Three Years of Renovation Without Guests
Amy set her cup down on the window ledge and heard Tom freeze in the hallway. She felt it in her back, even though she was facing the window. The silence was so heavy you could wade through it.
Youve put your cup on the windowsill, he said finally. It wasnt a question, just a statement of fact.
Yes, Tom. Ive put my cup on the windowsill.
Thats a varnished surface. Hot cups leave marks.
I know.
Then why?
Amy turned to look at him. He was forty-eight, and he looked itno more, no less. He stood in the kitchen doorway in his grey t-shirt, holding a spirit level, which he always carried around the flat on weekends, as others might carry a phone.
Ive nowhere else to put it, she replied. The tables covered in plastic. The other chairs upside down. The hallway floors still drying from the primer. I drink my tea standing at the window, Tom. Have done for three years now.
He looked at the cup. Then at her. Then back at the cup.
Ill get you a coaster.
Dont bother.
But itll leave a mark.
So let it.
He narrowed his eyeshis look for when he couldnt tell if she was joking. Amy herself wasnt always sure these days.
Amy, honestly, what
Thats it, she said quietly, the word dropping into the silence like a pebble in a pond. Thats it, Tom.
He didnt understand right away. He asked, What do you mean, thats it?
Im packing my things.
The pause that followed felt endless. Somewhere outside a car beeped, then silence again. Tom slowly let his arm with the level drop.
Because of the windowsill?
No. Not because of the windowsill.
Amy finished her tea and set the cup back down on the varnished wood. Deliberately, firmly, without a trace of apology.
She was forty-five, an accounts manager at a small company, loved reading before bed, kept a tiny cactus named Felix on her desk at work, and couldnt remember the last time shed invited friends round. It had been ages. Three years, to be precise.
She went to the bedroom.
Three years ago, when theyd bought this two-bedroom flat on the top floor of a quiet street in Reading, Amy had been thrilledgenuinely, bodily thrilled. She remembered she and Tom standing in the empty rooms with peeling wallpaper and scuffed floors, looking out the window at the autumn chestnuts, thinking: This is it. Our home.
Tom was different back thenor so she thought. He strode from room to room with his tape measure, jotting notes in his pad, eyes shining with the same drive shed once adored: the energy of someone who knows what he wants and can make it with his own hands.
Look, Amy, hed say, spreading out his sketch. Well knock through hereopen plan kitchen-living room. Bookcases built right into the wall, all the way up. See? Spotlights with dimmers, so we can set the mood.
Thatll be lovely, shed say, and she meant it.
Well do it all ourselves, properly. Take our time. Do it once, do it rightfor life.
She wished shed listened closer to that for life bit. Understood what it really meant.
The first six months were almost an adventure. They lived in the middle of building work. Amy cooked on an electric hob, gas not hooked up yet. They slept on a mattress on the floor because there was nowhere for a bed. Ate off disposable platesno kitchen sink. Awkward but a bit romantic, and manageable, back then.
Then something shifted. Slowly, like the earth beneath old foundations.
Tom renovated every weekend, sometimes even on the odd weekday if he got away from work. He was a site manager and knew more about materials and techniques than most professionals. That was, in itself, great. The problem wasnt expertise.
The problem was, he just couldnt stop.
At first, Amy didnt really notice. The first inkling came eight months in, during coffee with her friend Claire.
Almost done? Claire asked. I want to finally visit! You promised me your legendary shepherds pie.
Just a bit more to go, Amy replied. Toms confident well be finished by Christmas.
Christmas Day cameand they celebrated among dust sheets and plasterboard in the living room. No guests, just the two of them at the kitchen table, which was almost done. Almost.
Next year, Tom. Lets throw a proper party, Amy said, pouring some bubbly.
Absolutely. Once Ive finished the living room ceiling and the parquet flooring.
He finished the ceiling by March, but then realised the plumber had botched the bath pipeworkTom couldnt bear to leave it as it was. Next it was the balcony doors; the foam used had settled, leaving a drafty three-millimetre gap. He found it with a feeler gauge.
