused.
I suggest we meet. Properlynot on the phone.
Alright, she agreed after a moment.
They met in a little coffee shopneutral ground. Wobbly chairs, chalkboard menu. Emily wore her familiar beige coat, looking weary but composed.
They ordered coffee. Christopher realised he hadnt simply looked at her like this in years, simply looked, without thinking of joints and seams.
Hows your mum?
Better. Bought new flowers, started her pots again. Glad of company.
Im glad.
They fell silent.
Chris, she said, I need you to grasp something. It isnt about the house or your drive for qualitythats fine. Its that you confused means and ends. A house is for living, but with you it became the reason in itself.
Yes, he admitted.
Do you agree, or understand?
I understand.
Do I know that?
He wrapped his hands round his cup.
You dont know. Im not sure, myself. But I see, now, that it cant go on. When you left, I realised the flat was just an empty, pretty box.
She looked at him.
A pretty box, she echoed, quietly.
Yes.
Im glad you see that.
Will you come home?
She gazed at the windowsthe usual spring drizzle, people hustling by, first tulips in pots outside the shop, wind-tousled and a bit battered.
Ill try, she said at last. But with conditions.
Name them.
One. The next month: no DIY, no drills, no samples, no catalogues. Just us, living here.
Agreed.
Two. Next Sunday we invite Claire and Tom for lunchand Harry, if he can make it. Dinner here, as is.
He nodded.
Three. If you start blowing up over every scratch or spot, I will tell you plainly, and you must hear me.
I promise.
This isnt just words. Its truly hard.
I know. For me too. But Ill try.
She regarded him, searching for something real behind what he said. Then:
Alright.
They walked home through drizzle, not arm in arm, but close, Emily carrying Henry in her pocket, Christopher her bag. Outside the block she paused, glanced up to the fifth floor.
Pretty house, she said.
Yes, he agreed.
They rode the lift up. He unlocked. She entered first, set Henry on the window ledge, without any saucer.
Christopher looked at the varnished wood under the cactus. He said nothing.
Emily went to put on the kettle. He listened to the running water, the click of the switch.
He sat on the sofa, watching the shelves. The glass heart was where hed left it, not precisely aligned.
He let it stay crooked.
On Sunday, they rang Claire. At last! Claires cheerful voice chirruped down the line. Harry couldnt make it this time, but would soon; Tom brought wine, Claire a homemade cake, Emily cooked shepherds pie as promised long ago.
They set the table in the lounge. Christopher, noticing the plates were off-centre, shifted one. Then, he stopped himself. Left the rest.
It was lively and a bit cramped. Claire knocked over a glass, red wine splashing onto the tablecloth. There was a collective gasp. Christophers stomach clenched, and he glanced at Emily.
She simply watched himcalm, unafraid.
He grabbed a napkin, blotted the stain. No matter, he offered.
Claire breathed out. Emily gave him half a smile.
Afterwards, they lingered for tea and chatter, laughter echoing past midnight. Later, as they washed up together, Christopher remarked,
The stain will come out.
It might not, Emily replied.
So be it.
She looked at him and handed over the last plate.
Chris, she said.
Yes?
Today was nice.
He smiled. Yes, it was.
In the lounge, coffee cups still on the table, wine marking the cloth, the glass heart on the shelf, Henry on the window ledgeChristopher surveyed it all, thinking that the stain should be cleaned before it settled, that the cactus ought to have a saucer, one cup stood slightly skew.
Then, he remembered Emily laughing twiceonce at Claires story about her cat, again at Tom mixing up a toast. She laughed as she used to, as hed once known her.
She passed by him into the bedroom, pausing in the door.
Coming?
In a minute.
He cast one last look at the loungethe stain, the cactus, the glass heartbefore switching off the light.
He lay beside her as she read. Her fabric-shaded lamp lit the room, soft and warm. He gazed at the ceiling.
Em, he asked quietly.
Mm?
Do you hear me, when I talk of gaps and millimetres?
She lowered her book, looked at him.
I do.
What do you think about then?
She thought, honestly.
That youre far away.
Yes. I suppose I am.
She returned to her book.
He lay awake, not knowing if theyd manage. Three years is a long time. Some cracks can be filled, but its never the same as before. He understood that better than anyone.
He thought about this as he drifted toward sleep, and then, on the cusp of dreams, thought one more thing: tomorrow morning, hed fetch Henry and put him back on a coasterbecause otherwise the varnish would mark.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was as ever: unblemished, perfect.
Next to him, Emily turned a page quietly.
He closed his eyes again. Henry would wait until morning.
