Three Years of Renovations with No Visitors

Three Years of Renovation, No Guests Allowed

Jane placed her teacup on the windowsill and, as if on cue, Richard froze in the corridor. She felt it in her bones, though she was facing the window. The pause was deep enough to drown in.

Youve put your cup on the windowsill, he said at last. That wasnt a question. He was simply stating facts.

Yes, Richard. Ive put my cup on the windowsill.

Thats a varnished surface. Hot things leave a mark.

I know.

Then why?

Jane turned around. He was forty-eight and looked it, spot on, no frills. He stood in the kitchen doorway in his favourite grey t-shirt, level in hand. He always carried the level round the flat on weekends, as other men might a mobile.

Because theres nowhere else to put it, she replied. The tables covered in plastic sheeting. The extra chairs upside down. The corridor floors still damp from the primer. I have my tea standing by the window, Richard. Ive had my tea at the window for three years now.

He glanced at the cup, then at her, then back at the cup.

Ill get a coaster.

Dont bother.

But youll leave a ring.

So let it stay.

He squinted, the squint that meant he couldnt tell if she was joking. These days, even Jane wasnt too sure.

Jane, what is?

Thats it, she said softly, sending the word plunging into the silence like a pebble in a pond. Thats it, Richard.

He didnt get it straight away. He needed to check.

Whats it?

Im packing my things.

The pause was longer this time. Outside, a car horn beeped, then faded away. Richard slowly lowered the level.

Because of the windowsill?

No. Not because of the windowsill.

Jane drained her tea and set the cup backpurposefully, firmly, without a speck of remorse.

She was forty-five, worked as an accountant in a small firm, loved reading before bed, kept a little cactus named Percy on her desk, and hadnt had a friend round in ages. Properly ages. Three years, to be precise.

She headed to the bedroom.

Three years ago, when they bought the two-bedroom flat on the fifth floor of a solid brick block down a quiet lane, Jane had been properly happy. Tangible, physical happiness. She remembered them both, standing in the empty rooms amidst peeling wallpaper and painted floors, her gaze out the window, seeing autumn oaks and thinking: this is it. Our home.

Richard, too, had felt different then. Or so she thought. He paced the rooms, tape measure in hand, jotting notes in a pad, eyes alight with the fire shed once adored. The fire of someone who knows what he wants, and can bloody well do it.

Jane, look, hed say, showing her a sheet covered with sketches. Heres the plan: an open kitchen-lounge. Custom shelves built into the wall. Spotlights, dimmer switchproper job.

Lovely, shed reply. And it was true.

Well do it all ourselves, no rush. Once, but rightgood for life.

She shouldve paid closer attention to that once, but right. There was more lurking behind it than a desire to save on tradesmen.

The first six months felt like a grand adventure. Living through the reno itself. Jane cooked on a plug-in hob, as the gas man was yet to arrive. They slept on a mattress, no bed to be seen. They ate off paper plates, what with the kitchen sink being out of action. It was inconvenient, a bit romantic, and entirely bearable. At the time.

Then something shifted. Slowly, like subsidence cracking a foundation.

Every weekend, Richard was on the tools, sometimes even on weekdays if hed wangled an afternoon off. He managed building sites for a living and knew his grout from his gypsum better than most pros. That was fine. Brilliant, actually. The issue wasnt his knowledge.

The issue was that he couldnt stop.

At first Jane didnt notice. Eight months in, over a coffee with her mate Claire

So, nearly done? Claire asked. Im dying to see what youve done with the placeyou promised me shepherds pie!

Not long now, Jane replied. Richard says well be finished by Christmas.

Christmas came, but the DIY didnt stop. No guests, because the lounge was stacked with plasterboard. They ate their Olivier salad alone in the kitchenwhich was almost, but not quite, done.

Richard, next year can we have a proper Christmas? Jane asked as she poured the fizz.

Yes, of course. As soon as I sort out the ceiling in the lounge and get the flooring down, well do it.

