Three Years of Renovations Without a Single Visitor

Three Years of Renovation Without Guests

Sophie placed her mug on the windowsill and, almost at the same moment, heard Michael freeze out in the hallway. She felt it in her back, though she was standing facing the window. The pause between them was so thick you could lose yourself in it.

“You put your mug on the windowsill,” he said at last. Not a question. Simply a statement.

“Yes, Michael. I put my mug on the windowsill.”

“That’s a varnished surface. A hot mug leaves a ring.”

“I know.”

“So why do it?”

Sophie turned around. He was forty-eight, looking exactly his age. No more, no less. He stood in the kitchen doorway in his grey t-shirt, holding a spirit level. He always carried the thing around on weekends, the way some folks never let go of their phone.

“Because there’s nowhere else to put it,” she replied. “The table’s covered with plastic sheeting. The second chair is upside down on the floor. And the hallway is still drying after the sealant went down. I drink my tea by the window, Michael. I’ve been drinking it stood here for the past three years.”

He glanced at the mug, then at her, then at the mug again.

“I’ll put a coaster down for you.”

“No need.”

“But it’ll leave a mark.”

“Let it.”

He narrowed his eyes in that particular way he did when he wasn’t sure if she was joking. Sophie wasn’t sure herself, half the time.

“Soph, what’s the”

“Enough,” she said quietly. The word fell into the room like a stone into water. “That’s it, Michael.”

He didn’t register it straight away. Asked, “What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?”

“I’m packing my things.”

Another pause, longer this time. A car beeped outside and faded away. Michael slowly lowered the spirit level.

“Over the windowsill?”

“No. Not about the windowsill.”

Sophie finished her tea, put the mug back downon the varnished surfacedeliberately, firmly, without a hint of regret.

She was forty-five. Worked as a bookkeeper in a small firm, loved reading before bed, had a little cactus at work called Felix, and couldnt remember the last time shed invited a friend over. It had been a long time. Three years, to be precise.

She walked off to the bedroom.

Three years ago, when they bought this two-bedroom on the top floor of a redbrick block, hidden up a sleepy little lane, Sophie was the happiest she’d ever been. Truly, physically happy. She remembered them both, standing in empty rooms with peeling wallpaper and painted floorboards, looking out at the autumn sycamores. Shed thought, this is it. This is home.

Back then, Michael seemed differentor so she thought. He paced around, measuring walls with a tape, jotting things in a notebook, his eyes bright with that keen, determined energy shed fallen for. The energy of a man who knew what he wanted, and how to make it with his own hands.

“Soph, look,” he’d say, unfurling a page covered in drawings. “Well keep this bit open plankitchen-dining together. Shelves built wall-to-ceiling, can you see? And here, spotlights on dimmers so it’s all adjustable.”

“Lovely,” shed reply, and meant it.

“We’ll do it all ourselves, bit by bit. Properly. Once. For good.”

She should have listened more carefully to that “once, for good” bit. There was more to it than wanting to save on builders.

The first six months had a sense of adventure. They camped in dust and tools. Sophie cooked with a portable hobgas hadnt been connected yet. They slept on a mattress on the floor. Ate off paper plates, because there was no sink. Odd, a touch romantic, and totally manageable. Then.

Afterwards, things began to shift. Slowly, like a floor settling underfoot.

Michael poured most weekendsand the odd weekday if he took time offinto the renovation. He worked as a site manager, so he knew more about materials and building than most, which was honestly impressive. Knowledge wasnt the problem.

The issue was, he simply couldnt stop.

At first, Sophie didnt see it. Until about eight months in, dust still in her hair, over a coffee in the high street with her friend Lucy.

“So are you nearly done?” Lucy asked. “You promised me stew at your place!”

“A bit longer,” Sophie said. “Michael says well definitely have it finished by Christmas.”

They spent Christmas amid stacks of plasterboard, no visitors invited. Ate supermarket trifle for two, sitting in a kitchen that was almostalmostfinished.

“Lets have a proper party next year,” Sophie said, pouring the prosecco.

“Definitely,” he said. “Once I finish the sitting room ceiling and the parquet, well do it.”

He finished the ceiling in March, but then there was a wiring issue in the bathroomhe couldnt live with the mess a shoddy electrician had left. Then it was the balcony doors: installation foam had shrunk, leaving a gap he measured at three millimetres with his gauge.

