Three Years of Renovation, No Guests
Anna placed her mug on the windowsill and felt the silence stretch behind her. She didnt have to turn around to know that James had stopped in the hallway. The pause was so loaded you could fall right into it.
Youve put your mug on the windowsill, he said at last, not asking, just stating.
Yes, James. I put my mug on the windowsill.
Thats a polished surface. The heat will leave a mark.
I know.
So why?
She turned. He was forty-eight, and these days he looked every second of it, no more, no less. He stood in the kitchen doorway in his grey t-shirt, clutching his spirit levelhis constant companion on weekends, as other men might carry a mobile.
Because theres nowhere else to put it, she replied. The tables covered in dust sheets. The second chair is upside down. The hallway floor hasnt dried out yet after the primer. I drink my tea standing at the window, James. Ive been drinking my tea at the window for three years.
He looked at the mug. Then her. Then back to the mug.
Ill get a coaster, he said.
No need.
But itll leave a mark.
Let it.
He squinted at her, the way he did when he wasnt sure if she was joking. Sometimes now, she no longer knew herself.
Anna, what?
Thats enough, she said quietly, the words dropping into the hush like stones in water. Enough, James.
He didnt get it at first. Enough what?
Im packing my things.
A long silence. Outside, a car horn sounded, then faded. James let his arm fall, the spirit level hanging loosely at his side.
Because of the windowsill?
No, James. Not because of the windowsill.
Anna finished her tea and placed the mug back, deliberately, firmly, with no hint of apology.
She was forty-five, an accounts manager for a small firm. She liked reading before bed, kept a tiny cactus called Percy on her desk at work, and hadnt invited friends over in yearsnot since theyd moved in. To be precise, three years.
She walked into the bedroom.
Three years earlier, when theyd bought this two-bedroom flat on the top floor of a red-brick block in a quiet lane in Oxford, Anna had been genuinely, physically happy. She remembered when theyd stood together in those empty, shabby rooms, looking out of the window at the autumn sycamoreshow shed thought: this is it. This is home.
Back then, James had seemed different. Or so she thought. Hed paced through the rooms with a tape measure, drafting little sketches and talking her through his plans, his eyes alive with the energy shed once fallen for. The energy of someone who knows exactly what he wants, and how to build it himself.
Look here, hed told her, showing her pages inked with grids and lines. Kitchen and lounge, open-plan. Floor-to-ceiling shelves will go there. And spotlightsdimmable. Itll be perfect.
Its lovely, shed said, and meant it.
Well do it all ourselves. Do it right, once and for all.
Once and for all. She should have listened more closely to that then. Understood that it meant more than saving money on contracts.
The first six months felt like an adventure. They lived amid boxes and tools and tiles stacked behind doors. Anna cooked with a portable hob, made makeshift beds on the floor, ate from picnic plates. It was messy, slightly romantic, but bearable. Then.
But things changed, slowly, like the ground shifting under a house.
James spent every weekendand many eveningslost to the renovations. He worked as a site manager and knew more about materials and finishes than most decorators. That was fine. More than fine. The problem wasnt knowledge.
It was that he couldnt stop.
Anna didnt notice at first. She only sensed something was wrong about eight months in, chatting over coffee with her friend Emma.
So, nearly finished? When can I come round? You promised me your shepherds pie.
Nearly there, Anna replied, hopeful. James reckons well be sorted by Christmas.
Christmas came and went in a haze of dust and paint pots. No friends, no gatheringjust them, at their almost-finished kitchen table eating supermarket mince pies off whatever plates came to hand.
Next year, lets have a proper Christmas, Anna suggested, pouring the Prosecco.
Of course, said James. Once the lounge ceilings done, and Ive put down the wood flooringwell host properly.
He finished the ceiling in March. By then, hed realised the bathroom wiring wasnt up to scratch and re-did the lot. Then the balcony doorssome tiny draught hed found with a feeler gauge. Three millimetres.
Anna had joked about it to her friends: My husbands at war with three millimetres. The girls would laugh; shed laugh too. It was funny, then.
They fitted the lounge flooring in May, when they could finally open the windows wide. Anna fetched the slabs, handed him tools, vacuumed away the dust. James worked silently, precisely, like a surgeonchecking each row with his level and laser ruler. Hed pull up boards hed just laid if the gap was out by a whisper.
Does it really show? she asked once.
I see it, he replied, never looking up.
That was the first time something inside her stilled. Not anger, just a pausea strange feeling, as if shed grasped at meaning but couldnt quite name it.
They finished the floor in June. It was beautiful: blonde oak, crisp lines, perfect joinery. Anna ran her hand over it and said honestly, Beautiful.
