“I don’t want to argue either. But when are you finally going to fix that shelf?”
On Saturday, after breakfast, Laura started tidying up their flat. Cyril settled onto the sofa in the kitchen with his laptop. His job was to take the trash out later, but for now, he was scrolling through the newsfeed on social media.
Suddenly, a photo popped up of his cheerful mate, Oliver, with whom he’d studied at uni. The caption read: “Hooray! Finally! It’s done! We’ve moved in! Come round and share our joy—have a look, admire, drool over it!” Cyril clicked the link and saw pictures of the flat, perfectly styled from every angle.
A year ago, Oliver had inherited the place from his late grandmother. The flat hadn’t been touched in forty years—peeling wallpaper, creaky Soviet-era furniture. It would’ve cost a fortune to make it liveable, and Oliver didn’t have the cash. He figured he’d sell it straightaway. He and his wife, Emily, had been saving for a two-bedder, and selling the inheritance could speed things up.
But Emily dug her heels in. The place was a wreck, but it was in central London—prime location. She suggested using their savings to renovate it properly and sell it for a huge profit. Then they’d easily afford the home they really wanted.
Almost a year of renovations later, the flat was unrecognisable. Oliver boasted about all the clever little touches they’d added. They’d knocked out the wall between the loo and the bathroom, merged the kitchen with one of the bedrooms to create a spacious lounge, and styled it with minimalist furniture and tasteful wallpaper. The result? A showstopper.
The comments were full of praise—congrats, admiration, even a bit of envy. Most assumed they’d hired a professional designer.
“Nah, we did our research online, picked up ideas from modern flats. Did everything ourselves except for the heavy demolition and floor levelling. Emily handled the decor,” Oliver insisted.
Cyril congratulated him, careful to keep the envy out of his voice. He and Laura were stuck in a tiny one-bedder. His dad’s friend had moved to America to live with his son after his wife passed, letting Cyril and Laura stay in his flat rent-free—on the condition they didn’t make changes. Not bad, newlyweds with a roof over their heads.
He’d fancied Emily back in first year, but she’d chosen Oliver instead. Lucky bloke. Emily had always had an eye for style—even the simplest clothes looked designer on her.
Sure, Oliver had done the grunt work, but the vision? All Emily’s. And it paid off. Cyril glanced around his own dull kitchen. It had seemed fine until he’d seen Oliver’s place.
Then Oliver really rubbed it in. Cyril grabbed his laptop and rushed to the bedroom, completely forgetting that interrupting Laura mid-clean was a bad idea. Best let her vent first…
Laura stood on tiptoe, stretching to dust the wobbly shelf. Cyril caught himself admiring her figure—until the shelf lurched. The screws were loose, barely holding on. A stack of books sat abandoned on the floor.
He backed away, but she turned, blowing a strand of hair from her face.
“What are you staring at? You could’ve fixed this already.”
“Just wanted to show you… Look at the reno Oliver and Emily did with his gran’s flat. Wouldn’t mind a place like that…” He trailed off at the look on her face.
“Show me,” Laura said tightly.
Cyril eagerly turned the laptop toward her. “See? Amazing, right? The place was a dump. Oliver almost sold it as-is—” He kept his tone neutral.
“Yeah. Good for them,” Laura said flatly, eyeing him.
“What? My gran’s still kicking and has two other grandkids. No guarantees I’ll inherit squat.”
“Long may she live. But Oliver says he did it all himself. Emily just ‘suggested ideas.’”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Really not getting it, are you? I’ve asked you a million times to fix this shelf! The books have been gathering dust for a month. We’ve lived here a year, and every day something’s falling apart. Should I hire someone else to do it? Would that embarrass you? Or maybe you’d only put in effort for Emily?”
“Here we go,” Cyril sighed. “Everything’s digital now—why bother with paper books?” He snapped the laptop shut and fled to the kitchen.