He finished the lounge ceiling in March, but then realised the bathroom wiring had been bodged by some old chancer, and that needed correcting first. Then the balcony door: turns out there was a tiny gap between the frame and wall, three millimetres, discovered with probing.

Jane used to joke to her friends: My husbands fighting a war against three millimetres. Everyone laughed. So did she. It was funny.

The lounge floor went down in May, when opening windows became an option. Jane hauled boards and passed tools; Richard worked like a surgeon. He checked each row with the level and laser. Sometimes, hed rip up entire sections because the gap was off.

Richard, can you even tell? shed ask.

I can, came the reply, head down.

That was the first time something inside her stumbled. Not hurtjust, a sudden realisation. She stood, duster in hand, gazing at his bent head, with a strange feeling shed glimpsed something important, but had no idea what.

They finished the flooring in June. It looked fantasticoak, slim, perfect lines. Jane ran her hand over it, honestly impressed.

Its lovely.

Ill varnish it, best stuff, German-made, scratch-resistant, he said.

When?

Next week.

The next week, he spotted a skirting board was lifting by half a millimetre. Varnish postponed.

In that June, Jane met up with Claire again at a café garden. Iced tea in hand, Claire asked:

Sohows it going? When can we see this mythical flat?

Soon, Jane replied. And went quiet.

Whats wrong?

Nothing. I just think hes never going to finish, Claire.

Theyre all the samedrag it out to the last.

No, you dont get it. Its not about delayits like he doesnt want to finish. Because so long as things are unfinished, theres an excuse for everythingfor no guests, for no furniture for not just living.

Claire looked at her.

Have you told him?

I try. Every time, he says just a bit more, then itll all be perfect.

Do you want perfect?

A moments pause.

I want home, Jane confessed, softly.

That night, Richard showed her a paint chart. Twenty samples, all white. Warm white. Cool white. Slightly blue white. In daylight, apparently, these differences mattered.

This one, I reckon, best balance, he explained.

They all looked like just white to her.

Richard, she said. I really dont mind.

He gave her a look like shed just said the moon was made of cheese.

How can you not mind? Were living here!

Exactly. Were here, living. Living people in a living flat. No one cares about shades of white.

They do, they just dont realise it.

Alright, just choose one then.

And he did. He always decided. That snuck in graduallyfirst it was helpful, him managing things because he knew better, but soon her opinions werent even asked for. Shed say, I like this tile, and hed launch into technical reasons against it. Shed offer, Lets put the sofa here, and hed show her his 3D app proving it messed up his precious zoning. If she said, I like it, hed retort, But this way is right.

Eventually, she stopped saying what she liked.

That October, halfway through the second year, Richards old uni mate Tom from Manchester called, wanting to crash for a night. Jane was genuinely excited. She bought proper food, got real plates out, gave the table a scrub.

But Richard said Tom couldnt staywork ongoing in the bedroom.

The only thing ongoing in there was a fully made bed and assembled wardrobe.

Richard, she asked quietly after hed hung up. What work?

He hesitated, shrugged. Floors got a patch by the wallstinks of glue. Bad for sleep.

What glue? Theres no smell!

Why should he see the place like this?

Like what?

Unfinished.

She stared at him, feeling the ground shift under her feetliterally. He was embarrassed, ashamed, of their flatthe one hed been making with his own handsbecause it wasnt the ideal he pictured. Hed rather fib to an old mate than let him see it.

Alright, she said. Nothing more.

Tom had a cuppa in the kitchen, went out for dinner with Richard, slept in a hotel. Jane ate alone.

That night, staring at the flawless white ceiling above the perfectly made bedin a bedroom that had seen no guests for two yearsJane couldnt sleep.

That winter, her mum got the flu. Nothing major, but enough that Jane crossed London twice a week to check on her, sometimes sleeping over. Richard didnt object; he was busy painting the balcony doors with some space-age lacquer in two coats, twenty-four hours apart.

One evening, coming home early from her mums, Jane found him on the hall floor, peering intently at the skirting with a magnifying glass.

Whats up? she asked, hanging her coat.

Gap, he said, still staring.

She didnt ask how much. She already knewhed answer in fractions.

