Three Years of Renovation, No Guests
18 May
I set my mug down on the windowsill and immediately sensed Tom freezing in the hallway. Its the kind of pause where you feel the air itself solidify. I stood facing out into the street, but I felt him watching me. He wasnt going to let this pass.
Youve put your mug on the windowsill, he finally said. It wasnt a question. Just a statement.
Yes, Tom. I put my mug on the windowsill.
Thats a polished surface. Hot things leave a mark.
I know.
So why do it?
I turned to look at him. Hes forty-eight. He looks every bit his age. Not older, not younger. He stood in the kitchen doorway, in his old grey t-shirt, spirit level in handas if it were a mobile phone. He always carried that level about on weekends, as most people do their phones.
Because theres nowhere else left to put it, I said. The tables covered in plastic. The second chair is upside down to keep the cat off it. The corridor floor is still tacky from the primer. I drink my tea standing at the window, Tom. Ive been drinking my tea standing at the window for three years.
He glanced at the mug, then at me, then back again.
Ill put a coaster down.
No need for a coaster.
But itll leave a mark.
Let it.
His eyes narrowed a fraction. That look he gives me when hes trying to work out if Im joking or not. To be honest, Im not always sure myself anymore.
Lizzie, come on
Thats it, I whispered. The words fell through the silence like a pebble into a still pond. Thats it, Tom.
He paused, baffled. Thats what?
Im packing.
It was a long silence. Outside, a car honked, then fell away into quiet. Tom slowly lowered the spirit level to his side.
Because of the windowsill?
No. Not because of the windowsill.
I finished my tea. I set my mug firmly, deliberately, without guilt, right back onto the shiny sill.
Im forty-five. I work as a bookkeeper for a small firm. At work, I keep a tiny cactus on my desk called Percy. I havent had the girls over in years. To be specificthree years.
I went to the bedroom.
Three years ago, when we bought this two-bedroom flat at the top of a red-bricked block on a quiet cul-de-sac in Oxford, I was happy. Really happy. I remember us standing in the middle of bare rooms, with peeling wallpaper and painted wooden floors, looking out the window at the goldening plane trees. It felt like finding a home.
Back then, Tom was different. Or at least, thats what I thought. He prowled the rooms with a tape measure, jotting notes into a little pad, a fire of purpose in his eyes. The sort of person who knows exactly what he wants and knows how to make it happen.
Lizzie, look, he said, showing me his sketch on graph paper. Well split the room here: kitchen-diner, open plan, all light and airy. Fitted shelves, floor to ceiling. Spotlights here, dimmer switchyoull be able to set it just how you like.
Its lovely, I said, and it was.
Well do it ourselves, no rush. Do it right. Once and for life.
I really should have paid attention to once and for life. There was more behind it than saving money on builders.
The first six months felt like an adventure. We lived in the midst of the renovation. I cooked with a plug-in hob because the gas wasnt connected yet. We slept on a mattress on the floor. All our meals were from paper platesno sink yet for proper washing up. It was uncomfortable, a bit romantic, and entirely bearableback then.
But things shifted, subtly, like soil under a house.
Tom spent every weekend doing the flat up, sometimes on weekday evenings if he took time off work. As a site foreman, he knew all the materials, all the tricks of the tradebetter than most professionals. That bit was fine. That was even brilliant. The problem wasnt knowledge.
The problem was he couldnt stop.
At first I ignored it. But eight months in, over coffee with my friend Emma, she asked: So, nearly done then? I want to come round and finally try your roast.
Just a little bit more, I said. Tom reckons well definitely be done for Christmas.
Christmas happened in chaos. We didnt have anyone over. In the living room, propped up against the wall, were plasterboards and tools. We ate our Christmas dinner, just us, in the almost-finished kitchen. Almost.
Lets do a proper party next year, I suggested, pouring Prosecco.
Of course, he said. When I finish the ceiling and lay the parquet, well have everyone round.