At the time, Sophie still made jokes about it. Told her friends, “My husbands fighting the war on three millimetres.” They all laughed, and she laughed too. It was funny. Then.

They laid the parquet in May, with windows open wide. Sophie helped hand him boards, fetched tools, hoovered up the dust. Michael worked in silence and full focus, like a surgeon, checking everything with spirit level and laser. Hed lift and realign rows for a gap she couldnt even see.

“Michael, does it matter?” she once asked.

“I can see it,” he replied, not looking up.

That was when she felt something in his wordssomething that didnt hurt so much as make her pause. She stood with the cloth in hand, staring at his bent neck, knowing she was understanding something, but not quite what.

They finished the floor in June. It was truly beautiful: pale oak, perfect lines, neat symmetry under her palm.

“Lovely,” she said honestly.

“Well lacquer it,” he replied. “Proper stuffhard wearing, German made.”

“When?”

“Next week.”

Next week, he noticed a skirting board coming away in one cornerby half a millimetre. The lacquering was postponed.

That June, Sophie rang Lucy, asked her out. They sat on a terrace outside a café, iced tea in hand, and Lucy asked again, “So when are you having me round?”

“Soon,” Sophie said. Then fell silent.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Just… Lucy, I dont think hell ever finish.”

“Theyre all like thatthey drag it out.”

“No, I dont think you get it. Hes not dragging it out. I think… as long as its unfinished, he has an excuse for everything. For not inviting guests. For not moving the furniture. For not living a normal life.”

Lucy listened.

“Have you told him?”

“I try. But he always says, just a bit more, and then itll be perfect.”

“Do you want perfect?”

Sophie paused.

“I just want home,” she said at last.

That night, Michael laid out twenty-odd paint sample cards on the kitchen tableall shades of white.

“See, this is a warm white, a bit creamy. Heres a cool one, a touch of grey. Just a hint of blue in this one. Makes all the difference in daylight.”

He pointed to one. Sophie stared at the lot and saw just whiteevery variation.

“Michael,” she said. “I honestly dont mind.”

He looked at her like shed spoken a foreign language.

“How can you say that? Well be living here.”

“Exactly. Living. Real people, in a real house. They dont notice the white on the walls.”

“They do. They just dont realise they notice.”

“Just pick one,” she said, tired.

He picked. He always picked. That also happened gradually. At first, she was pleased he wanted the responsibility; he knew more about it. But then she realised he asked her less, and less, and then stopped altogether. Not rudely, not on purpose. But her opinion didnt make a difference. If she said, “I like these tiles,” hed explain the other tiles were more durable. If she said, “Lets put the sofa here,” hed show a floor plan proving it would ruin the layout. If she said, “I like it,” hed answer, “But its better this way.”

So she stopped saying what she liked. What was the point?

That October, halfway into the second year, Michaels old uni mate, Dave, rang up and said hed be passing through towncould he crash the night? Sophie was genuinely pleased. She bought nice food, got out the proper dinner set, dusted the table.

Michael told her Dave couldnt staythe bedroom was being worked on.

There was no work going on. The bed was made, wardrobe up. She knew for certain.

“Michael,” she said quietly, after he hung up. “What work in the bedroom?”

He hesitated.

“The floor needs relaying in one bit. Dave wouldnt sleep well with the smell.”

“What smell? Theres no smell in there.”

“Soph, why should someone see the place like this?”

“Like what?”

“Unfinished.”

She watched him, feeling, quite literally, like the ground was giving way. Because she realised: he was embarrassed. Embarrassed by his own handiworkbecause it wasn’t yet the one in his mind. And for that invisible ideal, hed even lie to an old friend.

“Alright,” she said. Nothing more.

Dave came over, had tea in the kitchen, ate at the pub with Michael, and spent the night at a hotel. Sophie ate a meal at home alone.

That night, she struggled to sleep. Lay there, staring at the ceiling Michael had painted flawless whiteno marks or seams. Perfect ceiling over a perfect bed, in a room untouched by guests for two years.

That winter, Sophies mum came down with the flunothing critical, but she was on her own, so Sophie went across London twice a week to check on her, sometimes stayed overnight. Michael didnt mindhe was busy painting the inside of the balcony doors with some special, two-coat formula.