Richard, she said. Have you eaten today?

A pause.

Dont remember.

What, nothing since breakfast?

Maybe something this morning.

She went to the kitchen, made pasta, fried an egg. He joined her when she was almost done. Sat, stared at the plate.

Thanks.

Youre welcome.

They ate in silence. Outside, it was snowing. Catalogues for closet fixtures were scattered over the tablebeen there a year by now.

Richard, she said.

Mmm?

Tell me something. Not about the renovation.

He looked at her as if shed asked him to recite Shakespeare in Mandarin.

Like what?

Anything. How your day was. Whats on your mind. What made you laugh or groan. Anythingbut not gaps and materials.

He thought about it, honestly tried.

Well, today one of the builders poured the screed wrong. I sacked him.

Thats about work.

Well, yes.

And nothing else?

A real pause. He struggled. She saw he wasnt deflecting; he just couldnt recall or even invent something unrelated to construction.

I dunno. Nothing, I guess.

Afterwards, Jane sat in the dark, wonderingwhen had he turned from a real person into a list of functions? Or had he always been and shed missed it? No. Shed known a different Richard. She remembered them driving up to the Lake District in his old car as he pointed out the constellationsCassiopeia, the Plough, the Pleiades. She saw them all.

Where had the Pleiades gone?

By the third year, she didnt bother telling friends itd soon be finished. It never would be. Renovation ended, then started afresh with each new flaw. Tiles not sturdy enough. Paint the wrong shade when it dried. Door handles squeaked in the cold. Each imperfection was a new crusade.

Jane bought herself a bedside lamp. Simple, soft cloth shade. Popped it on her table. In the evening, Richard clocked it:

Whats that?

I bought it.

Why? Were getting recessed spots.

I want to read before bed.

Spots will be better.

When?

He didnt say.

Exactly, said Jane. Spots will come someday. But I want to read now.

Her little lamp sat on the nightstand for a week. Soon Richard found his old desk lamp and set it right next to hers, pointing out it had superior light output.

Janes lamp migrated to the corner. Then to the shelf. Then she found it in the cupboard, next to tins of primer.

She took it back out. Put it on the nightstand.

He moved it to the shelf.

She put it back.

He said nothing. She said nothing.

The lamp stayed put. A tiny victory, and, at the same time, a tiny tragedy, because in a normal home, with a normal marriage, it wouldnt have been eitheritd just be a lamp.

Come April, third year in, Jane messaged Claire at work, out of the blue:

Claire, feel like a spa break? Or a few days at a retreat in the country? No husbands.

Claire instantly: Absolutely. When?

They went for four days in May, to a cosy lodge near the woods. Jane took leave. Richard was surprised, but didnt object; he was deep into re-doing the bathroom.

At the lodge, Janes room was small: battered wooden furniture, a wildly patterned bedspread, a window that let in the chilly scent of forest. Scuffed, imperfect; a bit rough round the edges. Jane suddenly realised she felt truly good there. Good enough that, first evening, she lay back on that garishly floral bedspread, gazed at the ceiling crack, and cried.

Claire lay on the next bed. Didnt ask. Just lay there.

I live in a museum, Jane said at last, staring upward. A museumbeautiful, perfect, lifeless.

Claire was quiet. Have you told him?

Yes.

And?

He always says itll all be better soon. Always just a bit longer.

Maybe see a counsellor? Together?

He wont. Richard thinks therapys for people with real problems. He says he just has a renovation.

They lay there, forest drifting in through the window. Jane realised what she missed most: the fresh air, the outdoors, the crack in the ceiling, that brash bedspread bought on a whim instead of after hours spent on Which? magazine reviews. Life.

She came home four days later. The flat smelled of plaster. Richard greeted her with I redid the bathroom alcovehave a look! She took off her shoes, left her bag, went to the bathroom.

Nice job, she said.

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

I see.

I spent a week figuring out how to fix it without ruining the new tiles. Found a way in the end.

Well done.

Jane went to bed. Lay there, eyes on the ceiling. Perfect, that ceiling.