He finished the ceiling in Marchby then, he needed to redo the plumbing in the bathroom because he couldnt bear the sight of bodged old pipes. Then the balcony doora gap had developed, a mysterious three millimetres. He found it using a feeler gauge.
Back then, I still made jokes. My husbands at war with three millimetres. My friends laughed. I laughed too. It was funnythen.
We laid the living room parquet in May, with the windows wide open. I carried the boards, passed him hammers, hoovered up the dust. Tom worked in silence, intense as a surgeon. He checked every row with a spirit level and a laser. Several times he pulled up already-laid boards because the gap was off.
But Tom, whos going to notice? I asked one afternoon.
Ill notice, he said, not looking up.
That was the first time something in me froze. Not hurtjust froze. There I stood, cloth in hand, staring at the back of his head, struck by a realisation I couldnt quite name yet.
We finished the floor in June. It really was gorgeouslight oak, tight lines, perfect geometry. I stroked it, honestly impressed.
Beautiful, I said.
Well varnish itproperly. Ive found the best stuff, German, scratch-resistant.
When?
Next week.
Next week, he discovered the skirting came away by half a millimetre in one corner. The varnishing got postponed.
That June, I asked Emma to meet up. We sat in the garden at a pub, sipping iced tea, and she asked, So, when can I come over?
Soon, I said. Then went quiet.
Something up?
No. Just Emma, Im starting to think hell never finish.
They all drag projects out.
No, youre not getting it. Hes not procrastinating. Its as if he doesnt want to finish. Because while theres still work, theres an excusefor everything. Not to have visitors. Not to get properly settled. Not to actually live.
Emma just looked at me.
Have you told him?
I try. He always explains itll just be a little while longer, then itll be perfect.
But do you want perfect?
I hesitated.
I just want a home, I said, finally. Just a home.
That evening, Tom spread out about twenty paint samples on the kitchen table, all shades of white.
Lookthis is a warm white, with a creamy tint. This ones cooler, slightly grey. See the blue undertone here? Its subtle, but under daylight, makes all the difference. Im thinking this one.
He pointed. To me, they all looked white. Just whitenothing more, nothing less.
Tom, I said, I dont mind.
He looked at me like Id spoken a foreign language.
How can you not mind? Were going to live here.
Yesexactly. And living people wont spot fifty shades of white on the walls.
They do, they just dont realise it.
Fine, I sighed. You choose.
He always did choose, in the end. That was the gradual, almost invisible shiftId been happy to step back because he knew best, but now my opinions barely got asked for. Then stopped being asked for, completely. Not out of malicethere just didnt seem to be a need. If I said I liked a tile, hed list its faults. If I suggested a sofa, hed explain its effect on space. If I said, I like it, hed say, But the right way is this.
Eventually, I stopped saying I like it. What was the point?
In the autumn of the second year, Toms old mate Dave called. Business tripcould he crash here a night? I was delighted, bought groceries, polished up best plates, wiped down the table.
Tom told Dave, no, the bedroom was being redone, so it wasnt possible.
There was nothing being done in the bedroom. The bed and wardrobe were perfectly usableI knew that.
Tom, I asked quietly once hed hung up. What works in the bedroom?
He hesitated. I need to redo a patch of flooring. Dave wouldnt sleep well with the glue smell.
What smell? Theres no smell.
He didnt meet my eyes. Liz, why would you want someone seeing the place like this?
Like what?
Not finished.
And here it wasthe truth. He was ashamed. Ashamed of the flat he built with his own hands because it hadnt reached that imagined perfection. Hed lie to an old friend for that fantasy.
Okay, I said, and left it.
Dave visited anywayfor tea in the kitchen, dinner out with Tom, then put up in a hotel. I ate alone.
That night, alone under the flawless white ceiling above the perfect bed, I realised: it had been two years since any guests had stepped into this room.