Ill put the proper varnish on soonGerman, very tough.
When?
Next week.
But by next week, hed found a skirting board lifting by half a millimetre. The varnishing was postponed.
That June, Anna asked Emma for coffee.
So, how are you both? When can we visit?
Soon, Anna murmured, not finishing.
Is everything all right?
Yes just Ive started thinking hell never finish.
Men drag their feet, Emma smiled.
No, its not that. Its as if as if he doesnt want to finish. As long as theres something left, hes got an excuse: no guests, no furniture, no living properly.
Emma looked at her with a seriousness Anna hadnt expected.
Have you told him?
I try. Every time, he explains that just a bit more, and then itll be perfect.
Do you want perfect?
Anna was silent.
I just want to be home, she whispered.
That evening James showed her paint samples for the wallsat least twenty shades of white.
Seewarm, cold, a bit blueminor differences but crucial in the daylight. I think this ones best.
Anna looked at all the squares. To her, they were simply white.
It doesnt matter to me, James.
He stared as if shed said something absurd.
What do you mean, it doesnt matter? Were going to live here.
Exactly. People, real people, living in a real flatthey dont notice the shades of white.
They do. They just dont know they do.
All right. Pick what you like.
He picked. He always picked. It happened slowlyat first, she was glad to let him decide, he did it so well. Then she noticed her opinions mattering less, then not at all. Not rudely, just as if her words never made a difference. If she liked a tile, he explained why another was more hard-wearing; if she fancied the sofa there, hed show her how the zoning didnt work. If she said, I like it, hed reply, But this is better.
She stopped saying what she liked. What was the point?
In October, near the end of their second year, Jamess old friend Mark phonedpassing through and asked to crash for a night. Anna was delighted. She bought groceries, polished the table, got out the nice plates.
James said the guest room was under construction.
But Anna knew it wasnt. The bed was made up and the wardrobe built.
What work, James?
A pause. I have to fix the floorboards. Mark wouldnt sleep well with the smell.
What smell?
Anna, why should someone see the flat like this?
Like what?
Unfinished.
She looked at him, and it was as if the ground really did shiftshe understood: he was ashamed. Ashamed of the place hed made because it wasnt what he saw in his head. Hed rather lie to an old friend.
Fine, she said. Nothing more.
Mark came, chatted for a few hours, they ate out, he slept at a hotel. Anna ate alone.
She lay awake that night, staring up at the ceiling James had painted spotless white, so clear not a single join showed. The perfect ceiling above the perfect bed, in a room where no one had visited in two years.
That winter, Annas mum was illjust the flu, but enough for Anna to call in at hers a few times a week, sometimes staying over. James didnt mind; he was busy painting the balconys inner frame with a sealant that took two coats, twenty-four hours apart.
One evening, returning home early, Anna found him crouched on the hall floor with a magnifying glass, studying the gap by the skirting.
Whats wrong? she asked, shucking her coat.
A gap, he muttered, not looking up.
She didnt ask how bigit made no difference.
James, have you eaten today?
A pause.
Dont remember.
Since morning?
Maybe.
She cooked some pasta, scrambled an egg. He came when she was done, sat and looked at the plate.
Thanks.
Youre welcome.
They ate in silence. Snow fell outside. On the table sat a brochure for wardrobe fittings theyd looked at a year ago.
James.
Mmm?
Tell me something. Not about the flat.
He looked up as if shed asked for French.
Like what?
Anything. Your day. Your thoughts. Something funny, or sad. Justanything, as long as its not cracks and skirting.
He thought hard. She saw he really triedracking his brain for something to share outside materials and plans. And found nothing.
I dont know, he said at last. Nothing, I suppose.
She lay awake, thinking: when did this happen? When did he become a list of functions? He hadnt always been like this. She remembered other James; remembered drives to Cornwall in his battered hatchback, listening to him name constellations from memory, pointing out Cassiopeia, the Plough, the Pleiades.
Where had the Pleiades gone?
By the third year, Anna stopped telling friends that the flat would be finished soon. It was never finished; each time James noticed a new flaw, another cycle begana tile not hard-wearing enough, paint drying the wrong hue, handles good but hinges squeaked in the cold. Every flaw was the beginning of another loop.
Anna bought herself a cheap bedside lamp; fabric shade, nothing fancy. She put it on her nightstand. James came home, saw it, and immediately said, Wheres that from?
I bought it.
Why? We planned for recessed spotlights.
I want to read at night.
Spots would be better.
When?
He didnt respond.
Exactly, Anna said. Spots happen when they happen. Right now I want to read.
