Three Years of Renovation Without Company
Sarah set her teacup on the windowsill and heard how James halted in the hallway. She sensed his pause at her back, though she was looking out at the quiet London street through the glass. The silence stretched so deep she felt it might swallow her whole.
You put your cup on the sill, he said at lastnot a question, but a statement.
Yes, James. I did.
Thats a polished surface. Hot things will leave a mark.
I know.
So why do it?
Sarah turned. He was forty-eight, and looked every day of itno older, no youngerstanding there at the kitchen doorway in a faded grey t-shirt, spirit level in hand. He always carried the thing on weekends, like some men with their phones.
Because theres nowhere else to put it, she replied. The tables covered with dust sheets. The other chairs upside down. The hallway floors still too wet to walk on after priming. I drink tea standing at the window, James. Ive been drinking tea stood at this window for three years now.
He looked from the cup, to her, then back again.
Ill put a coaster down.
No need for a coaster.
But itll leave a mark.
Let it.
He narrowed his eyesthe look he always gave when unsure if she was joking. These days, Sarah herself was often unsure.
Sarah, what is
Thats it, she whispered, her voice falling like a stone into the hush. Its enough, James.
He didnt understand, not straight away. Enough what?
Im packing.
The silence was thick. Some car outside honked and then silence fell again. James lowered the spirit level, almost sheepish.
Because of the sill?
No. Not because of the sill.
She finished her tea and put the cup backright backon the gleaming wood, openly, firmly, and without regret.
At forty-five, Sarah was an accounts assistant in a modest London firm. She liked reading before bed, kept a tiny cactus on her office desk (which shed named Felix), and hadnt invited friends round in ages. Exactly three years, if one wished to be precise.
She walked to the bedroom.
Three years back, when she and James purchased this two-bed flat on the fifth floor of a Victorian block in Hampstead, Sarah had been happy. Truly happyin a way she could physically feel. She remembered standing together in the bare rooms with their peeling wallpaper and painted floorboards, staring out the window at the autumn plane trees, thinking: this is it. This is home.
Back then, James seemed different. Or so she thought. He marched about with his tape measure, jotting numbers in a pad, eyes alight with that spark shed once adoredthe spark of someone who knows exactly what he wants, and can build it with his own two hands.
Look here, Sarah, hed say, unfolding his graph-paper plan. Zoned layout herekitchen-diner, open plan. Built-in shelves straight to the ceiling, see? He pointed out every clever detail, right down to spotlights on a dimmer.
Itll be lovely, she replied, and meant it.
Well do it all ourselves, in our own time. Once and for all.
That once and for all shouldve struck her then; there was more to it than just saving on tradesmen.
The first six months were adventure. They lived amid chaos, cooking on a hotplate because the gas wasnt connected, sleeping on a mattress on the floor, eating off paper plates. It was awkward, a touch romantic, but bearablein those days.
Then, something shifted. Slowly, as earth settling beneath a house.
James worked on the flat every weekend, sometimes during the week too, if he could sneak off early. He was a construction supervisor by trade and knew more about materials and methods than most professionals. That was goodbrilliant, even. The trouble wasnt knowledge.
The trouble was, he couldnt stop.
At first, Sarah hadnt noticed. She only sensed something odd about eight months in, when she sat with her friend Laura at a café, and Laura asked, So, nearly done then? I want to come round at lastyou promised me your famous beef stew.
Just a bit more, Sarah assured her. James says well be finished by Christmas.
That Christmas came amid more DIY. No guestshardly room with the hall full of timber and plasterboard. The two of them dined on near-complete kitchen, just the two. Nearly finished.
Next year well do it properly, Sarah said, pouring sparkling wine.
Of course. Once Ive done the lounge ceiling and laid the flooring, well have everyone round, James promised.
The ceiling: finished by March. But then came the discovery that the plumbing in the bathroom was all wronghe couldnt bear it, so he started over. Then the French doors to the balcony: the foam had shrunk, he said, pointing to a three-millimetre gap. He always found a gap.
Sarah joked to her friends, My husband is at war with three millimetres. They would laugh, she laughed tooit seemed funny at the time.
They laid the lounge flooring in May. Sarah fetched planks, passed tools, vacuumed up dust. James worked in silence, precise as a surgeon. He checked every row with the spirit level and laser. Sometimes hed rip up a whole line and start again because there was a tiny unevenness.
Can anyone see it? she asked one day.
I see it, he replied, not looking up.
That was the first time she felt stopped coldnot hurt, but stopped. There she stood, cloth in hand, watching the back of his head, and she had a peculiar sense shed realised something important, though she couldnt name what.