“Wait.” Laura followed. “Suddenly deaf when it’s about the shelf, huh? I don’t complain about your massive CD collection, do I? You could stream everything. But I don’t nag. So here’s an idea—clear out your CDs, and I’ll put my books there. Maybe then you’ll fix the shelf.”
“Let’s just buy a bookcase. Fine with me,” Cyril offered.
“Or how about we buy a whole new flat, one where we can actually do what we want?” Laura shot back.
“Laura, I don’t want to fight. Shouldn’t have brought up the flat,” Cyril muttered.
“I don’t either. But when are you fixing the shelf?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll borrow Dad’s drill—ah, damn, he’s at the cottage all weekend. Monday, I promise.”
“Sure. Heard that before.” Laura waved him off and walked out.
*Why did I mention the bloody flat?* Cyril kicked himself and texted Oliver: *Just had a row with Laura because of you.*
Oliver replied: *Relax. You think Emily and I didn’t fight? Nearly divorced twice during the reno. She drafted papers! But your Laura’s a gem.*
Cyril knew she was. Great cook, kept the place cosy. And, well, other perks. What more could a bloke want?
*Monday I’ll drill, dust everywhere, she’ll be mad again. But if I don’t fix it before next weekend’s clean, she might actually leave me. Hate drilling. Maybe just buy a bookcase? Nah, she said it won’t fit. Cheers, Oliver, ruined my mood.*
Laura cleaned in stony silence. On Monday, she reminded Cyril about the drill—they really ought to buy their own.
Of course, he forgot.
The next morning, Laura dawdled getting ready.
“You coming?” Cyril pressed. “We’ll be late.”
“Go ahead. I took a half-day. Booked a ‘handyman’ online. Since you couldn’t be bothered. And the bathroom lock’s broken. The balcony plant’s hanging by a thread.”
“Had a rough day yesterday,” Cyril lied.
“Every day’s rough for you. Why? You’re not hauling crates at the docks.”
“Why lock the bathroom? We live alone,” Cyril said, genuinely puzzled. He hadn’t even known the lock was broken. Laura had sneaked in plenty of times for… *ahem.*
“Right. Just keep dodging chores. What if guests need privacy? Your mum, maybe? Then it’s my fault for not nagging you. The handyman’ll sort it. Shame on you.”
“Shame on *you* for inviting some random bloke into—” The doorbell cut him off.
Laura answered, and they both froze. On the doorstep stood Adonis himself, a drill slung over his shoulder, flashing a Hollywood smile.
“Handyman. Called for a job?” His voice was smooth, like a rom-com lead’s.
Tanned muscles bulged under his tight T-shirt. Only the baggy work trousers spoiled the effect. This guy belonged on a billboard, not fixing shelves.
“Wrong flat,” Cyril said, moving to shut the door.
“Yes, come in,” Laura chirped, shooting Cyril a glare. “Go on, you’ll be late.”
Cyril didn’t budge. Had she dressed up for this?
“She’s my wife,” he blurted.
“Lucky man. She’s gorgeous,” Adonis grinned, stepping inside.
Though they were the same height, Cyril felt dwarfed by the guy’s confidence. Not wanting to look pathetic, he forced himself out. Laura shut the door behind him.
Cyril stormed downstairs before he could change his mind. *He wouldn’t try anything… right?* But jealousy gnawed at him all day. He resisted calling Laura, hating how petty he felt. *Should’ve just borrowed Dad’s drill.*
When he got home, Laura wasn’t back yet. The shelf? Fixed. Had *he* helped rearrange the books? Cyril’s imagination tortured him—Laura stretching, Adonis handing her books… He took deep breaths. *What else had she mentioned?*
The front door clicked. Cyril braced himself.
“You’re home early,” Laura said, stepping in.
He studied her, vowing never to let her book a handyman again. He loved her. And if she didn’t love him, why marry him? She’d had plenty of options.
“What’s wrong?” She stepped closer, searching his face. “Sorry. I was silly. Had no idea who’dAs Laura reached up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, the newly fixed shelf chose that moment to wobble—sending both of them into laughter, the tension dissolving like mist on a London morning.