The lamp lasted a week on her table. Then James put out a metal desk lamp hed found in the cupboardbetter light output. Annas lamp was moved to the corner, then the shelf. One day, she found it stuffed among boxes of undercoat.
She said nothing. She just put it back on her table.
James moved it again.
She returned it.
No words. Just the lamp. It was a tiny victory, and a tiny defeat; in a normal home, with normal people, it wouldnt be a battle or a triumph. It would just be a lamp.
That April, Anna texted Emma at work.
Em, fancy a spa trip? A few days, countryside, just us.
Emma replied instantly: Yes! When?!
They booked four days in a modest country guesthouse. Anna took leave. James was perplexed, but not upsethe was deep in a shower refit anyway.
At the guesthouse, Annas room was simpleplain pine furniture, a colourful cover, a small window always open on the damp-smelling woods. It was all a bit shabby, with nicks, scrapes, little flaws. And Anna realised she was trulyutterlyhappy. So happy that on her first night she lay on that battered bed, gazed up at the cracked ceiling, and burst into tears.
Emma rested across the room, not asking, just there.
I live in a museum, Anna confessed at last, staring at the hairline crack above. A beautiful, lifeless museum.
Emma was silent, then: Have you told him?
I have.
And?
He says itll be better soon. Always a bit more.
Therapist?
He wont go. Says thats for people with actual problems. He just has a renovation.
They lay in the stillness as the scent of woodland drifted through the window. Anna thought: This, this is whats missingthe open window, trees, the cracked ceiling, a cover bought because it caught her eye. Life.
Four days later, she returned home. It smelled sharply of fresh plaster. James greeted her in the hall, eager to show the re-built shower niche. She left her bag, inspected his handiwork.
Its good.
See? All properly aligned now. Before, the right side was 1.5 centimetres wider.
I see.
It took me all week to work out how to redo it without breaking the tiles. Figured it out in the end.
Good for you.
She went to the bedroom, changed, and lay on the bed, staring at the perfect ceiling.
In June came the conversation that lingered with her. It was Sunday, lateabout eight. James was painting something in the cupboard. Anna was finishing up dinner, listening to his footsteps, the scuff of tape and shifting boxes.
James! she called.
What? he replied through the wall.
Dinner in twenty minutes.
Okay.
She set the table. He didnt come. Not after twenty minutes, not after forty. She knocked on the cupboard door.
Foods getting cold.
Five minutes!
But five became forty. She ate alone, cleared up, washed the dishes. He came out at half ten, saw the empty table.
Lost track of time.
I know.
Shall I reheat it?
Do it yourself.
She went to bed. Picked up a book and pretended to read. When he came in, she said without looking up:
James, are you happy?
A long pause.
Well Perhaps, yes.
Are you sure?
Anna, what kind of question is that?
Just a question.
He lay beside her. Silence, then:
Once I finish the cupboard, Ill do the balcony. Insulate for laminate. Then the flats finally done.
She closed her book.
Do you realise you just answered my question?
How?
I asked if youre happy. You told me your plans for the balcony.
He was lost for words. Just lay there.
Goodnight, Anna.
Goodnight.
She didnt turn off the light for ages. Just stared at the ceiling, listening to his breathing, thinking that in another life, maybe, theyd be having some sort of conversation. Not important whatmaybe about a TV series, or something her mum had said, or a new menu at their favourite café. Just talking.
But in this life, there was silence. Perfect, like the ceiling.
She thought of that when she left her mug on the windowsill the next morningthought it, and knew her enough had been a long time coming. It just needed a mug for its final nudge.
She packed methodically, without tears, taking just what was hers. Some books. Make-up. Clothes. The fabric-shaded lamp. Passport, papers, phone charger. The small cactusPercywhich shed brought home from work months ago, the flat so stripped of life there wasnt even one plant. James never minded the cactus. The cactus didnt leave marks.
James stood in the doorway, watching her pack.
Anna.
What.
Lets talk.
About what?
Well, youre packing.
Yes.
Because of the mug?
James, please. You know what this is.
I dont. I really dont.
She stopped, looked straight at him. He looked as lost as shed ever seen. That, at least, was new.
James, she said, weve lived here three years.
Yes.
We havent had a proper dinner with friends, not even once. Three years.
Because the flat isnt
Because the flats never finished. And it never will be. You know that, dont you?
He didnt speak.
Youll always find something to redoits who you are. Thats not wrong, but I cant live in this. Im exhausted of living on a building site.