Come winter, Mum got sick. Nothing serious, just one of those nasty flus, but I started going across London to see her twice a week, sometimes sleeping over. Tom didnt mind. He was painting the inside of the balcony window framesanother specialist job, two coats, twenty-four hours between them.
One night, I got home early and found him sitting on the corridor floor, magnifying glass in hand, inspecting the join between the skirting and the wall.
Something wrong? I asked, taking off my coat.
Theres a gap, he muttered.
I didnt ask how wide. I could guess: fractions of a millimetre.
Tom, I said, have you eaten today?
Pause.
Dont remember.
Anything this morning?
There was something.
I made him pasta and a fried egg. He came in just as I was plating up.
Thanks, he said.
Youre welcome.
We ate in silence. It was snowing outside. On the table was a booklet of curtain rail samples, discussed a year ago and still not chosen.
Tom, I said.
Mm?
Tell me something. Not about the flat.
He raised his head, as if Id asked him to speak in French.
About what?
Anything. Your day. Your thoughts. Something funny or sad. Anythingnot about gaps or materials.
He stared at me for several seconds.
One of the contractors poured a floor without mesh reinforcement. I sacked him.
Thats work.
Well, yes.
And nothing else?
He was genuinely stumped, and I could see him searching his mind, trying to come up with anything not connected to construction. But he couldnt.
I dont think there is anything else.
Later that night, I stared at the dark and thought: when had this happened? When did the man turn into a set of tasks? Or had I just not seen it before? No. He hadnt always been like this. I remembered him driving his clapped-out Ford to the Lake District, pointing out the constellationshe knew them all. Cassiopeia, Ursa Major, Pleiades. He pointed and I saw.
Where did the Pleiades go?
In the third year, I stopped telling Emma, Itll be finished soon. Because it wouldnt be. Renovations never ended, just shifted around. Tom always found new flaws, swapped decisions. The chosen bathroom tile was now not durable enough, the paint dried the wrong shade, the new door handle was fine but now the hinge creaked in cold weather. Every flaw meant a new round.
I bought myself a little bedside lamp. Simple, with a cloth shade. Set it on my table. That evening Tom spotted it.
Wheres this from?
Bought it.
Why? We were going to install spots.
I want to read before bed.
Spots would be better.
When?
He didnt reply.
Exactly. Spots will happen whenever. I want to read now.
The lamp survived a week before Tom brought out a cheap little metal spotlight from the cupboard, set it next to mine, explaining its better light output.
My lamp moved to the corner. Then the shelf. Then, one day, I found it in the cupboard with the leftover primer and sandpaper.
I took it back to my bedside table.
Tom put it back on the shelf.
I put it back again.
He left it there. We both said nothing.
The lamp stood. A small victory. And a small tragedybecause in a normal home, in a normal relationship, it wouldnt be either. It would just be a lamp.
In April, I texted Emma from work: Em, fancy a spa break? Or a weekend at the coast? Just us girls, no husbands.
She replied instantly: Yes! When?
That May, we escaped for four days to a little B&B outside Bath. I took time off, Tom barely noticedhe was redoing the bathroom nook, completely absorbed.
The room was small, wooden furniture, a garish bedspread, fresh forest smells breezing through the slot window. Nothing matched, everything a bit chipped or worn. And I realisedI liked it. Really liked it. The first evening, I lay down, stared at the ceilings tiny crack by the light and burst out crying.
Emma just lay on her bed, quietly.
I live in a museum, I said after a while, staring up. A pretty, cold, dead museum.
She was silent, then gently asked, Have you told him?
Yes.
And?
He always says just a bit longeritll be better. He always says that.
Maybe a counsellor? Together, I mean.
He wont. Tom thinks therapys for people with actual problems. He just has renovation.
And, with the scent of wet leaves, the slant crack in the ceiling, a garish quilt picked not for technical merit but for being prettylife.
I came home after four days. The flat smelt of plaster. Tom met me, showed off his new bathroom nichenow, he explained, perfectly symmetrical.
Good, I said.
