Finally, James and Emily had their own flat. They’d bought it, fulfilling a long-held dream—their daughter Lily was nearly five, and they’d spent all this time drifting between rented places.
“Jamie, I’m so happy,” Emily murmured the first morning in their new home, pressing close to him. “I’m sleeping in our own flat—well, ours. Isn’t this bliss?” she gushed, her voice trembling with excitement.
“I’m glad too,” James replied, quieter, steady as always. His calm had saved their marriage more than once—Emily was fiery, and he knew just how to temper her. That balance, and love, of course, was what held them together.
“Still,” James mused, “we’ve got the renovation to survive. The place is in such a state…”
“Oh, come on, we’ll manage!” Emily laughed. “We’ll fix it up, and then we’ll live happily ever after. Though, admittedly, we’ve sunk everything into the flat. The renovation costs will be steep.”
“Maybe we should take out a loan? We bought the place outright—that’s rare. A bit more for the renovation won’t hurt.” He glanced around the bedroom. “And I suspect it won’t be cheap.”
“Ugh, another loan?” Emily groaned. “We just paid off the car. But then again, where else would we get the money? We already squeezed our parents dry for the deposit. Fine, Jamie, let’s do it.”
They agreed—a loan for the renovation, then freedom. Holidays, finally.
The flat wasn’t small—three bedrooms, functional if done right. The kitchen was spacious, just as Emily had always wanted, and Lily was thrilled with her own room, a place for her mountains of toys and dolls.
Emily had ideas, grand ones, but reality kept tripping her up—awkwardly placed doors, pipes jutting where they shouldn’t. “Jamie, any idea what an interior designer costs?”
“Too much,” he sighed. “They charge a fortune. We can’t afford it.”
That evening, they sat cross-legged on the bare floor, debating paint swatches. They settled on warm beige for the bedroom. Saturday, they’d hit the DIY shop.
But Friday evening, James came home buzzing. “Em, guess what? At work, Dave mentioned his mate’s a top designer—did the boss’s place. She might cut us a deal if we name-drop him. Only ten grand.”
“Ten grand? For someone to tell us where to put a sofa?” Emily gaped.
“Shh! But imagine—a proper designer flat. If you want beauty, you invest in it. Think it over. I’ll call Dave if you’re up for it.”
The temptation was strong. The next day, designer Anna arrived, clicking her tongue at their modest space.
“Small. Tricky. But I’ve got ideas.”
Emily hesitantly pointed to a corner. “I thought a wardrobe there—”
“Clutter,” Anna dismissed. “No. Let me think.” She paced, then proposed ripping up the laminate—too dated. “Tile and metal accents—very sleek. But fine, keep the floor. Now, lighting—that chandelier’s got to go.”
Emily’s grip tightened. This wasn’t her vision anymore.
“Anna’s staging a coup,” she muttered to James.
“But she’s a professional,” he insisted.
Emily bit her lip. She needed guidance, not a bulldozer.
Later, Anna unveiled her master plan—steel-blue and pale grey. “Very now. Very techno.”
Emily recoiled. “It’s our home, not some sterile office!”
“Em, she’s the expert,” James tried.
“Oh, shut up about ‘expert’! I don’t care if she’s done the Queen’s palace—I hate it!”
That night, they fought. For three days, silence. The builders stalled, caught between conflicting orders.
Finally, Emily snapped. “I told them—beige tomorrow.”
“But the steel-blue—” James started.
“Fine. You live in your icy nightmare. Lily and I are going to Mum’s.”
James panicked. “God, don’t let us divorce over paint!”
“You think I’m joking? I thought you wanted a home, not a showroom!”
“I don’t know what I want anymore,” he admitted, running a hand through his hair. “She’s got me all turned around.”
Emily exhaled. “Forget the designer. My way.”
In the end, the renovation finished. The flat was warm, lived-in—hers.
Strangely, she almost thanked Anna. Without her, Emily might never have realised what she truly wanted.
Renovations, after all, were less about walls and more about not tearing each other apart.