In June came a conversation she remembered word for word. Sunday evening, about eight. Richard was painting something in the cupboard. Jane cooked tea, listening to him doing his thing with masking tape and buckets.

Richard! she called.

What? came the reply.

Dinners in twenty.

Okay.

She set the table. He didnt show. Twenty minutes passed, then forty. She went to the cupboard door.

Dinners going cold.

Five minutes!

Five minutes later, still no Richard.

She ate alone. Cleared up, did the washing up. He emerged at half past ten, seeing the empty table.

Oh, lost track of time, he said.

I know.

Shall I warm something?

Reheat it yourself.

She went to bed. Picked up a book. Whether she read or played at reading, only she knew. When Richard came in, she didnt look up.

Richard, are you happy?

A long pause.

Well… yes. I suppose so.

Are you sure?

Jane, what sort of question is that?

A normal question.

He got in beside her. Quiet.

When I finish the cupboard, Ill do the balconyneeds insulation under the laminate. Then the flat will be fully done.

She shut her book.

You know you just answered my question, dont you?

How?

I asked if you were happy. You told me about the balcony.

He had no answer. Just silence.

Goodnight, Richard.

Goodnight.

She left the light on. Watched the ceiling. Listened to him breathe, and thought that in some other version of life, theyd still be lying there, but talking about something. Anything. A TV show, a funny thing her mum had said, a new menu at their favourite café. Just talking.

But in this lifeonly silence. Perfect as the ceiling.

That was the moment Jane recalled that morning, placing her teacup on the windowsill. The moment she realised shed known thats it for a long time. The cup was just the catalyst.

She packed her things methodically, without tears. Only stuff that was unmistakably hers. A few books, makeup, clothes, her lamp with the fabric shade, passport, paperwork, phone charger. The little cactus, Percy, which shed brought back from work months agono other living thing in the flat, Richard was against it. But a cactus leaves no marks.

Richard stood in the doorway, watching.

Jane.

Yes?

Can we talk?

About what?

Wellabout you packing up.

Yep.

All because of a cup?

Oh, Richard, come off it. You understand perfectly well.

I dont. I honestly dont.

Jane stopped. Looked at him. He stood in the doorway, tall, level forgotten somewhere, just himself for once, and genuinely lost. She hadnt seen him that vulnerable in years.

Richard, she said. Weve lived here for three years.

I know.

We havent had a single proper meal with friends. Not one. In three years.

Because the flats not

Because the flats not finished, yes. It never will be. Do you see that?

He was silent.

Youll always find something to redo. Thats the way youre wired. Its not bad, per se. But I cant live on a building site anymore.

Soon

No. She said it gently, but firmly. Its not about soon. Not about waiting just a bit more. Ive lived in your house as a guest, Richard, for three years. I walked carefully so as not to scratch the floor. Balancing cups on coasters. Hiding my lamp. Not inviting friends, because you were ashamed of the unpainted hall. Me…

Her voice trembled, so she paused.

I want to live. Really live. With scuffed floors and coffee rings on the windowsill. With Sunday guests. With your old jacket on the back of a chair. All the messy things that make a house a home. And ours just… wasnt alive.

He stood there, then asked, softly, Where are you going?

To Mums, for now.

For long?

I dont know.

She zipped her bag, took Percy, walked past him into the corridor. Put on her coat, trainers, careful not to scuff the perfect oak beneath.

Jane he said to her back.

What?

I… I didnt know it was like this.

You did, she replied. You just didnt think about it.

The door closed behind her with a gentle click. Neatly, like everything else in that flat.

He was left.

Richard lingered in the corridor a moment more, then wandered into the lounge and sat on the sofa. Hed chosen the fabric after three months of research. Durable, didnt bobble. He slumped on the superb sofa in his immaculate lounge and looked around.

The flat was beautiful. Truly beautiful. Warm-toned walls, seamless floors, ceiling smooth as whipped cream. Floor-to-ceiling shelves, not a wobble in sight. Lighting that didnt glare, no shadows. The balcony door shut tight. Bathroom tiles, neat as a cheese board.