Amy used to joke to her friends: My husbands at war with three millimetres. Theyd all laugh. Shed laugh too. It really was funny, at the time.
They laid the parquet in May, when they could finally open the windows. Amy carried the boards, fetched tools, vacuumed up the dust. Tom worked in silence, steady hands checking every run with the spirit level and a laser. Several times he lifted finished sections and relaid themgap wasnt right.
Tom, does it even show? shed ask.
I can tell, hed reply, head down.
For Amy, something shifted inside with those words. Not hurtful, exactlymore like some structural shift you cant quite name.
They finished the floor in Junebeautiful, it really was. Pale oak, seamless lines. She brushed her hand over it: Its lovely.
Well varnish it nextproperly. I found a German one, scratch resistant.
When?
Next week.
Except, the next week, he noticed a minuscule gap by the skirting board. So varnishing was postponed.
That June, Amy called Claire to meet up. They sat on a pub terrace, sipping iced tea.
Hows the house? Can I finally come over?
Nearly, Amy said. And went quiet.
Everything alright? Claire asked.
No I mean Ive started to think hell never be finished.
They all drag it out.
No, you dont understand. Its like he doesnt want to finish. As if while the renovation isnt over, its an excuse. Not to have visitors. Not to arrange the furniture. Not to really live.
Claires face grew serious. Have you told him?
I try. Every time he explains its nearly thereitll be perfect and thats it.
But do you want perfection?
After a pause, Amy said, I just want to be home. Thats all.
At home that night, Tom was comparing paint swatchesabout twenty of them. All white, but twenty shades.
Seewarm white with a creamy base. This is a colder one, bit greyish. And this has a hint of blue. It makes a critical difference in daylight. I think we should choose this one.
Amy could only see white. Just white.
Tom, I dont care anymore.
He looked at her as if shed said something completely mad.
What do you mean you dont care? Well live here.
Yes. Exactly. Well be living here. Actual people. Real people dont care about the exact tone of white on their walls.
They dothey just dont realise it.
Alright, she sighed. You pick.
He did. He always did. That shiftfrom Amy gratefully letting Tom take the lead because he knew best, to barely being asked her opinion at allhad crept in so slowly she hardly noticed. If she liked a tile, hed explain why another was technically better. If she wanted the sofa there, hed pull up his floorplanner app and explain how it threw out the zones. Bit by bit, her I like this just faded away. Why bother?
In October that second year, Toms old mate Pete from Manchester rang up, passing through, asked to crash for a night. Amy was genuinely excited. Bought groceries, got out proper crockery, wiped the table.
Tom said Pete couldnt staythey were doing up the bedroom.
They werent. The bedroom was fine, with a made bed and a built wardrobe. Amy knew it.
Tom, what works are there in the bedroom?
A pause.
The flooring needs relaying in one bit. The smells not great for sleeping.
What smell? Theres no smell.
Look, Amy, why would you want someone seeing the flat like this?
Like what?
Unfinished.
Amy just looked at him, feeling the ground shift beneath her feet. Not metaphorically, but for realbecause she suddenly saw: he was ashamed. Ashamed of a home hed built himself, because it wasnt the version in his head. And for this invisible ideal, hed turn away an old friend.
Alright then, she said. Nothing more.
Pete came, had a cuppa in their kitchen, had a meal at the pub with Tom, then stayed at a Travelodge. Amy ate dinner alone at home.
That night, she lay awake staring at the perfectly painted ceilingflawless, not a mark, not a seam. Above a perfect bed, in a roomempty of guests for two years.
That winter, Amys mum got the flu. Nothing serious, but she lived alone, and Amyd go across Oxford to help her a couple of times a week, sometimes stay overnight. Tom didnt mind; he was busy painting inside the balcony door with a special primer.
One evening, Amy came back early to find him sitting on the hallway floor with a magnifying glass, inspecting the join between wall and skirting.
Everything alright? she asked, hanging up her coat.
Theres a gap here, he said, not looking up.
She didnt ask how big. No pointhed explain it in millimetres.
Tom, she said. Have you eaten today?
A pause.
Dont remember.