Once Sophie got home earlier than usual and found him, sitting on the hall floor, inspecting a gap between the wall and skirting with a magnifying glass.

“Everything alright?” she called, taking off her coat.

“Gap here,” he muttered, not looking up.

She didnt ask how bighed explain in millimetres, anyway.

“Michael, have you eaten?”

Pause.

“Can’t remember.”

“This morning?”

“Had something.”

She made him pasta, fried an egg. He came in just as she finished. Sat, stared at the plate.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

They ate in silence. Outside, fat snowflakes drifted down. On the table lay a sample catalogue for the fitted wardrobe they’d planned for over a year.

“Michael,” she said.

“Mm?”

“Tell me something. Not about the renovation.”

He looked up, as if shed asked him to speak French.

“Like what?”

“Anything. Your day. Your thoughts. Something funny, or sad. Anything not about seams and materials.”

He gazed at her for a few seconds. Then replied,

“One of the lads poured floor screed with no mesh today. I sent him home.”

“Thats work.”

“Yeah.”

“And nothing else?”

He truly tried to think, she could tell. Trying to come up with a story that didnt involve construction. He couldnt.

“I dont know,” he said at last. “Nothing comes to mind.”

That night, Sophie lay awake, thinkingwhen had a living, breathing man turned into a bundle of functions? Or had he always been that way, and she just missed it? No. He hadnt always been like this. She remembered the old Michaelon road trips in his clattering old Peugeot, pointing out constellations at midnight, telling her which one was Cassiopeia, Ursa Major, the Pleiades. And she saw them.

Where had those stars gone?

By the third year, shed stopped telling friends it would be finished soon, because it was clear it wouldnt. Renovation ended and restarted, round and round. Michael found flaws everywherea tile wasnt hard-wearing enough, paint dried the wrong shade, a door hinge clicked in the cold. Every imperfection became a fresh cycle.

Sophie bought herself a little bedside lamp, fabric shade, nothing special. Put it on her nightstand. That evening, Michael saw it, frowned.

“Wheres that from?”

“I bought it.”

“Why? We were getting built-in spots.”

“I want to read before bed.”

“Spots will be better.”

“When?”

He didnt answer.

“Exactly,” she said. “Spots will happen when they happen. I want to read now.”

The lamp stayed put for a week. Then Michael brought in a different lamp from the storage cupboard, said it had better light. Sophies lamp was shuffled to a corner, then the shelf, then she found it in the cupboard among the tins of primer.

She said nothing. Simply brought it back to the nightstand.

He moved it. She replaced it.

He stayed silent. So did she.

The lamp remained. It was a tiny victory, and a miniature tragedy. In a normal house, in a normal relationship, this wouldnt be a battle or a lossjust a lamp.

That April, Sophie messaged Lucy at work: “Luc, fancy a quick getaway? Spa or countryside? Just us, no husbands.”

Lucy replied instantly: “Yes! When?”

They went for four days in May, to a tiny B&B in the country. Sophie took leave. Michael was bemused but didnt argue. He was busy redoing the bathroom, after all.

The B&B gave Sophie a tiny room with basic wooden furniture, a garish bedspread, and a window cracked open to the damp green of the woods. Everything was a bit battered, a bit imperfect, scratched and uneven. Sophie realised she was genuinely happy. So happy, she lay down on the bedspread the first night, looked up at a cracked ceiling, and burst into tears.

Lucy, on the next bed, stayed quiet.

“I live in a museum, Luc,” Sophie said, staring up. “A beautiful, perfect, dead museum.”

Lucy paused before she asked, “Have you told him?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He says, just a bit longer, itll all get better.”

“Maybe see a therapist, the two of you?”

“He wont. Michael thinks therapys for people with real problems. He just has a renovation.”

They lay there with the woods in the breeze, Sophie thinking: This is what I missed. An open window, the smell of leaves, a beat-up bedspread bought because you liked the look of it. Life.

After four days, she returned. The flat smelled of fresh filler. Michael met her at the door, eager to show her the new bathroom alcove.

“See? Now its perfectly symmetrical. Before, the right side was one and a half centimetres wider.”

“I can see.”

“I spent a week figuring out how to redo it without damaging the existing tiles. Found a way, in the end.”

“Brilliant.”

She went to get changed, lay on the bed, and stared at the ceiling. The flawless ceiling.