See? Now both sides are exact. Before, the right was wider by a centimetre and a half.
I see.
I spent a whole week working it so the existing tile wasnt ruined in the process. Found a way, in the end.
Well done.
I went to the bedroom, changed, lay down, staring up. The ceiling was perfect.
In June we had the conversation I remember in sharp detail. A Sunday, 8pm. Tom was painting something in the utility cupboard, shuffling masking tape, rearranging.
Tom! I called.
What? he yelled back.
Dinners in twenty minutes!
He didnt come.
Forty minutes, still nothing. I knocked.
Foods getting cold.
Five minutes!
He didnt come.
I ate alone, cleared up, washed everything. It was gone half ten when he finally emerged, looked at the empty table.
Oh, I lost track.
I know.
Shall I reheat?
Help yourself.
I went to bed, pretended to read. When he came in, I didnt look up.
Tomare you happy?
Long pause.
Well yes. I think so.
Are you sure?
Why are you asking?
Just a question.
He lay down, silent, then said, Once I finish the cupboard, then the balcony. I need to insulate the floor under the laminate. Then the flat will finally be properly finished.
I put my book down.
You know you just answered my question?
What?
I asked, Are you happy? You told me about the balcony.
He had no reply.
Goodnight, I said.
Goodnight.
I left the light on for ages, listening to him breathe, thinking of howmaybe in another lifewed be lying like this but actually talking. About a film, a silly thing Mum said, a menu change at our favourite café. Just talking.
Here, it was pure silence. Just like the ceiling.
That was the memory I replayed as I set my mug on the windowsill this morning. It dawned on methe thats it moment had been brewing for years. I just needed a mug on the sill as the final push.
I packed methodically, no tears. Only what was truly minea few books, makeup, clothes, the cloth-shaded lamp. Passport, documents, phone charger. Percy the little cactus, which I brought from work six months ago because the flat lacked any living plant. Tom didnt mind the cactus. Percy didnt leave marks.
Tom hovered in the bedroom doorway, watching me fill my bag.
Liz.
What.
Lets talk.
About what?
Well youre packing.
Yes.
Over a mug?
Tom, please. You understand perfectly.
I dont. Honestly.
I stopped, looked directly at him. No spirit level now. Just Tomtall, hands empty, genuinely lost. Id not seen his uncertainty for ages.
Tom, I said. Weve lived here three years.
Yes.
We havent had one proper meal with friends. Not once, in three years.
Because the flat isnt
Because the flat is never done. Youll never let it be done. Do you get that?
He stared at the floor.
Youll always spot something needing fixing. Its just how youre wired. Thats not bad. But I cant live like this anymore. Im tired of living in a building site.
Soon
No. Soft, but firm. Its not about patience, or a few more weeks. Its the fact that Ive lived as a guest in my own home for three years. I tiptoed around, used coasters, hid away my lamp, never invited friends because you were ashamed of the unfinished bits. I
My voice wobbled. I steadied.
I want to live. Just live. With scratches in the floor and mug rings on the sill. With friends over on Sundays. With your battered old coat on the back of the chair. With all the messiness of a real home. We never got that, did we?
He was silent for a long while.
Where are you going? he finally asked, quietly.
Mums, for now.
For long?
I dont know.
I zipped my bag, took Percy, walked out without looking at the gorgeous parquet underfoot.
Liz he called after me.
What?
I I didnt realise things had got like this.
You did, I replied gently. You just didnt think it over.
The door clicked softly as I went. Just as carefully as everything else in the flat.
Tom stayed.
He paused in the hallway, then walked into the lounge and sat on the sofa. Hed spent three months choosing the fabricsomething durable, didnt bobble or show fluff. He sat there now, surrounded by perfection: warm white walls, perfect floor fit, seamless ceiling, fitted shelves arrayed just so, lighting precisely set. Not a gap or crack in sight. Balcony sealed. Immaculate tilework.
