Finally, James and Emily had their own flat. After years of renting, they’d bought a place, fulfilling a long-held dream. Their daughter, Lily, was nearly five, and at last, they had a home of their own.
“James, I’m so happy,” Emily murmured, curling against him on their first morning there. “I’m sleeping in *our* flat. This is everything.” Her voice trembled with emotion.
“Me too,” James replied, quieter, steadier—his usual calm tempering her excitement. That balance had saved their marriage more than once. Emily burned bright; James knew when to douse the flames. Love kept them grounded, but practicality kept them standing.
“Still,” James added after a pause, “we’ve got the renovations to get through. The place needs work.”
“Oh, we’ll manage,” Emily insisted. “We’ll make it perfect. Though… we *did* pour everything into the deposit. Funds are tight.”
“What if we took out a loan?” James suggested. “We bought the flat outright—that’s rare enough. A small loan for the renovation wouldn’t be the end of the world.”
“Another loan?” Emily sighed. “We only just finished paying off the car.” But then she relented. “You’re right. My parents helped with the deposit, and we can’t ask more of them. Fine. Let’s do it.”
“Renovate, then breathe. Maybe even a holiday after,” James mused. Emily squeezed his hand in agreement.
The flat wasn’t small—three bedrooms, a proper kitchen, space for Lily’s toys. Emily had spent years imagining how she’d decorate her own home. But reality was messier than daydreams. Awkward door placements, pipes in the wrong spots—every plan hit a snag.
“James, do you know how much an interior designer costs?” Emily asked one evening as they sat cross-legged on the floor, swatches of paint samples spread between them.
“Quite a bit,” James admitted. “More than we’ve got spare.”
They settled on a warm beige for the walls, a cosy, safe choice. Plans were made for a weekend trip to B&Q to pick up supplies.
Then, on Friday, James came home grinning.
“Em, you won’t believe it. At work today, Dave mentioned his mate’s a top-tier designer—did our boss’s place. Said if we name-drop him, she’ll cut us a deal.”
“James, we *can’t* afford a designer,” Emily said flatly.
“That’s the thing—she’ll do it for five grand.”
“Five *thousand* pounds?! Just to tell us where to put the sofa?!”
“Shh! But imagine—an actual *designed* home. If we want it to look good, we’ve got to invest.” He hesitated. “Up to you. I can call Dave back.”
The temptation gnawed at her. A *proper* home. In the end, she agreed.
The designer, Charlotte, arrived the next day.
“Hmm… compact,” she mused, scanning the space. “Limited potential.”
“I had some ideas,” Emily ventured, pointing. “A wardrobe here—”
“No, no. That’ll clutter it. Let me think.” Charlotte paced, frowned, then proposed ripping up the laminate flooring.
Emily *loved* that flooring.
“Tile with metallic accents would modernise it. But fine, keep the floor. Now, lighting—that chandelier’s got to go.”
Emily’s jaw clenched. James nudged her—*don’t*.
“She wants to bulldoze our home,” Emily hissed later.
“But she’s the expert,” James countered.
Emily bit back a retort. *Pick your battles*, she reminded herself. Yet with every suggestion, the flat felt less like *theirs*.
Lily’s question that evening didn’t help.
“Daddy, how old will I be when the flat’s done?”
“Hopefully not *too* old,” James laughed, spinning her in his arms.
Emily sketched frantically that night, trying to reclaim her vision. But Charlotte returned with sleek, steel-blue swatches—”beige is dated; this is *techno-chic*.”
Emily snapped.
“James, are you *mad*? I want a home, not a bloody art gallery! Cold walls, metal—it’s *horrible*!”
“She’s a professional—”
“Oh, *shut up* about that! I don’t *care* if the Queen hired her—I *hate* it!”
They fought. Three days of silence. Workers stalled, caught between conflicting orders.
Finally, Emily cracked.
“I told them to paint the walls beige.”
James hesitated. “But the blue—”
“Fine,” Emily whispered, voice raw. “Live here alone, then. I’ll take Lily to Mum’s.”
James paled. “Emily—”
“I’m *serious*. You’d rather live in some *sterile* nightmare than a home?”
“I—I don’t know anymore,” he admitted, rubbing his neck. “Charlotte said the boss loved her work…”
Emily exhaled. “James, I don’t *care*. I want *warmth*. Not some trend.”
He wavered, then slumped. “Do it your way. Just… stay.”
Charlotte was dismissed. The walls stayed beige.
When the dust settled, Emily stood in their finished flat and smiled.
“Oddly, I’m grateful to Charlotte,” she admitted. “She made me realise exactly what I wanted.”
Renovations always cost more than money. Nerves fray, tempers flare. But in the end—they’d survived. And that, more than any paint colour, was what mattered.