And yet, what he felt wasnt pride, but something queasy, lingering above the stomach.

On the shelf, the books Jane left behind. He stared at the spines, trying to remember when hed last seen her reading, just for pleasure, on the sofa, in the soft lamplight. Not shutting out the world, but really reading. It had been ages.

He got up. The cup was still on the windowsill. No mark, as it turned out. The tea was cold.

He washed it, stood silently, then went to the bedroom and lay down fully clothedsomething hed never done. He stared at the perfect ceiling.

He lay there ages. Maybe an hour, maybe two. Time made no sense. Eventually, he shuffled off to the cupboard: paint tins, tape rolls, solution bottles, tools stacked like soldiers. He found a spare tile sample from a comparison trip. Twirled it, then set it back.

The cupboard held nothing unnecessary. Only him.

Evening. He nuked something tasteless, did the dishes. The flat was utterly silent. No paint smells, no distant sanding, just silence in perfect rooms.

He tried TVdrifted through a film, took in nothing, switched it off.

Then he stared at Janes name in his phone. Didnt call. Just thought.

He didnt think how to win her back. He thought about guests. About the lamp. About Jane feeling like a guest in her own home for three years. That particular wordit stuck: guest. In her own house.

He remembered Tom, how hed lied about ongoing works in the bedroom. Why? At the time, hed said to himself the place wasnt ready. A lie. It had been liveable over a year alreadyit was just never quite the place hed pictured. Never quite what hed promised himself.

Hed promised himself perfection. And hed chased it, endlessly. But perfection isnt a finish lineits a horizon, always just out of reach.

Jane knew that. He hadnt.

Or did, but refused to admit it.

He did a walk-through of the flat, lights blazing. Living room shelves: books by height, decorative bits measured to the millimetre. Every object functional. Picture-perfect.

Tucked among the books, a tiny glass heart. Squat, a little wonky, orange. Jane had bought it at a market, two years back. Why? hed grumbled, Just collects dust. I like it, shed answered. Hed let it stay, a minor concession not worth a row.

Now, he picked it up. It felt warm. Or maybe that was just him.

Three days he thought about it. Didnt touch a paintbrush, ate whatever, barely slept. At work, his mind wandered, botched some calculations. Colleague asked, You alright, mate? He answered, Yeah, fine.

On the fourth day, he messaged Jane.

Jane, can we talk?

She replied in an hour: Alright.

He rang her. She picked up on the second ring.

Hi, he said.

Hi.

How are you?

Im okay. Mums good.

Silence. He heard her breath, unsure how to begin. He was rubbish at this. Jane always found the words.

Jane, Ive thought about things these last few days.

I guessed.

You know what Im going to say?

Sort of.

Jane, I realise now I… missed something important. Or rather, I was picking the wrong things.

Silence.

You mentioned guests. The lamp. I remember. I get it now. I didnt then, or I pretended I didnt.

Why are you telling me this?

Because I want you to come back.

Another long pause.

Richard

Im not expecting right now. Just being honest. I want you to come back. And I want a fresh try. I dont know if I can change, but I want to try.

More silence. Richard heard her putting something downperhaps a teacup, on a windowsill or table, who knew.

You understand that just saying Ill try isnt enough? she said at last.

I do.

You understand I cant just come back and live the same way?

I do.

Im not sure you do. No offencejust honest. Youre scared, now youre saying the right words. But its not like knocking in a nail, you cant just decide to be different.

I know its not a nail.

So what exactly do you propose?

He thought it over.

How about we meet? Properly, in person, not like this?

Alright, she said after a pause. Lets do that.

They met up at a local café, a typical placerickety chairs, menu scrawled on a chalkboard. Jane arrived in her beige coat, tired, but calm.

They ordered coffee. Richard stared at her, thinking how long it had been since hed just looked at her, mind free of angles and sealants.

Hows your mum? he asked.

Better. She bought new flowers, started gardening again. Glad I stayed.

Im glad, too.

Quiet.