He looked around and felt something odd. Not pride. Something more like nausea, but higher up, not in the belly.
Books lined the shelvesmy books, the ones I left. He looked at their spines, trying to recall the last time hed seen me read in the living room over a cup of tea. Not at bedtime, out of sightin the open, just reading. Couldnt remember.
He walked to the kitchen. The mug was still on the sill. No mark.
He washed it, put it away. Wandered into the bedroom, lay on the perfectly made bedin clothes, a thing he never did. Stared at the flawless ceiling.
For an hour, maybe two. Time lost all meaning.
Then, the storage cupboard. All the leftover paint, mesh, tools, everything labelled and in boxes. The only thing that didnt belong was him.
He microwaved leftovers, ate without tasting, washed up. The flat sat quiet. Previously, things always hummedsome fix or tweak, a smell of varnish. Now: nothing but silence.
He flicked the telly onnothing stuck. Switched it off.
Opened his phone and stared at my name in his contacts. Didnt ring. Just sat and thought.
Not about how to get me backbut about what Id said. About guests. The lamp. About living as a guest in my own home. Guest. That word clung.
He remembered Dave. The lie about the bedroom. Why? He couldnt answer truthfully even then. Hed told himself, The flats not ready. Too scruffy to host. But that wasnt really true. Not for ages. It just wasnt as he pictured it should be. Not the promise hed made to himself.
He promised himself a perfect flat. And he worked to make it and never could, because perfection is never finished. Its the horizon: walk all you like, it never gets closer.
I understood that. He hadnt.
Or didnt want to.
He wandered through with the lights on everywhere. The books and decorations, perfectly aligned. Every item had its place; nothing spare. On the middle shelfa small glass heart, orange and a bit wonky. I picked it up at a street fair a couple of years ago. Hed said, Whats that for? Only gathers dust. Id said, I like it. He let it bea small surrender.
He picked it up now. It felt warm in his palm. Or perhaps he just imagined it.
For three days, he wandered the flat, not doing, barely sleeping. Made a mistake at work, had to fix it. When a colleague asked, Alright, mate? he just muttered, Fine.
On the fourth day, he texted.
Liz, could we talk?
I replied after an hour: OK.
He called. I picked up after the second ring.
Hi, he said.
Hello.
How are you?
Im fine. Mums alright.
He could hear me breathing; he didnt know where to start. Never had, with these talks. I was always better at beginnings.
Ive been thinking, these last days, he said.
I know.
You know what Im about to say?
Roughly.
I realise I missed something important. No, not missedmade the wrong thing my goal.
I stayed silent.
You said about guests. The lamp. I do see that now. I didnt then. Or maybe I pretended not to.
Why are you saying this?
Becausewellbecause I want you to come home.
A long pause.
Tom
Im not asking you to come straight back. Im being honest. I want you home. I want to try to do it differently. HonestlyI dont know if I can, but I want to try.
I stayed silent so long he could hear, somewhere on my end, me moving somethingmaybe a mug, maybe nothing.
You know that just saying Ill try isnt enough? I asked at last.
I do.
You know I couldnt come back to things just as they were?
I do.
Im not sure you really do. Dont be offendedjust being honest. Right now, youre frightened and saying the right words. But you cant just resolve to become another person. Lifes not like banging in a nail.
I know its not.
So what do you actually mean, then?
He hesitated.
I mean, lets meet up. Talk. Not over the phone.
Alright, I said. Lets meet.
We met at a caféneutral ground, not home. Plain, wobbly chairs, chalkboard menu. I came in my old beige coat, looking tired, but steady.
We ordered coffee. Tom just looked at mereally looked, no thoughts about the skirting or table legs.
Hows your mum? he asked.
Better. Did some planting. She was glad of the company.
Im glad too.
We both stared around.
Tom, you need to understand. Its not about the renovation itself. Not your need for things done properly. Thats good. The issue is: you made the flat the goal, not the means. A home is a tool for lifeyou made it the mission.