June brought the conversation shed never forget. It was a Sunday, late evening. Michael was painting something in the box room. Sophie was cooking, listening to him rattle tape reels and tin somewhere.

“Michael!” she called.

“What?” he replied.

“Dinners in twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”

She set the table. Twenty minutes, no Michael. Forty, still no sign. She knocked on the storage room door.

“Dinners going cold.”

“Five more minutes,” he said.

Five minutes passed. He didnt emerge.

She ate alone, cleared up, washed the dishes. He came out, hours later, saw the empty table.

“Lost track of time,” he said.

“I know.”

“Want me to heat it up?”

“Do it yourself.”

She went to bed, picked up a book, whether reading or pretending she didnt know.

When he lay down beside her, she asked, eyes on the page, “Michael, are you happy?”

Long pause.

“Well yeah, I suppose so.”

“Are you sure?”

“Soph, whats this about?”

“Just a question.”

He lay in silence. Then said,

“Once I finish the storage room, Ill do the balcony, insulate below the laminate. After that, the flat will finally be done.”

She closed her book.

“Do you realise you just answered my question?”

“How?”

“I asked if you were happy. And you told me about the balcony.”

He had no reply. Lay there, wordless.

“Goodnight, Michael.”

“Goodnight.”

She left the light on for ages, just looking at the ceiling, listening to him breathe, thinking that in some other life, some parallel version, theyd be lying together talkingabout a TV show, a funny thing her mum said, the new menu at their favourite café. Just talking.

Here, there was only silence. Flawless, like the ceiling.

That morning, putting her mug on the windowsill, Sophie remembered that conversation. She realised that “thats it” had been building up for a while. It just needed a mug to bring it out.

She packed quietly, methodically, no tears. Just the essentials: a few books, makeup, clothes, the lamp with the comforting shade, passport, charger, her little cactus Felixa gift from the office, lone living plant in the house. Michael had never objected to FelixFelix didnt leave marks.

Michael hovered in the bedroom doorway as she packed.

“Soph.”

“What?”

“Can we talk?”

“What about?”

“Well, youre packing.”

“Yes.”

“Is this because of the mug?”

“Michael, come off it. You know perfectly well why.”

“I dont. I really dont.”

She stopped. Looked at him. He stood, tall and lost, for once without his spirit level, looking properly thrown. She hadnt seen him that out of his depth in ages.

“Michael,” she said. “Weve lived here three years.”

“Yes.”

“We havent had one single normal dinner with friends. Not one. In three years.”

“Because the flat isnt”

“Because the flat isnt finished, yes. It never will be, will it? You know that.”

He was silent.

“Youll always find something to redo, its the way you are. That isnt badat all. But I just cant live in a building site any longer.”

“Soon”

“No.” She said it softly but firmly. “Its not about time. Its not about waiting a bit longer. Ive been a guest in my own home for three years. I walked carefully, so I wouldnt scratch anything. Used coasters. Moved my lamp. Never invited friends because you were embarrassed about the unfinished rooms. I…”

Her voice wobbled for a second. She paused.

“I want to live. Just live. With scratches on the floor and coffee rings on the windowsill. Friends round on Sundays. Your scruffy old jacket slung over a chair. Everything that makes a place a real home. But we never managed it.”

He didnt speak for a long time. Then quietly,

“Where will you go?”

“Mums, for now.”

“For long?”

“I dont know.”

She zipped up her bag, picked up Felix, walked past him, stuck her arms through her coat, did up her trainers, not looking at the perfect floor beneath her feet.

“Soph,” he called after her.

“What?”

“I… I never realised it was like this.”

“You did,” she said. “You just didnt want to admit it.”

The door clicked shut softly behind her. Precise, like everything else in that flat.

He stayed behind.

Michael stood in the hall for a minute, then wandered through to the lounge and sat on the sofa. Hed agonised for months picking the fabricspent weeks on samples. It was good, hard-wearing, didnt collect fluff. He sat on it, in his beautiful lounge, and looked around.

It was a stunning flattruly. Walls painted the perfect warm white, parquet without a gap, seamless ceiling, built-in shelving straight as rulers. The lights cast no awkward shadows. The balcony door fitted tight, the bathroom tiles lined up perfectly.

He stared at it all and felt something strange. Not pride, but something acidic, sitting high in his chest.

