At long last, Oliver and Emily had their own flat. They’d bought it, fulfilling a dream years in the making. Their daughter, Lily, was nearly five, and they’d spent all that time drifting between rented places.
“Ollie, I’m so happy,” Emily murmured the first morning in their new home, pressing close to her husband. “I’m sleeping in *our* flat. This is real happiness,” she said, brimming with emotion.
“Me too,” Oliver replied in his usual calm way—he was far more restrained than Emily.
His steadiness had saved their marriage more than once. Emily was fiery, and he quietly tempered her. That balance, along with love, of course, was what held them together.
“Still,” Oliver said, “we’ve got the renovation to survive. The place is in such a state…”
Emily nodded. “We’ll manage. We’ll fix it up and live happily. Though, we *will* need money for it—we poured everything into buying the place.”
“Maybe we should take out a loan,” Oliver suggested, glancing around the bedroom. “A proper renovation won’t be cheap.”
“Another loan? We’ve only just paid off the car!” Emily groaned. “But where else will we get the money? We’ve already leaned on our parents for the deposit. Fine—if we must, then we must.”
“So, a loan for the renovation, then we’re free. Maybe even a holiday after,” Oliver mused, and Emily agreed.
The flat wasn’t small—three bedrooms, functional if done right. The kitchen was spacious, just as Emily wanted. No more squeezing past each other while cooking. And Lily finally had her own room, a place for her dolls and mountains of toys.
Emily had grand visions for the redesign. But reality kept tripping her up—doors in awkward places, pipes jutting out where they shouldn’t.
“Ollie, do you know what interior designers charge?”
“Too much,” Oliver sighed. “Way beyond us.”
That evening, they sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through paint swatches. They settled on warm beige for the bedroom. On Saturday, they’d hit B&Q for supplies.
But Friday evening, Oliver came home buzzing.
“Em, guess what? At work, Dave mentioned a designer he knows—top-notch. She even did our CEO’s place!”
“You *just* said we couldn’t afford one,” Emily reminded him.
“That’s the thing—Dave says she’ll give us a discount. Still, it’ll be around ten grand.”
“*Ten thousand?!* Just to tell us where to put the sofa and what colour to paint?” Emily bristled.
“Listen—it’ll be *perfect*. If you want beauty, you’ve got to invest in it. Think about it. I’ll ring Dave if you’re keen.”
The temptation was strong. In the end, Emily agreed. The designer, Charlotte, arrived the next day.
“Hmm. Cosy,” Charlotte mused, scanning the flat. “Not much room to play with.”
“I’ve got a few ideas already,” Emily ventured, pointing. “A wardrobe could go there—”
Charlotte cut her off. “No, that’d clutter the space. Let me think.”
She paced, Emily and Oliver trailing behind. The laminate flooring displeased her—*tiles and metal accents would be striking*. But Emily loved that laminate; she wasn’t ripping it up.
“That chandelier has to go,” Charlotte declared.
Emily’s grip on her temper frayed. Oliver kept nudging her—*stay quiet*. But this was *her* nest, not some showroom.
“She wants to turn our home upside down,” Emily hissed later.
“She’s the expert, Em.”
Emily bit her tongue. She needed guidance, not a bulldozer. They’d already bought that chandelier—now it was “wrong”?
Later, Lily asked, “Daddy, how old will I be when the reno’s done? I want my pretty room *now*.” Her parents laughed.
“We all do, sweetheart,” Oliver said, spinning her in his arms.
Emily sketched her own plans that night. When Charlotte returned with her “tech-noir” vision—cold steel-blue and grey—Emily recoiled.
“Ollie, are you *mad*? I want warmth, not some sterile office!”
“She’s the professional—”
“Stop saying that! If *I* hate it, why should we accept it?”
They argued, then didn’t speak for three days. The builders stalled, caught between conflicting orders. Finally, Emily snapped.
“I told them to paint the walls beige tomorrow.”
“But it’s supposed to be steel-blue—I’ll call the foreman.”
Emily’s voice turned dangerous. “Fine. Do what you want. I’m taking Lily to my parents’. You can live in your blue nightmare with your *professional*.”
Oliver paled. “Em, don’t—we can’t split over *paint*!”
“*I’m serious.* I thought you wanted a home, not a spaceship.”
“I—I don’t know anymore,” Oliver admitted, rubbing his neck. “She kept going on about the CEO’s place…”
Emily exhaled. “Forget her. *I* decide.”
They fired Charlotte. The renovation finished at last—and Emily, surveying the warm, lived-in rooms, smiled.
“Oddly, I’m glad for that designer. She made me realise exactly what I wanted.”
Everyone breathed easier once the dust settled. Renovations are treacherous things—you never know if they’ll end in triumph or divorce. The most expensive material? Always the nerves.
