Three Years of Renovations with No Visitors

05.05.2026, 13:15 blysk.space

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.