On a shelf sat a few of Sophies books. He tried to recall the last time hed seen her reading on this sofa, in decent light, come evening. Not late at night, hiding behind a book. Ages ago.

He stood, made for the kitchen. There was the mug, on the windowsill. No mark. Cold tea.

He washed up, left the mug to drain. Stood for a moment, wandered back to the bedroom. Lay down on the made-up bed, still dressed, something hed never have done before. Stared at the ceiling.

The ceiling was, of course, perfect.

He lay there for an hour, maybe two. Time lost its grip. Later, he got up, wandered to the box room. Buckets of leftover paint, rolls of plaster tape, tin after tin of primer, organised tools. Everything in its place. He found a tile sample, turned it over in his hands, put it back.

Nothing spare in the box room. Nothing extra. Just him.

That evening, he microwaved something from the fridge, ate it without noticing the taste, washed the plate. The flat was perfectly still. Once, always a fussthe tap of tools, the smell of varnish or paint. Now, nothing. Silence in immaculate rooms.

He switched on the TV, blankly stared at a film for twenty minutes, turned it off.

Picked up his phone, found her number, hovered over her name. Didnt ring. Thought.

He thought about her wordsabout friends, the lamp, being a guest in her own home. That word stuck with him. Guest. In her own home.

He remembered Dave. How hed lied about the work in the bedroom. Why? He couldnt answer even then. Told himself: too unfinished, too awkward to have anyone round. Total rubbish. The flat had been fine for living for over a year. It just wasnt the flat in his head. Not the one hed promised.

Hed promised himself perfection. Chased it. But perfection wasnt attainableit was the horizon. You never reach it, no matter how far you go.

Sophie figured it out. He never did. Or, maybe, just never wanted to.

He got up, wandered round the flat, switching on every light. Stopped at the bookshelves.

Every item measured: books by height, ornaments at exact intervals. His principle: everything in its place, nothing unnecessary, all functional, all perfect.

Midway down one shelf: a little glass heart, orangeish, uneven, handmade. Sophie bought it at some market, years ago. “Why this?” hed grumbled. “Itll just gather dust.” Shed shrugged. “I like it.” Hed never replied, and the heart stayed, a minor concession.

Now he picked it up. Held it.

The glass felt oddly warm. Or maybe it just seemed to.

He thought about all this for three days, shuffling about the flat, doing nothing, eating whatever, sleeping badly. At work, he was distracted, made mistakes he had to fix. A colleague asked, “Mike, you alright?” He lied, “Yeah, alls fine.”

On the fourth day, he texted her.

“Soph, can we talk?”

She replied an hour later. “Okay.”

He called. She picked up on the second ring.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. Mums good. Happy to have me.”

Silence. He could hear her breathing. Didnt know how to start. He was no good at these thingsshe always was.

“Soph, Ive been thinking.”

“I gathered.”

“You know what Im going to say?”

“Roughly.”

“I get it now, that I missed something important. Or, not missedchose the wrong thing.”

She was quiet.

“You talked about friends. The lamp. I do remember it all. I didnt get it then. Or pretended not to.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because I want you to come home.”

Long silence.

“Michael”

“Im not asking right now. I just want to be honest. I do want you back. And I want to try doing things differently. I dont know if Ill manage it. But I want to try.”

Quiet some more. He could hear her moving something in the backgrounda mug, on a windowsill or table, didnt matter.

“You know ‘Ill try’ isnt enough?” she eventually said.

“I know.”

“You know I cant come back and just pick up where I left off?”

“I know.”

“I dont think you do. Dont take offence, just being honest. Youre scared now, so youre saying all the right things. But you cant just decide to become someone else. Its not like banging in a nail.”

“I know its not a nail.”

“So what are you actually suggesting?”

He hesitated.

“Lets meet up first. Just talk. Properly. Not on the phone.”

“Alright,” she said after a moment. “Lets.”

They met outside, in a perfectly ordinary café with slightly wobbly chairs and the menu chalked on a board. Sophie showed up in her beige jacket, a bit tired, but calm.

They ordered coffee. Michael looked at her and realised it had been years since hed just looked at her. Simply looked.

“Hows your mum?”

“Better. Got herself new plants. She was chuffed to have me there for a bit.”

“Im glad.”

They fell quiet.

“Michael,” she began. “Theres one thing you need to understand. Its not about the renovationnot really. Its good you care about quality. But you shifted the goalposts. You made the flat the aim, rather than the means to live.”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Are you saying that or do you get it?”