Itll be soon
No, she said gently but firmly. Its not about time. Ive spent three years a guest in my own home. Treading carefully, using coasters, hiding my lamp, not inviting friends because youre ashamed of the half-finished flat. I
Her voice wobbled; she took a breath.
I want to live. Just live. Scratched floors, coffee rings, Sunday guests, your old coat on the back of a chair. All the mess of a real home. But we never managed that.
James was quiet for a long while. At last, Where will you go?
My mums. For now.
For long?
I dont know.
She zipped her bag, took Percy, squeezed past him, put on her old raincoat, laced up trainersaverting her eyes from the gleaming, flawless boards beneath her feet.
Anna, he called after her.
What.
I I didnt realise it was like this.
You did, she said. But you never thought about it.
The door clicked softly behind her, as gently as everything else in that flat.
He stayed behind.
James lingered in the hallway for a minute, then wandered into the lounge and sat on the sofa. Hed spent months picking that fabricsturdy, firm, wouldnt pill. He satwas oddly nauseous.
The flat was beautiful. Truly beautiful. Warm-toned walls, parquet with not a sliver of a gap, seamless ceilings, floor-to-ceiling shelves, all perfectly lined. Lighting set so just right, not a shadow off. The bathroom tilesflush, no edge out of place.
He stared. Not with pride, but something queasier.
On the shelf was a row of books, the ones she hadnt taken. He tried to remember when shed last sat and read by the window, unhurried, just for pleasure.
He got up, wandered to the kitchenher mug still on the windowsill. He checked for stains. None. The tea was cold.
He washed the mug, left it to dry. Then into the bedroom, lying on the bed, still dresseda new thing, never done beforestaring at the perfect ceiling.
He lay for an hour. Maybe two. Time had lost meaning. Later he checked the cupboard: tins of paint, neat stacks of grid tape, packs of primer, each tool in its place. He picked up a sample mosaic tile hed once used as a colour reference. Turned it in his hand. Put it back.
There was nothing superfluous in that cupboard. Only him.
That evening, he microwaved something from the fridge, tasted nothing, washed up. The flat was silent. Usually, he was busytape, scraping, the smell of primer and paint. Now, the silence was complete. Only silence in perfect rooms.
He tried the TV. Some film, twenty minutes, switched it off.
Pulled up Annas name in his phone. Stared at it. Didnt ring.
He thoughtnot about getting her back, but about what shed said: guests, the lamp, being a guest herself. That word stuck: guest, in her own home.
He thought of Markhow hed lied about the guest room. Why had he done that? The answer had never been clear, even to himself. Not ready, hed say. But the truth was: the flat was habitable for ages. Just not the picture-perfect home in his head.
Hed promised himself the perfect flat. And built itand still, it never arrived. Perfection isnt a painted ceiling; its the horizon. No matter how far, always just out of reach.
Anna knew that. He didnt, or hadnt wanted to.
He got up, went room to room, switching on lights. Stopped to look at the shelves. Everything in order. Books by height, knickknacks carefully spaced. His principle: everything has its perfect place.
Midway up the third shelf was a small glass heart. Burnished, a bit lopsidedhandmade. Anna had bought it at a market. Hed said, What for? Itll gather dust. Shed answered, I like it. Hed left it, a small, benign surrender.
Now he picked it up. It was warm. Or maybe he only imagined so.
He thought about it for three days. Just drifting in his beautiful shell of a flat, not doing, not eating much, not sleeping. At work, he made mistakes on site calculations for the first time in years. A colleague asked, You all right, Jim? Fine, he lied.
On the fourth day, he messaged her.
Anna, can we talk?
She replied in an hour: Okay.
He called. She picked up on the second ring.
Hi, he said.
Hi.
How are you?
All right. Mums glad for the company.
A pause. He could hear her breathing. He never knew how to start talks like this. She did.
Anna, Ive done a lot of thinking.
I guessed.
You know what Im going to say?
Sort of.
I realise I missed something important. Or, not missedchose the wrong things.
She was silent.
You talked about guests, about the lamp. I remember. I get it now. I didnt then. Or I pretended not to.
Why are you saying this?
Because I want you back.
A long pause.
James
Im not asking now. Just honestly. I want to try again. Differently this time. I dont know if I canbut I want to try.
She took her time replying. He heard something shifting on her end, a mug perhapson a table, with or without a coaster, who knew.
You get that just saying Ill try isnt enough? she asked at last.
I do.
You know I cant come back and do things over the same?
I do.
Not sure you do. No offence, just honest. I think youre frightened now, saying the right things. But you cant just decide to be different. Its not putting up a shelf.
I know its not a shelf, Anna.
So what are you properly offering?
He hesitated.
I want us to meet. In personnot the house.