They finished the floor in June. It was beautifullight oak, perfect lines. Sarah ran her palm along the boards. Lovely.
Well finish it with a German lacquer, James said. Resistant to scratches. Ill do it next week.
Next week, he found the skirting board in one corner was out by half a millimetre. Lacquer was postponed.
That summer, Sarah met Laura again on a pub terrace, sipping iced tea. Laura asked, Hows the place? When can I come by?
Soon, Sarah said, then fell silent.
Something up?
No You know, Im starting to think hell never finish. Its not that hes slowhe just… doesnt want to finish. As long as theres work left, he has an excuse. For everything. No guests, no real living… nothing complete.
Have you told him?
I try. He always says its nearly there, then everything will be perfect.
Is perfect what you want?
Sarah hesitated. I want it to feel like home.
Back that night, James had laid out two dozen paint samplesoff-whites, nothing but the subtlest difference.
See, this ones warm, with a cream base. This ones cooler, more grey. And this one almost blue. It matters in daylight. Im thinking this one.
He indicated a square, but to Sarah, they were all just white.
James, its all the same to me.
He stared at her as one might at someone speaking nonsense.
How can it not matter? Well be living here.
Yes. Living. Proper people in a proper flat. Real people dont see shades of white.
They do. They just dont realise it.
Fine, pick one yourself.
He did. He always did. It crept up on herthe shift from feeling grateful for his expertise, to seeing her opinions less and less valued, and then not at all. Not intentionally cruel, but irrelevant. If she suggested a tile, hed explain why another was technically better. When she wanted the sofa there, hed show her diagrams about zoning. If she said, I like it, hed say, But right is this way.
She stopped saying, I like it. Why bother?
By the second years autumn, Jamess old mate Peter from Manchester rang up, asking if he might crash for one night. Sarah was delighted, unpacked proper plates, cleaned the table. James said Peter couldnt stay, because theres still work in the bedroom.
There wasnt. The bedroom had a proper bed and wardrobe. She knew it.
What work in the bedroom? she asked quietly.
James hesitated. The floor needs finishing. The smellhe wont sleep well.
What smell? Theres no smell.
Sarah, why should someone see the place like this?
Like what?
Not finished.
She realised, with a physical uneasehe was ashamed of his own work. Ashamed to show his flat to a friend. The perfect home in his mind was more important than a real friend on his doorstep.
Alright, she said. That was all.
Peter came, had tea in the kitchen, dined out with James, stayed at a hotel. Sarah ate dinner alone at home.
She couldnt sleep that night, staring up at Jamess perfectly white, seamless ceiling above their perfect bed in their guestless home.
That winter, her mum in Kent came down with a tough bout of flu. Sarah went twice weekly to help, stayed overnight. James didnt mindhe was inside repainting the balcony frame with a special compound that took two coats and a day to dry in between.
One night, Sarah came home early and found him on the corridor floor with a magnifying glass, inspecting between skirting and wall.
Something wrong? she asked, hanging up her coat.
Theres a gap.
She didnt ask how big. It would be in millimetres.
Jameshave you eaten?
Pause. Dont recall.
Not since breakfast?
Had something earlier, I think.
She fried eggs and boiled pasta. He joined her, nodded thanks.
They ate in silence. Outside, snow fell. A catalogue for wardrobe fittings lay on the table, long discussed and never decided.
James? she said.
Mhmm?
Tell me something. Anything. Not about the flat.
He raised his head, baffled. About what?
Anything. Your day, your thoughts, what makes you laugh or cry. Anything but gaps and compounds.
He triedbut could only offer, One of the lads poured a screed with no reinforcement. I had to send him home.
Thats work.
Well, yes.
Anything else?
He genuinely pondered; she saw the struggle in him, the search for words not linked to structures or materials. He found none. I suppose not, he admitted.
That night, she stared at the darkness, wondering: When did this lively man turn into a set of tools and functions? Or had she only just seen it? Nonot always. She remembered other nights, driving up to the Lake District in that battered old Ford, how hed pointed out constellations, naming them off by heartCassiopeia, the Plough, the Pleiades. She saw them all then.
Where had the Pleiades gone?
By the third year, Sarah stopped promising friends the end was near. The work never finished; James always found new flaws. The bathroom tilestoo weak. The chosen paint dried to the wrong hue. A door-handle squeaked if it was cold. Each imperfection was the start of a cycle anew.
Sarah bought a simple bedside lamp with a cloth shade. She set it on the nightstand. James found it and asked, Whats this?