Breakfast?
I mightve had something.
She went to the kitchen, made pasta and fried an egg. He appeared as she was finishing. Sat down, looked at his plate.
Thanks.
No problem.
They ate in silence. Snow was falling outside. A catalogue of wardrobe fittings lay on the tablea year-old discussion.
Tom, she said quietly.
Mmm?
Tell me something. But not about the house.
He looked up at her as if shed just asked him to speak Swahili.
Like what?
Anything. How was your day? What do you think about? Whats made you laugh or worry? Anythingjust not gaps and grout.
He watched her for a few seconds.
Well, today at work, one of the boys poured a screed with no mesh. I sent him home.
Thats work stuff.
Well, yeah.
And is that it? Nothing else?
He genuinely tried to think. Amy could see ithe was digging for anything in his head unrelated to construction.
I dont know, he admitted. Maybe not.
She lay awake later, thinking: when did a person become only their function? But she remembered another Tomthe one who drove her up to the Lakes in his old car, whod point out constellations in the night sky by name. Where did that Tom go?
In the third year, Amy stopped telling friends that it would soon be finished. Because it wasnt true. Every time the job ended, Tom found something new to redo. Or changed his mind: the tiles for the bathroom werent hard-wearing enough; the paint dried the wrong shade; the new door handle was good, but the hinge creaked in cold weather. Each flaw was a new project.
Amy bought herself a bedside lampa plain one with a fabric shade. Put it on the nightstand. One evening Tom saw it.
Wheres that come from?
I bought it.
Why? We decided on fitted spotlights.
I want to read before bed.
Spots will be better.
When will they be in?
He didnt answer.
Exactly, she said. Theyll be in when theyre in. But I want to read now.
The lamp stayed a week. Then Tom put a little metal desk light beside itsaid the beam was better. Amys lamp got shifted to the corner. Then the shelf. One day she found it back in the cupboard with the paint. She took it right back. Put it on the nightstand.
Tom moved it. She put it back.
No one said anythingbut this was a small battle, and a tiny tragedy. Because in a normal home, thats nothing. Just a lamp.
In April of that third year, Amy sent Claire a message in the middle of the workday:
Fancy a few days away? Some spa or retreat? No partners.
Claire replied instantly: Absolutely! When?
They went in May, four days at a B&B in the countryside. Amy booked off work. Tom was busy gutting the bathroom, lost in it.
Amys room was tiny, with old-fashioned wooden furniture, a bright throw, and a little window letting in fresh, damp-smelling forest air. It was all a bit worn, a bit imperfect, with scratches and scuffs and bits that didnt fit. Amy realised, for the first time in ages, she was truly happy. So much so, she lay down and burst into tears that first night.
Claire was in the next bed, said nothing. Just lay there.
I live in a museum, Amy admitted at last, staring at the patch of cracked paint up by the ceiling light. A beautiful, perfect, dead museum.
Claire thought, then asked, Have you told him?
Yes.
And?
He keeps saying if Ill just wait a bit longer, things will get better. Its always, just a little longer.
What about counselling? You could try together.
He wont go. Tom thinks therapists are for people with real problems. He says this is just about the house.
They fell quiet, the smell of woods drifting in. Amy realised: this was it. The fresh air. The little window. The colourful bedspread, chosen because she fancied itnot measured, not planned to the centimetre. Life.
She went home after four days. The house smelled of plaster. Tom met her by the door, said hed redone the bathroom niche and wanted to show her.
She had a look.
Nice, she said.
See? Its all symmetrical now. Right side was 1.5 centimetres too wide before.
I see.
I spent a week figuring out how to redo it without chipping the finished tile. Finally got there.
Clever you.
She went to the bedroom, changed, collapsed on the bed and stared at the ceilingimmaculate.
In June came the conversation she remembered most vividly. It was Sunday, about eight. Tom was touching up paint in the cupboard; Amy making dinner, listening to him shuffle around.
Tom! she called.
What?
Dinners in twenty minutes.
Okay.
Twenty minutes went byno Tom. Forty minutes. She rapped on the cupboard door.
