“I don’t want to argue either. But when are you finally going to fix that shelf?”
On Saturday morning, after breakfast, Laura started cleaning the flat. Kyle settled onto the kitchen sofa with his laptop. His job—take the rubbish out later. For now, he scrolled through the newsfeed of one of the socials.
Suddenly, a photo popped up of his old mate, Billy, grinning ear to ear. They’d gone to uni together. Beneath the picture, the caption read: *”Finally! It’s happened! Moved in! Come round, have a look, and be jealous!”* Kyle clicked the tag and saw snaps of the flat from every flattering angle.
A year ago, Billy had inherited the place from his late nan. The last renovation was forty years back, the furniture ancient—proper vintage. To live there, he’d have had to pour money into it, and Billy didn’t have that. So he’d planned to flog it straight off. He and his missus had been saving for a place, and selling this would’ve sped things up.
But then his wife dug her heels in. The flat was a dump, sure, but it was in central London. She reckoned if they used their savings for a proper refurb, they could sell it for way more—enough for the two-bed they’d always wanted.
Nearly a year of renovations later, the place was unrecognisable. As Billy put it, they’d “unlocked its potential.” Knocked down the wall between the loo and bathroom, ripped out the kitchen partition to make a massive lounge. Played with space, clever wallpaper, minimalist furniture—cheap but stylish. The result? Not just a flat—a show home.
The comments overflowed with envy and praise. Everyone assumed they’d hired a designer.
*”Nah, we just researched online, saw how modern places look. Did it all ourselves, except the heavy stuff—plastering, floors. Lizzie handled the decor, picked the wallpaper,”* Billy insisted.
Kyle congratulated him, though jealousy prickled. He and Laura lived in a cramped one-bed. A friend of his dad’s had let them stay rent-free after moving to America—just don’t touch anything. Not bad for newlyweds, but still.
Back in uni, Kyle had fancied Lizzie. But she’d chosen Billy. Lucky git. Lizzie had an eye for style—even Kyle, who couldn’t care less about fashion, noticed.
Billy did the grunt work, sure, but the vision? All Lizzie’s. And it showed. Kyle glanced around their dull little kitchen. It had been fine—until he saw Billy’s place.
Bloody Billy. Kyle snatched the laptop and bolted to the bedroom, forgetting mid-step that interrupting Laura’s cleaning spree was a death wish. Best let her steam off first…
Laura was stretched on tiptoe, dusting a wobbly shelf. Again, Kyle noticed how good she looked. Then—the shelf lurched. The screws were hanging on by a prayer. A stack of books sat gathering dust on the floor.
He tried slipping away, but Laura turned, blowing a stray hair from her face.
*”What? Rather stand there than fix this?”*
*”Look at this—Billy and Lizzie’s reno. Wouldn’t mind a place like that…”* He trailed off at the storm on her face.
*”Show me.”*
He turned the laptop eagerly. *”See? It was a wreck. Billy wanted to sell it straight off—”* Kyle kept his tone neutral, fighting the jealousy.
*”Yeah. Well done them,”* Laura said flatly, eyes locked on him.
*”What? My nan’s healthy, no flat coming my way. Even if—”*
*”Long may she live. But Billy says he did it all himself. Lizzie just ‘gave ideas.'”*
*”Right.”*
*”Still not getting it? How many times have I asked you to fix that shelf? The books have been on the floor for a month! We’ve lived here a year, and every day something’s falling apart. Should I hire someone to do it for you? Feel good about that? Bet you’d build Lizzie a whole house if she asked.”*
*”Here we go,”* Kyle sighed. *”Everything’s digital now—why d’you need paper books?”* He snapped the laptop shut and retreated to the kitchen.
*”Wait.”* Laura followed. *”Every time I mention that shelf, you go deaf and blind. I don’t nag about your music collection filling the cupboards. But why hoard CDs when you can stream? I don’t judge. Swap then—your discs on the floor, my books in the cupboard. Maybe then you’ll fix it.”*
*”Let’s buy a bookcase. Fine by me,”* Kyle offered.