I bought it.
But we agreed on recessed spots.
I want to read before bed.
Spots will be better.
When?
No answer.
Exactlywhen. Spots will come whenever. I want to read now.
The lamp lasted a week before James swapped it for a brighter desk lamp: Better beam. Her lamp was tidied away to the cupboard. Sarah took it out. He put it back. She took it again and said nothing.
It was a tiny victory, and a petty tragedy. In a normal home, in normal love, such things would be nothingjust a lamp.
That spring, Sarah messaged Laura midweek: Fancy a getaway, just a few days? No other halves. Just you and memaybe a seaside B&B?
Laura replied at once: Yes! When?
They left in May, four days in a little place on the Norfolk coast. Sarah took time off. James was mid-renovation in the bathroom, utterly absorbed.
In the B&B, Sarahs room was simple: wooden bed, flowery bedcover, a window cracked open to a smell of damp pine. Everything a bit worn, a little scuffed and imperfect. And she realised she felt goodhonestly good. That first night, she lay back, stared at a ceiling crack, and burst into tears.
Laura just lay nearby and let her be.
I live in a museum, Sarah said eventually, eyes on the cobwebby light fitting. A lovely, lifeless museum.
Laura was quiet, then asked, Have you told him?
Yes.
And?
He always says itll soon be better. Just a little more.
Would he see a therapist? Together, perhaps?
He wouldnt. James thinks therapys for those with real problems. He just has a house to finish.
And there, in the cool, imperfect room, Sarah realised what she missed: an open window, the smell of the woods, a wonky quilt bought on a whim rather than measured and planned. Life.
She went home after four days. The flat smelt of plaster. James calmly announced hed rebuilt the bathroom alcove, carefully pointing out the new symmetryNow its exactly even, not a centimetre out on the right.
Good job, she replied.
She changed, went to her room, lay on the bed, and stared at the perfect, glowing ceiling.
In June came the conversation she remembered precisely. A Sunday evening, about eight. James was painting in the storage room while Sarah prepared dinner and listened to his motions, tape crinkling and things shifting behind the door.
James! she called.
What?
Dinner in twenty.
Okay.
He didnt come. Not in forty minutes either. Sarah knocked.
Dinners getting cold.
Five minutes.
He didnt come.
She ate alone, did the dishes. He emerged past ten-thirty, finding the table cleared.
Oh, I lost track of time, he muttered.
I know.
Should I warm something up?
Suit yourself.
She went to bed, picked up her novel, and barely glanced at him when he came in.
James, are you happy?
Long pause.
Well… yes. I suppose.
Are you sure?
Sarah, what sort of question is that?
An ordinary one.
He lay beside her, silent, then said, Once I’ve done the storage room, Ill get on with the balconyjust needs the insulation fitted. Then the flat will finally be finished.
She closed her book.
You know you just answered me by telling me about the balcony?
Hows that?
I asked if youre happy, and you told me about the balcony.
He lay silent.
Good night, James.
Night.
She left the light on a long while, listening to his slow breathing, thinking that perhaps, in some other life, this moment might have been them together, talkingabout some show, or something funny her mum had said, or the café menu changing. Just talking.
Now there was just silence. Flawless, like the ceiling.
That conversation was all she could hear in her head the next morning, setting her cup down on the sill. And in that instant, she understood: the word enough had ripened long ago. It just needed a cup to bring it out.
She packed quietly, methodical and dry-eyed. Just what was truly hers: a handful of books, her toiletries, her clothes, her cloth-shaded lamp, passport, documents, her phone charger, and little Felixthe cactus shed brought home from work half a year ago, the only living thing in their home. James had never objected. The cactus left no marks.
James stood in the bedroom doorway, watching as she packed.
Sarah.
Yes?
Can we talk?
About what?
Wellanything. Youre packing.
Yes.
Over the cup?
Oh, James, please. You know full well.
I dont. I honestly dont.
She stopped, looked at him. He was tall, awkward without his spirit level, and looked truly lostan expression she couldnt remember seeing lately.
James, she said, weve lived here three years.
Yes.
We havent had one proper dinner with guests. Not a single one. In three years.
The flats not finished
It never will be. Cant you see? Youll always find something. Thats just how you are. And thats not wrong, but I cant go on living on a building site.
Itll soon be
No, she said, softly. Not soon. This isnt about waiting a bit longer. Ive lived here as a guest in my own home for three years. Tiptoeing around, setting things on coasters, moving my lamp when told. Never inviting friends because youre ashamed, not of me, but of a half-done home. I
Her voice quivered, so she paused.