Dinners getting cold.
Five minutes.
Five minutes later, still nothing.
She ate alone. Cleared up. Washed up. He emerged at half ten, saw the bare table.
Oh, I lost track of time, he said.
I know.
Shall I heat up something?
Do it yourself.
She went to bed, picked up her book. Didnt look up when he came in.
Tom, are you happy?
A long pause.
Er Yeah, I guess so.
Are you sure?
Amy, why are you asking me that?
Just wondering. Are you happy?
He climbed in next to her. Lay quietly. Then: When I finish the cupboard, Ill do the balcony floor. Once thats done, this place will be completely finished.
She closed her book.
You realise you just answered my question there?
How?
I asked if you were happy, and you told me about the balcony.
He had no answer. Stayed quiet.
Goodnight, Amy said.
Night.
She left the light on for ages, lay staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe. Wondered if, in another life or another version of this life, theyd be lying here talking, not about anything particularsome film theyd watched, a silly thing her mum had said, new dishes at their favourite cafe. Talking, just to talk.
But here, there was silence. As flawless as the ceiling.
Thats the conversation she remembered as she set her cup on the window ledge that morning. Remembered it, and realised the word enough had been waiting for ages. It just needed the cup to let it out.
She packed methodically, without tears. Only the things that were properly hers. A few books. Makeup. Clothes. The lamp with the fabric shade. Passport. Charger. Her cactus Felix, which shed brought from work months ago, because there wasnt another living plant in the flat. Tom never minded the cactus. Cactuses dont leave marks.
Tom stood in the bedroom doorway, watching her pack.
Amy.
Yes.
Lets talk.
About what?
Well, youre packing your bags.
Yep.
Is it over the cup?
Tom, please. You know exactly why.
I dont, honestly.
She stopped. Looked at him. He stood there, tall, no spirit level this timejust himself, totally lost. She hadnt seen that look in years.
Tom, weve lived here three years.
I know.
Not a single proper dinner with friends. Not once, in all that time.
Because the flat isnt
Because its never finished! And you know it never will be. Dont you?
He was silent.
Youll always find something to fix. Thats just your nature. And its not bad, as such. But I cant live like this. Im done living on a building site.
Itll be soon
No, she said, softly but firmly. Not soon. Its not about the time. Its not about waiting it out. Ive been a guest in my own flat for three years. I tiptoed around, worried about scratches. I put my cups on coasters. I hid my lamp. I didnt invite friends over because you were embarrassed about the renovation. I
Her voice caught, so she let it hang for a second.
I want to live. Actually live. With scuffs on the floor and coffee stains on the window ledge. With friends over for Sunday lunch. With your old coat slung over a chair back. With all the messiness you get in a real home. And we never managed it.
He was quiet for ages. Quietly, he asked, Where will you go?
To Mums, for now.
For long?
I dont know.
She zipped up her bag, grabbed Felix the cactus, walked past him down the hallway, found her raincoat and trainerstrying not to look at the perfect parquet under her feet.
Amy, he said.
Yes.
I I never realised it was this bad.
Yes you did, she said. You just didnt want to think about it.
She shut the front door very carefullylike everything else was done in that flat.
Tom stayed where he was. Then he wandered into the living room and sat on the sofaa sofa hed spent three months picking the fabric for. Good quality, hardwearing but didnt attract fluff. He sat there, in his immaculate living room, and looked around.
The flat was beautiful, truly. Warm walls, perfect floor, seamless ceiling, built-in shelves lined up exactly, lighting faultlessly layered. No gaps in the balcony doors. The tiling in the bath fit to a hairline.
He looked at it all and felt weird. Not proud. Closer to queasiness, but not exactly in his stomachhigher up.
Her books still sat on the shelf. He stared at the spines, trying to remember the last time hed seen her readingnot in bed, in hiding, but just reading for pleasure out in the open. Couldnt recall.
He went to the kitchen. Her tea cup was still on the window ledge. No mark. Stone cold.
He picked it up, washed it, put it in the rack. Then wandered to the bedroom, lay on the bed, still in his clothessomething he never did. Stared at the ceiling.