*”Or how about a new flat—bigger, ours—where we can do what we want?”* Laura shot back.
*”Lau, I don’t want to fight. Shouldn’t have brought up the flat,”* Kyle deflated.
*”I don’t either. But when will you fix the shelf?”*
*”Tomorrow, I’ll get Dad’s drill— Shit, they’re at the cottage all weekend. Monday, I swear.”*
*”Sure. Heard that before.”* Laura waved him off and left.
*”Why’d I mention the flat?”* Kyle cursed silently, texting Billy: *”Cheers, mate. Just rowed with Laura over your place.”*
Billy replied: *”Relax. Think me and Lizzie don’t fight? Nearly divorced three times renovating. She even wrote the papers. Your Laura’s ace.”*
Kyle knew that. She cooked, kept the place spotless, never “had a headache” like some blokes complained. What more could a man want?
*”I’ll drill Monday, dust everywhere, she’ll moan—but that shelf’s getting done before next weekend, or we’re doomed. Bloody Billy.”*
Laura cleaned in silence. Monday morning, she reminded him about the drill—honestly, they should own one by now.
Of course, he forgot.
Next day, Laura lingered, getting ready.
*”You coming?”* Kyle nudged. *”We’ll be late.”*
*”Go ahead. I took time off. Booked a ‘handyman’ online. Since you didn’t fetch the drill. Plus, the bathroom lock’s jammed.”*
*”Rough day yesterday,”* Kyle muttered.
*”Every day’s rough for you. Odd, since you’re not hauling crates at the docks.”*
*”Why lock it? We’re alone.”* He hadn’t even noticed. How many times had Laura “surprised” him in there?
*”Right, clueless as usual. What if guests need privacy? Your mum? Then it’s my fault for not nagging you. The handyman’ll fix it. Feel ashamed.”*
*”You should be, hiring some stranger—”* The doorbell cut him off.
Laura answered. They froze.
On the doorstep stood a bloke straight out of a Calvin Klein ad—drill slung over his shoulder, dazzling smile. *”Handyman. You called?”*
Tanned muscles bulged under his tight tee. Only the baggy work trousers ruined the effect. This guy belonged on a billboard, not fixing shelves.
*”Wrong address,”* Kyle said, edging the door shut.
*”Yes, come in!”* Laura beamed, shooting Kyle a glare. *”Go, you’ll be late.”*
Kyle didn’t move. Since when did Laura dress up like this?
*”She’s my wife,”* he blurted.
*”Congrats. She’s lovely,”* the guy grinned, stepping inside.
They were the same height, yet Kyle felt dwarfed. Swallowing pride, he forced himself out. The door clicked shut behind him.
Down the stairs before he changed his mind. Surely the bloke wouldn’t— But what if—?
All day, jealousy gnawed at him. He resisted calling Laura. Childish, but he couldn’t help it. His fault—should’ve got the drill, asked Dad about wall plugs.
Home that evening, Laura wasn’t back. The shelf stood fixed. Did the *handyman* help her stack the books? The image burned—Laura on tiptoes, him passing her books. Kyle’s vision darkened. He breathed deep, shaking it off. What else had she said—?
The door clicked. He steadied himself.
*”You’re home?”* Laura walked in.
Kyle vowed then—no more handymen. He’d do it himself. She loved him—why else marry him?
*”You okay?”* She stepped closer, searching his eyes. *”Sorry. I was silly. You jealous?”*
He pulled her close. *”My fault. I’ll learn to fix things. Promise.”*
*”And I’ll stop nagging.”*
Peace restored.
Three days later…
Kyle sat with his laptop when Laura cursed. She stood in the bathroom,She held the broken mop, sighed, and caught Kyle’s eye—before they both burst out laughing, realising they’d rather fight and fix things together than have a flat that never fell apart.