Richard, she said, You need to understand something. Its not about the renovation, really, and not about your love of craftsmanshipthats a good thing. The problem is, you swapped the goal. The flats supposed to be a means to live. You made it the end itself.

Yeah, he said.

Do you just agree, or do you actually understand?

He picked up his cup, held it, set it down again.

You dont. You cant know. Im not sure how much Ill change. But I know it cant go on like this. When you left, this place turned into a pretty box.

Jane looked out the window. Outside, spring rain, sodden shoppers, flowerpots of red tulips battered by the wind.

Ill give it a shot, she said. But there are ground rules.

Name them.

Oneno building work, not a jot, for a month. No drills, samples, no catalogues. Just living.

Alright.

Twonext Sunday, Claire and Peter are coming round. Tom too, if he can make it. Well eat, chat, all of us. Here, as it is.

He nodded.

Threethe minute you start treating every scratch as a tragedy, Ill say so, out loud. And you have to hear it.

Deal.

She scrutinised his face, as if hunting for honesty under the words. Then: Okay.

They walked home, drizzled on, close together but not quite holding hands. Jane carried Percy in her pocket. Richard had her bag. At their building, she gazed up.

Nice house, she said.

Yeah, he agreed.

Lift to the fifth floor. He opened the door. She went in first. Into the lounge, where Percy was set on the windowsillno coaster.

Richard looked at the cactus, at the polished surface beneath.

He said nothing.

Jane went to put the kettle on; he heard the click of water, the flick of the switch.

He sat on the sofa. On the shelf, the glass heart nudged a little to the leftit wasnt lined up.

He didnt move it.

On Sunday, they rang Claire. At last! she squealed, laughter audible even down the phone. Tom couldnt come but promised he would soon. Peter brought wine, Claire a cake, Jane made the long-promised shepherds pie.

They laid the table in the lounge. Richard eyed the crooked plates. He shifted one, then made himself stop. Left the rest.

It was loud, a bit cramped. Claire knocked over a glassred wine bled across the cloth. Gasp! Richard felt the urge to shriek, glanced at Jane.

Jane just looked at himnot anxious, not scared, just… waiting.

He grabbed a napkin, dabbed the stain. No harm done.

Claire breathed out. Janes lip twisted into a small smile.

Afterwards, they lingered, laughed, sipped tea. When the guests left, it was well past midnight. Jane washed up. Richard dried. They were quietbut it was a good hush, warm.

The stainll come out, he said, meaning the tablecloth.

Maybe not, she replied.

Doesnt matter.

She gave him the final plate.

Richard?

Yes.

That was nice.

Yes. Yes, it was.

They finished up. Mugs sat on the table, dark stain marring the cloth, the glass heart on the shelf, Percy on the windowsill.

Richard looked over it all, thinking he should soak the cloth first thing tomorrow; that the plant would soon leave a mark; that one mug was slightly off-centre.

Then he thought that Jane had laughed twice tonightonce at Claires cat story, once when Peter flubbed his own toast. Just as she used to, in the old days.

Jane wandered to the bedroom, pausing in the doorway.

You coming?

In a minute.

He surveyed the lounge: the stain, the cactus, the heart.

Turned out the light.

He lay down beside her. She was already reading. Her lamp with the fabric shade glowed softly beside the bed. He stared at the ceiling.

Jane?

Mm?

Do you hear me, when I drone on about gaps and millimetres?

She set her book down.

I hear you.

What are you thinking, then?

She gave it proper thought.

I think: youre somewhere far away.

Yes, he said. Maybe.

She picked up her book.

He lay there, knowing he didnt know if it would work; three years is a long time, things had shiftedin her, in himit was like a crack in the wall: you can plaster over it, paint it so its nearly invisible, but its never quite what it was before. He understood that better than anyone.

That thought drifted as sleep crept in. Just before he slipped under, another drifted in: tomorrow, hed pick up Percy and set him on somethinganythingto keep the varnish safe.

He opened his eyes.

The ceiling stared back: perfect, unblemished.

Jane turned a page, quietly, beside him.

He closed his eyes again. Percy could wait till morning.