Perfect.
He lay there for an hour. Maybe two. Time had lost all meaning. Then he got up, headed for the cupboard. Buckets of leftover paint, rolls of tape, packs of primer, his tools neatly on their hooks. He rummaged through, found a tiny tile hed once taken to work to match a sample. Turned it over in his fingers. Put it back.
Nothing out of place in the cupboard. Except him.
Later, he microwaved a ready meal, tasted nothing, washed up. The flat was dead still. Before, thered always been noisework, scraping, hammering, fumes of woodstain. Now, just this immaculate hush.
He tried the telly. Watched something for twenty minutes without following it. Switched it off.
For a long while, he stared at her name in his phone contacts. Didnt call. Just thought.
He wasnt thinking about getting her back. He was turning over what shed said: about friends, the lamp, being a guest in her own home. That word stuck: guest. In your own home.
He thought of Pete. The lie about the non-existent work in the bedroom. Why did he do that? Not that the place wasnt livableit had been for ages. But because it wasnt what hed pictured in his head. Not what hed promised himself hed make.
He promised himself a perfect flat, and kept chasing it. You cant ever catch perfect. Its not like a ceiling you can paint flawless; perfections just the horizon. You walk and walk, but it stays ahead.
Amy understood that. He hadnt.
Or maybe he did, but refused to.
He walked through the flat, switched on lights in every room. Stared at the shelves.
Everything lined up: book heights, objects spaced precisely, not a millimetre off. That was his rule: a place for everything, nothing spare, all perfectly arranged.
In the middle of the third shelf sat a little glass heart, amberish, hand-blown, a bit uneven. Amy had bought it at some market, years back. Hed grumbled, Whats the point? Just gathers dust. Shed replied, I like it. He hadnt said anything, and the heart had stayed as a tiny concession not worth rowing over.
He picked it up now. It felt warm. Or he imagined it did.
He thought about this for three days. Three days pacing the flat, doing nothing, not sleeping well. Made a mess of a work calculation and had to redo it. A colleague asked if he was alright. Fine, just tired, he lied.
On the fourth day, he sent her a message.
Amy, talk for a bit?
She replied an hour later: Sure.
He called. She answered after a couple of rings.
Hi, he said.
Hey.
How are you?
Im fine. Mums good.
A pause. He could hear her breathing, had no idea how to start. He never had a clue about things like this. She always did.
Amy, Ive been thinking these past few days.
I figured.
You know what Im going to say?
More or less.
I get it now. I missed something importantno, not missed, but I was choosing the wrong thing.
She was quiet.
You talked about guests and the lamp. I remember. I do now. I didnt then. Or maybe I pretended not to.
Why are you telling me this?
Because I want you to come back.
A long pause.
Tom
Im not asking now. I just want to say it honestly. Id like you to come back. I want to try. I dont know if Ill manage it, but I want to try.
She was silent so long he wondered if shed hung up. He heard her moving around, just somethinga cup moved on a table, or maybe the window ledge.
You do realise just saying Ill try isnt enough, right?
I do.
You understand I cant go back and just live the same way?
I do.
Im not sure you do. Dont take it badly, but youre scared now so youre saying the right things. But you cant just decide to be someone else overnight. Its not like hanging a shelf.
I know it isnt.
So what are you offering?
A pause.
Lets meet properly. Not on the phone.
Alright, she said after a minute. Lets meet.
They met at a coffee shopnot at home, but a random place with wobbly chairs and a chalkboard menu. Amy wore her familiar beige coat, a bit pale, but calm.
They ordered coffee. Tom watched herreally looked, for the first time in ages, with no parallel thoughts about gaps or caulking.
Hows your mum? he asked.
Better. Bought some new plants, fusses with cuttings. Shes glad I was around.
Im glad you had that, Tom said.
They sat in silence.
Tom, Amy said at last, I need you to understand something. Its not really about the flat. Or you wanting to do things properly. Thats goodreally. But you mixed up the point. A flats a tool for living. For you, it became the point itself.
Yeah, he agreed.