Yes, he said.
Are you just agreeing, or do you get it?
He picked up his mug. Turned it in his fingers.
You cant know, he admitted. Im not even sure myself how much Ill change. But I do understand things cant go on as they were. While you were still there, I thought I could endure it all. When you left, the flat was just a pretty box.
Pretty box, I echoed softly.
Yes.
Its good you see that now.
Will you come home?
I looked out. The usual spring drizzle mottled the window. Outside, market tulipsred and batteredstood in buckets.
Ill try, I said at length. But on conditions.
Name them.
One: No renovation at all for the next month. Not a single nail, not one sample, not a browse through catalogues. Just living.
Alright.
Two: Next Sunday, we invite Emma and Sean, and Dave if hes free. Set out a proper meal, talk, laughright here, as things are.
He nodded.
Three: If you start catastrophising every scratch again, Ill say it. You have to listen.
Alright.
You get this isnt just talk? Its genuinely going to be hard?
I get it. For me, itll be hard. But Ill try.
I watched himtrying to spot some flicker of truth. Then nodded.
Alright.
We walked home, side by side, through drizzle. I carried Percy. Tom had my bag.
At our door, I glanced up at the buildingat the fifth floor.
Its a handsome building, I said.
Yes, Tom replied.
We took the lift. Tom opened the flat. I went straight to the lounge and set Percy on the windowsillno coaster, just as is.
Tom looked at the little cactus, the lacquered surface underneath. Said nothing.
I went to the kitchenfilled the kettle, water running, switch clicking and humming.
Tom sat on the sofa. Stared at the shelves. The glass heart was still there, off-centre.
He left it where it was.
On Sunday we rang Emma. She laughed: About time! Dave couldnt make it but promised next time. Sean brought wine, Emma brought pudding, I cooked the roast Id promised years ago.
We set the meal in the lounge. Tom fussed a bit over symmetry, swapped one plate, then stopped himself, let it be.
It was noisy, a bit crowded. Emma knocked over her glass, red wine splashed onto the cloth. Everyone gasped. Tom felt his chest tighten, glanced at me.
I was watching, not anxious, just quietly.
He blotted the stain. No harm done.
Emma exhaled. I smiled, just a little.
Afterwards, we sat and talked for hours, about nothing and everything, laughing. When the guests left, it was past midnight. I washed, Tom dried. Our silence had changedlighter, easier.
That stain wont come out, he said.
It might not, I replied.
Oh well.
I handed him a plate.
Tom, I said.
Yes?
It was good today.
Yes. It was.
We finished up. The lounge still held our cups. The cloth bore its burgundy blot. The heart was on the shelf. Percy on the sill.
Tom looked it all over, thinking hed soak out the stain tomorrow before it set. The cactus might mark the varnish. One cup was off-centre.
But then he remembered how Id laughedproperlytwice. Once at Emmas cat stories, once at Sean’s jumbled toast. Laughed like before, how hed first loved her.
I went by him to the bedroom, pausing in the door.
Coming?
In a sec.
He looked round once more. The stain, the cactus, the glass heart.
Switched off the lights.
In bed, he lay next to me. I was already reading. My lamp threw its soft glow over the bed.
Liz
Mmm?
Do you hear what I say, when I go on about millimetres and gaps?
I put my book down, looked straight at him.
I hear you.
What do you think, when I do?
I thought about that, honestly.
I think youre very far away, at those moments.
Yes, he said. I am.
I went back to my book.
He lay there, wondering if it would work. Three years is a long time. People change. You can fill a crack in plaster, but the wall’s never quite as it was. Nobody knows that better than Tom.
He thought of this as he drifted off. Then one last thought, half-asleep: that in the morning, hed move Percy onto a saucer, to save the varnish from a ring.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling hadnt changed. Still flawless.
I turned a page beside him, quiet.
He closed his eyes again. Percy wasnt going anywhere. Percy could wait until morning.