All right, she said after a pause. Lets meet.
They met at a caféthe sort with wobbly chairs and scribbled chalk menus. Anna wore her beige coat. She looked tired, but calm.
They ordered coffee. James looked at her. It struck him he hadnt truly looked at her in such a long timejust looked, without thoughts of joints and lines and levels.
Hows your mum?
Better. Doing a bit of gardening. Glad I stayed.
Im glad.
They lapsed into quiet.
James, she said, I need you to understand. Its not about the home improvements themselves. I like your standards; truly, I do. But the flat was supposed to be a tool for living. For you, it became the point.
He nodded. Yes.
Are you just agreeing, or do you truly see it?
I see it.
How would I know for real?
He picked up his coffee, held it, put it down.
You cant knownot for sure. Even I dont know how much I can change. But I do know it cant go on. When you left, the flat turned out to be just a nice box.
Anna nodded, repeating, A nice box.
Yes.
Thats something.
Will you come back?
She watched the streetspring drizzle, damp passersby hurrying, and just inside the shop across the way, planters of scruffy red tulips.
Ill try, she said. But on terms.
Go on.
First: not a single tool for a month. No drills, no samples, no brochures. We just live.
All right.
Second: next Sunday, we have Emma and Will round. And Mark if he can come. Dinner, conversation. Here, as it is.
He nodded.
Third: if you go back to treating every scuff as disaster, Ill say soand you have to listen.
All right.
You understand these arent just words? This is actually hard.
I do, he said. Itll be hard for me. But Ill try.
She looked at him, closely, as people do when theyre seeking a flicker of the real behind the words.
Fine.
They walked home, close but not arm-in-arm as the rain faded. Anna carried Percy in her pocket, James her bag. Outside the building, Anna paused to look up at the fifth floor.
Nice building, she said.
Yes, James said.
In the lift, he unlocked the door. Anna entered first, placed Percy on the windowsillright on the polished surface, no coaster.
James looked at the cactus on the windowsill. On the gleaming top.
He said nothing.
Anna drifted into the kitchen. He heard her fill the kettle, switch it on.
He sat on the sofa in the lounge. Across the room, the glass heart still sat, not quite in line, left from three days before.
He didnt move it.
On Sunday, they called Emma. About time! she laughed, voice as bright as Anna remembered. Mark couldnt make it, but promised another time. Will brought wine, Emma a cake. Anna made the promised shepherds pie.
They set the table in the lounge. James noticed the plates weren’t perfectly aligned and moved onethen made himself leave it. Just so.
The dinner was noisy, close, cluttered. Emma knocked a wine glassred splashed over the cloth. Everyone gasped. Jamess chest tightened; he looked at Anna.
She looked backnot worried, not nervous, just watching.
He dabbed the stain. No worries.
Emma exhaled. Anna smiled, just a little.
They lingered long after, talking, laughing, drinking tea. After the guests left, it was past midnight. Anna washed up, James dried. Quiet, but a new sort of quiet.
The stain will come out, he said of the cloth.
Perhaps not, Anna replied.
Doesnt matter.
She looked at him. Handed him a plate.
James?
Yes.
It was nice, today.
Yes, he agreed.
After clearing up, they stood in the lounge. Mugs on the table, red blotch on the cloth, the glass heart on the shelf, Percy the cactus on the windowsill.
James thought about the stainhed need to soak it before it set. That the plant would mark the varnish. That a mug was a bit skewed.
Then he remembered Anna laughed twice todayonce at Emmas cat tales, once when Will mangled a joke toast. She laughed like she used to, long ago, when hed thought: there she is.
She walked to the bedroom, pausing at the door.
You coming?
In a minute.
He took another look roundthe mark, the cactus, the heart.
Turned out the light.
He lay beside her. She was reading. Her lamp, with its fabric shade, cast a soft glow.
Anna?
Mmm?
When I talk about gaps and millimetres, do you hear me?
She lowered her book, met his gaze.
I hear you.
What goes through your head then?
She considered honestly.
That youre far away, just then.
Yes. He sighed. I suppose I am.
She picked her book up.
He lay awhile, not sure if this would work, knowing three years was a long time and people change, and its like a crack in a wallfill it in, paint it over, but the materials not what it was. He knew that better than anyone.
He thought those things as sleep finally crept over him. One last drifting thought, on the edge of dreams: tomorrow morning, hed put Percy back on a coaster. Otherwise, hed fret about the varnish.
He opened his eyes.
Still that same ceiling. Still perfect. Not a flaw.
Anna turned a page softly beside him.
He closed his eyes again. Percy would wait till morning.