Do you understand that, or are you just saying so?
I understand.
How do I know?
He picked up his cup, set it down again. You dont, he admitted. You cant know. I dont know if Ill change much, but I do know things cant go on. When you left, the place turned into a pretty box.
Amy stared out the window. Rain was falling, the usual spring drizzle, people rushing past, tulips for sale outside the shop across the road, a bit battered by the wind.
Ill try, she said at last. But on conditions.
Name them.
One. No more DIY for a month. Not a nail. No samples, no catalogues. Just living.
Alright.
Two. Next Sunday we invite Claire and Dan, and Pete, if he can get down. We lay the table, we eat and chat. In this flat, as it is.
He nodded.
Three. If you start making a drama of every scratch or mark, Ill call you out on it. And you have to listen.
Deal.
You know this wont be easy, right?
I do. For me, its hard. But Ill try.
She looked at him, as if searching for something real behind the words. Then: Fair enough.
They walked home. It was still drizzling, but they went on foot. She had Felix the cactus in her pocket, he carried her bag. Outside their building, she looked up at the fifth floor.
Nice looking place, she said.
Yeah, he agreed.
They rode the lift up. He unlocked the door. She went in first to the living room, set Felix on the window ledgeno coaster.
Tom watched the cactus on the varnished wood.
He said nothing.
Amy went into the kitchen. He heard her filling the kettle, clicking it on.
He sat on the sofa, glanced at the shelves. The glass heart was still there, not quite in its allotted spot, slightly off.
He didnt move it.
That Sunday they rang Claire. At last! she laughed, so happy it was contagious. Pete couldnt make it but promised for next time. Dan brought wine, Claire brought a cake, Amy finally cooked her shepherds pie, promise of three years ago.
They all sat in the living room. Tom caught himself fussing over the platesput one straight, then left it. Stopped himself.
The place was noisy, a bit cramped. Claire knocked her glass; red wine spilled over the tablecloth. There was a collective gasp. Tom felt his insides tense, glanced at Amy.
She just watched himnot worried, not alarmed. Just watched.
He grabbed a napkin, dabbed the stain. Not the end of the world.
Claire let out a breath. Amy smiled, just a little, at the corner of her mouth.
They stayed talking late, laughing, tea in hand. When everyone left it was after midnight. Amy washed up, Tom dried. Nobody spoke, but this silence was different.
The stainll wash out, I think, he said.
Maybe not, she replied.
So what.
She handed him a plate. Tom.
Yes.
It was nice today.
It was.
They finished in the kitchen, came back into the living room. Cups still on the table, wine blot on the cloth. The glass heart on the shelf. Felix the cactus on the windowsill.
He took it all in, thinking he should really soak that stain tomorrow before it set in. Wondered if the cactus would leave a mark on the varnish. Noticed one cup wasnt quite straight.
But also noticed Amy’s laughtertwice today: once at Claires story about her cat, once at Dans muddled toast. The way she laughed like she used to, ages ago, when he thought: thats her.
She drifted past him to the bedroom. Stopped in the doorway.
You coming?
In a sec.
He sat once more in the living room: the stain, the cactus, the heart.
Turned off the lights.
Climbed into bed. She was reading. Her own lamp with a fabric shade glowed on the nightstand. He stared at the ceiling.
Amy.
Mmm?
When I go on about gaps and millimetres do you hear me?
She lowered her book. I hear you.
What do you think then?
She thought a momenthonestly.
I think… youre somewhere else.
He nodded. Yeah. I suppose I am.
She picked up her book again.
He lay there, not knowing if theyd manage. Three years was a long timesomething in her had changed, something in him, too. Like a crack in a wall: you can fill it, and the seam barely shows, but the materials never quite the same. He knew that better than most.
He kept thinking till sleep crept in. Then, right on the edge of waking, he thought: tomorrow morning, hed move Felix onto a coasterbecause otherwise itd leave a ring on the varnish.
He opened his eyes.
Ceiling still perfect. Not a crack.
Amy turned a page quietly beside him.
He shut his eyes again. Felix could wait till morning.