I just want life. Real life. Floor scratches, coffee rings, Sunday friends, your old jacket draped across a chair. All the things that make a place alive. We never managed that.
He was silent so long she wondered if hed speak at all, then quietly, Where will you go?
Mums, for now.
Long?
I dont know.
She zipped the bag, picked up Felix, left the bedroom. She put on her coat and trainers, refusing to meet his eye as she crossed the perfect flooring.
Sarah
Yes?
I… I didnt know.
You did, she replied, You just never thought about it.
The door clicked softly as she closed itneatly, like everything else in that flat.
He remained behind.
James stood a moment in the hallway, then shuffled to the sitting room and sat heavily on the sofaa sofa chosen after months of research, in just the right fabric. It didnt scuff, it didnt attract fluff. He gazed round the room.
The flat was beautiful. Truly beautiful. The walls were the exact shade of soft white, the parquet seamless. The ceiling without join. Floor-to-ceiling shelving, clean and even. Lights set so there were no harsh shadows, nor glare. No draughts round the French doors. Jointed tiles in the bathroom with invisible joins.
He looked at it all and feltless pride than a tightness in his chest.
Books stood neatly on the shelvesher books, the ones shed left behind. He tried to remember her, reading for pleasure, bathed in lamplight, not hiding with a book at bedtime, but just reading. Ages ago, that.
He wandered into the kitchen. Her cup stood on the sill. He checked the spotno mark. The tea was cold.
He washed the cup, placed it in the rack. He carried on to the bedroom, lay down in clothessomething hed never done beforeand stared at the ceiling.
Perfect ceiling.
He lay there for an ageone hour, two, maybe moretime lost all meaning. Then he rose, wandered into the cupboard where buckets of leftover paint, rolls of tape, tins of primer and tools sat, all in their right places. He found a small tile sample hed once taken to compare with another batch. He turned it in his hands before putting it back.
Nothing in that cupboard was out of place. Except himself.
Come evening, he heated something from the fridge. Ate it without registering the taste. The flat was utterly silent. Once there had been the whirr of tools or the tang of fresh paint. Nownothing. Just perfect silence in flawless rooms.
He switched on the television, watched a film for twenty minutes, realised he hadnt noticed a thing, switched it off.
He picked up his phone, stared at her name in his contacts. Didnt call. Just sat, thinking.
Not about how to get her backbut about what shed said: about seeing company, the lamp, how she had been a guest here for three years. Guest. That word stung the most. A guest, in her own home.
He remembered Peterthe reason for a lie about work in the bedroom. Why? Even then, hed told himself, the flat wasnt ready. But that was a fib. It had been livable for over a yearjust not what hed pictured. Not the promise hed made himself.
Hed promised an ideal home. But the ideal was unattainablea horizon. You chase it, but it never comes closer.
Sarah saw that. He hadntor wouldnt.
He flicked the lights on, walked through each room, pausing at the shelves. Everything placed to the finest detail. Halfway along, a tiny glass hearta little amber one, clumsy and handmade. Sarah had bought it at a market years before. Hed scoffed, Why bother? Itll just gather dust. Shed answered, I like it. Hed left itone thing hed chosen not to contest.
Now, he picked it up. Held it. It felt warm in his palmor maybe that was in his mind.
He thought about it for three daysjust drifted about the flat, ate poorly, slept badly. At work, made mistakes, had to correct them. Everything alright, mate? the foreman asked.
Yeah, fine.
On day four, he sent her a message.
Sarah, could we talk?
She replied an hour later: Alright.
He called. She picked up on the second ring.
Hi, he said.
Hi.
How are you?
Fine. Its nice at Mums.
Pause. He heard her breathing, didnt know how to start. He never was good at it. She always was.
Sarah, Ive been thinking.
I guessed.
You know what Ill say?
More or less.
I know now Imissed something. Or, not missed it, but he paused for words, I chased the wrong thing.
She said nothing.
You talked about the company, the lamp… I remember, I get it now. Didnt, or pretended not to, then.
Why are you saying this?
Because I want you back.
Long pause.
James…
Im not asking for now. I just mean it. I want another try. I want to do things differently. I dont know if I cantrulybut I want to try.
She was quiet a long while. He heard her moving, perhaps shifting a cup. On a sill, even, or the tableit didnt matter where.
You know Ill try isnt enough? she asked.
I do.
You know I cant come back and live as before?
I do.
I dont think you do. No offence; just honestly. Youre scared and saying right-sounding things, but you cant just decide to be someone else. Its not like hammering in a nail.
I know it isnt.
