“I don’t want to argue either. But when are you finally going to fix that shelf?”
That Saturday, after breakfast, Laura set about cleaning the flat. Cyril settled onto the kitchen sofa with his laptop. His job was to take the rubbish out later. For now, he was scrolling through the newsfeed of a social media site when a picture popped up of his old university mate, Oliver, grinning from ear to ear. The caption read: *”Hurrah! At last! It’s done! Moved in! Come round, have a look, and be jealous!”* Cyril clicked the link and saw photos of the flat taken from every flattering angle imaginable.
A year ago, Oliver had inherited the place from his late grandmother. The flat hadn’t seen a lick of renovation in forty years, the furniture was ancient—still from the Soviet era. Living there would’ve meant pouring money into it, which Oliver didn’t have. He’d considered selling it straight away to speed up saving for the home he and his wife, Emily, had been dreaming of. But then Emily dug her heels in. The flat was a wreck, but it was in the heart of London. She convinced him to use their savings for a full renovation and sell it for a tidy profit. Then they’d have enough for the two-bedder they’d always wanted.
Nearly a year later, the place was unrecognisable. Oliver had described how they’d uncovered hidden potential—knocking down the wall between the loo and bathroom, tearing out the divider between the kitchen and one of the bedrooms to create a sprawling living area. Clever wallpaper choices and minimalist furniture turned it from a dump into a show home. The comments were full of gushing praise. Congratulations poured in, along with whispers that they must’ve hired a professional designer.
*”Nah,”* Oliver had protested. *”We researched, trawled the net for ideas, but did it all ourselves—except for the heavy stuff like knocking down walls and redoing the floors. Emily handled the decor and picked everything out.”*
Cyril offered a restrained congratulations, though envy gnawed at him. He and Laura lived in a cramped one-bedder. A friend of his father’s had lent it to them after moving to America, not wanting to sell in case he didn’t settle there. No renovations allowed—but at least they had a roof over their heads after marrying.
Cyril had fancied Emily back in their first year, but she’d chosen Oliver instead. Lucky sod. Emily had always had an eye for style—even the plainest clothes looked designer on her. Oliver did the grunt work, sure, but the vision was all hers. And the result was stunning. Cyril glanced around their own dull little kitchen, which had seemed fine… until now.
Blast Oliver. Cyril grabbed his laptop and hurried into the bedroom, forgetting Laura’s cardinal rule: *Don’t disturb her while she’s cleaning.* Better to let her vent first.
Laura stood on tiptoe, stretching to dust the wobbly shelf on the wall. Cyril noted—not for the first time—how striking she looked. Then the shelf wobbled dangerously. The screws were barely holding on, and a stack of books sat abandoned on the floor.
He meant to slip away before she noticed, but Laura turned, blowing a loose strand of hair from her face.
*”Just standing there? You could’ve fixed the shelf by now.”*
*”Wanted to show you—look what Oliver and Emily did with his gran’s flat. I wouldn’t mind a place like that.”* He trailed off at the look on her face.
*”Show me,”* Laura said flatly.
*”Here,”* he turned the screen toward her. *”Brilliant, right? The place was a wreck. Oliver nearly sold it—”* He tried to sound neutral, but envy crept in.
*”Yes. Well done them,”* Laura said drily, eyeing him.
*”What? My gran’s still alive, and who knows if she’ll even leave me anything—she’s got two grandkids.”*
*”Long life to her, then. He says he did it all himself—with Emily just ‘helping’ with ideas.”*
*”Right.”*
*”Still don’t get it? How many times have I asked you to fix that 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, then? Would that embarrass you? Bet you’d rebuild a whole house if Emily asked.”*
*”Here we go,”* Cyril sighed. *”Everything’s digital now—why do you even buy paper books?”* He snapped the laptop shut and retreated to the kitchen.
*”Hold on.”* Laura followed. *”Every time I mention the shelf, you go deaf. I don’t complain about your CDs taking up the cupboard. I don’t criticise your hobbies. Fine—let’s swap. You put your CDs on the floor, and I’ll put my books in the cupboard. Maybe then you’ll fix the shelf.”*
*”Let’s just buy a bookcase,”* Cyril offered weakly.
*”Or better yet, let’s buy a bigger flat—our own, where we can do what we like,”* Laura shot back.
*”Laura, I don’t want to fight. I shouldn’t have brought up the flat,”* Cyril mumbled.
*”I don’t either. But when will you fix the shelf?”*
*”Tomorrow, I’ll pop round Dad’s for the drill—ah, damn. They’re at the cottage all weekend. Monday, I swear.”*
*”Sure. Heard that before.”* Laura waved him off and stalked to the bedroom.
*”Blast Oliver for this,”* Cyril muttered, texting him: *”Cheers, mate—just rowed with Laura over your bloody flat.”*
*”Relax,”* Oliver replied. *”Think Emily and I didn’t fight? Nearly divorced thrice during renovations. She even wrote the papers once. But your Laura’s a gem.”*
Cyril knew that. She cooked well, kept the place spotless, and never gave him grief like some wives did. What more could a man want?
*”I’ll get the drill Monday, but then there’ll be dust everywhere, and I’ll be the villain again. Still, I’d better fix it before next Saturday’s cleaning, or it’ll be divorce papers for us too. Bloody hate drilling. Maybe a bookcase *would* be easier… No, she said it wouldn’t fit. Oliver’s ruined my mood.”*
Laura cleaned in stony silence. On Monday, she reminded Cyril about the drill—*”Honestly, we should’ve bought our own by now.”*
Of course, he forgot.
The next morning, Laura dawdled getting ready.
*”You coming?”* Cyril pressed. *”We’ll be late.”*
*”Go ahead. I took time off. Booked a ‘handyman for an hour’ online. Since you didn’t get the drill. Plus, the plant hanger snapped, and the bathroom lock’s broken.”*
*”I was swamped yesterday,”* Cyril defended.
*”You’re *always* swamped. Why? It’s not like you’re hauling crates at the docks.”*
*”We’re alone—who’s locking the bathroom anyway?”* He hadn’t even known the lock was broken. How many times had Laura ‘broken in’ while he was showering? They’d had *fun* with that…
*”Right, you just ‘didn’t know.’ But if guests want privacy—your mum, say—it’ll be *my* fault for not nagging you. The handyman will sort it. You should be ashamed.”*
*”You should be ashamed, hiring a stranger when your husband’s right here—”* The doorbell cut him off.
They froze as Laura opened it. A heartthrob stood there, a drill slung over his shoulder, flashing a perfect smile.
*”Handyman, called for?”* His voice was smooth—like an actor’s.
Sun-kissed muscles bulged under his tight t-shirt. Only the baggy work trousers spoiled the magazine-cover look.
*”Wrong address,”* Cyril said, trying to shut the door.
*”Oh, no—do come in,”* Laura beamed, shooting Cyril a glare. *”You’ll be late, love.”*
Cyril didn’t budge. Had she dressed up *for this bloke?*
*”She’s my wife,”* he blurted.
*”Congratulations—she’s lovely,”* the Adonis grinned, stepping inside.
Though they were the same height, Cyril felt small next to him. Not wanting to look weaker, he forced himself to leave. Laura shut the door behind him.
Cyril stormed downstairs before he could reconsider. Would the bloke try anything? Doubtful… but. Jealousy burned all day. He resisted calling Laura, knowing he was being childish, but couldn’t help it. His own fault—should’ve got the drill, asked his dad how to anchor screws properly.As Cyril trudged home that evening, he found Laura waiting with a smug smile, the shelf firmly in place, and a brand-new drill set wrapped in ribbon on the table—just for him.