“I get it.”

“And how do I know?”

He picked up his mug, set it down.

“You dont,” he admitted. “Even I dont know how much I can change. But I get that I cant go on as before. When you left, the flat turned into a very beautiful box.”

Sophie watched him.

“A beautiful box,” she echoed.

“Yeah.”

“Good that youve seen it.”

“Will you come back?”

She stared out at the rain-streaked window, watched people hurry by, bunches of bright tulips rattling in the wind outside the shop across the street.

“Ill give it a go,” she said, at last. “But on terms.”

“Name them.”

“First: no DIY for a whole month. Not a nail. No samples. Just living.”

“Fine.”

“Second: next Sunday, we invite Lucy, Martin, and Dave if he can make it. We eat, chat, just as it is. No hiding.”

He nodded.

“Third: if you start making every smudge a crisis, I will call you out, and you have to really hear it.”

“Alright.”

“You realise this isnt just small print? Itll be hard.”

“I know,” he said. “Hard for me. But Ill try.”

Sophie gave him a long look, searching for something real behind the words. Then, “Alright.”

They walked home through the rain, side by side, not linking arms, but close. She carried Felix in her pocket, he held her bag. At the front door, she paused, looked up at the block.

“Nice place,” she said.

“It is,” he agreed.

They climbed up. He unlocked. She walked in first, set Felix on the windowsill, just like that, no coaster.

Michael looked at the cactus on the polished sill. He said nothing.

Sophie went to the kitchen. He heard the kettle, the water running.

He sat on the sofa. Glanced at the shelves. That glass heart, still a bit off centre. He didnt move it.

On Sunday, they rang Lucy. She shouted “finally!” so loud over the phone they could both hear the laughter. Dave couldnt make it, but promised next time. Martin brought wine, Lucy a cake, Sophie made that stew shed promised three years back.

They ate in the lounge. Michael put plates out, noticed the table setting wasnt lined up. He started to adjust, then stopped. Let it be.

It was lively, a bit crowded. Lucy knocked over a glass, red wine blooming out over the tablecloth. There was a collective gasp. Michael felt himself tense, but looked at Sophie.

She just looked back, calm, steady.

He grabbed a serviette, dabbed the stain. “No big deal,” he said.

Lucy sighed with relief. Sophies mouth twitched in a tiny smile.

Afterwards, they sat talking for hours, sharing stories, laughing. By the time the guests left, it was gone midnight. Sophie did the washing up, Michael dried. Quiet, but a different sort of quiet.

“The stain will wash out,” he said.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” she replied.

“It doesnt matter.”

She gave him a look, passed over a plate.

“Michael?”

“Yes?”

“Today was good.”

“Yeah. It was good.”

They finished up, wandered back into the lounge. The mugs remained on the table, the wine stain darkening the cloth. The glass heart, the cactus, all in their slightly odd spots.

Michael looked at it all. Thought about soaking the tablecloth in the morning before the stain set. Thought about the cactus leaving a mark. Noticed one mug sat askew.

But he also remembered Sophies laughtertwice, properlythe way she used to laugh long ago. When Martin misfired on a toast, when Lucy told a story about her cat. She laughed the way she used to. And that was everything.

Sophie walked through to the bedroom, paused at the door.

“You coming?”

“In a minute,” he said.

He looked around the lounge, at the stain, the cactus, the glass heart.

Turned off the light.

Lay down beside her. Sophie was already reading. Her lamp cast its soft glow.

“Soph?”

“Mm?”

“Do you hear me when I talk about seams and millimetres?”

She lowered her book. “I hear you.”

“What do you think, while Im on about it?”

She paused, thoughtful.

“I think… youre somewhere far away then.”

“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose I am.”

She raised her book again.

He lay there, wondering if theyd manage thisthree years was a long time, and theyd both changed. Like a crack in plasterfill it and you cant always see the join, but the wall is never quite the same. He knew that better than most.

He thought it over as his mind drifted toward sleep. Then, just as he was slipping under, he remembered: tomorrow morning, hed move Felix back onto a coasterotherwise, a ring would form in the varnish.

He opened his eyes.

Still the same ceiling, unblemished.

By him, Sophie quietly turned a page.

He let his eyes close once more. Felix would wait till morning.