So what exactly do you propose?
He paused. Lets meet first, properly. Not on the phone.
She thought. Alright. Lets meet.
They met at a local café, an utterly ordinary oneslightly wobbly chairs, a chalkboard menu. Sarah came in her beige raincoat, looking tired but calm.
They ordered coffee. James watched her, realising it had been an age since hed really, simply looked at her.
Hows Mum?
Better. Shes bought new flowers, pottered in the garden. She enjoyed having me.
Im glad.
They fell silent.
James, Sarah said, I want you to understandits not just about the flat, or you wanting things done well. Thats fine; I respect it. But you lost sight of the goal. A homes a tool for livingyou made it the end itself.
He nodded. Yes.
Do you agree, or do you actually get it?
I get it.
How can I know?
He held his coffee, set it down. You cant. I dont even know how much Ill change. But I do know I cant go back to before. When you left, I realised this place was just a lovely box.
She considered him.
A lovely box, she echoed quietly.
Yeah.
Im glad you see it.
Will you come back?
She gazed out at the rain, people scurrying by, a tub of tousled tulips by the grocers door.
Ill try, she said at last. On conditions.
Yes?
Firstno DIY for a month. Not a nail, not a sample, not a catalogue. Just live.
Alright.
Secondnext Sunday, we invite Laura and her husband, and Peter if hell come. Put out the table, have a meal, talk, here, as it is.
He nodded.
And third: if you go on turning every scratch into a tragedy, Ill say it to your face. Youll need to hear me.
I will, he promised. Its hard for me. But Ill try.
She studied him for a moment, searching for the truth behind the words. Then, Alright.
They walked home together in the drizzle, side by sideclose, not linked. She carried Felix in her pocket, he carried her bag. At the front door, she looked back at the fifth-floor window.
Pretty place, she said.
Yes, he agreed.
They took the lift. Once inside, she placed Felix on the windowsillno coaster.
James glanced at the cactus, the polished surface.
He didnt comment.
Sarah went to the kitchen. He heard kettle filling, the switch click.
James sat in the lounge, eyed the shelf. The glass heart was still there, slightly out of line.
He left it.
On Sunday, they called Laura. At last! she laughed, and he could hear she meant it. Peter couldnt come, but promised next time. Lauras husband brought wine, Laura baked a cake, Sarah finally made the beef stew shed promised years ago.
They laid the table in the sitting room. James saw the plates werent quite aligned. He moved one, then stopped himselfleft it.
The dinner was noisy, a little cramped. Laura knocked her glass, and red wine splashed the tablecloth. All gasped. James felt himself tense, glanced at Sarah.
She watched himnot anxiously, just watching.
He took a napkin and dabbed at the stain. No harm done.
Laura sighed with relief. Sarah flashed a small, secret smile.
Afterwards, they lingered over tea and stories till midnight. Sarah washed up; James dried. The silence felt differentcomfortably full.
The stain will wash out, he commented.
It might not, she said.
So be it.
She passed him a plate.
James, she said.
Yes?
It was a good evening.
It was, he agreed.
They finished tidying, but left the tea cups, the wine mark still darkening the cloth. The glass heart on the shelf; Felix on the sill.
James looked at it all. Thought about soaking out the stain in the morning, about whether the cactus would, after all, leave a ring. Noticed one cup sat slightly off line.
Then, more importantly, he remembered Sarah laughingtwiceonce at Lauras cat story, once when her husband fumbled a toast. She had laughed as she used to, long ago, when hed thought, this is her.
She went to the bedroom. Paused.
Coming?
In a moment.
He looked once more at the lounge. At the stain, at Felix, at the heart.
Turned out the light.
Slipped into bed beside her. She was reading. Her lamp, cloth shade and all, sat glowing gently on the table.
He stared at the ceiling.
Sarah?
Mm?
Do you even hear me when I go on about gaps and millimetres?
She set the book aside, gave him a long look.
I hear you.
What do you think in those moments?
She considered. Genuinely considered.
I think youre very far away then.
Yeah. He said. I suppose I am.
She picked up her book once more.
He lay there, unsure if it would work. Three years was a long time; something in her had shifted, something in him as well. It was like a crack patched in a wallyou could make it almost disappear, but it wasnt quite how it was before. He, of all people, knew that.
As he drifted towards sleep, another thought occurred: tomorrow morning, hed shift Felix onto a coaster, to protect the polish.
He opened his eyes.
The ceiling was the sameflawlessly ideal.
Beside him, Sarah quietly turned another page.
He closed his eyes again. Felix could wait till morning.
