I don’t know by what accident the builders had managed it, but instead of a remodelled bathroom attached to my bedroom, they had installed a prison cell. They had told me it would take a month (thank goodness we had a second bathroom, though we did find ourselves exploiting the kindness of a neighbouring flat every now and again when one of us was taking a particularly long shower), and I had pestered them the whole time; my offers of tea or snacks were obvious ploys to steal peeps at their work. But they had almost superstitiously prevented me from checking on their progress, even hanging a tarpaulin over the bathroom door to make a sort of antechamber, so that no glimpse of the room within was possible. It was for the dust, they said. ‘Like an air lock.’ I tried to sneak in when they left for the day; however, they had installed a new lock on the door to which only they had the key. I knew it was just as much for their own benefit. I didn’t blame them; who could work well under constant scrutiny? I tried to respect their privacy – they were working through the Christmas season after all, and no doubt unhappy about it – but it did make me anxious for some hint of progress, any sliver of an update they could give me, compounded by the fact that we really couldn’t afford this renovation and had had to make a number of financial adjustments to accommodate it. 

The hysterical sounds of tile saws and the rhythmic grunting and thudding of people moving heavy things continued right up to the very last moment, as if a bathroom remodel has absolutely no delicate parts, is just force after force after force, until finally, at the end of the fifth week, I could hear the slapdash sounds of tools clattering into their boxes and bags, a shushing bit of broom-work, and then all the labourers appeared out from under the tarpaulin in a jittery huddle and said it was done, the final bill could be expected in two weeks, and they dashed off to their next job as if they were Supermans and some poor awaiting kitchen was a plane falling out of the sky. 

With high expectations, I dragged the tarpaulin aside, threw open the door, and burst into the room. Where my shower and double vanity unit should have been, instead there was the perfect tableau of a prison cell. It was about four metres wide and four metres long with a bed on a metal frame along one side. A shiny metal apparatus that was both toilet and sink wrapped into one was separated from the bed by a narrow partition. Opposite were a little table and swing-out seat, both anchored to the wall. It was modelled on Silivri Prison in Istanbul. There was no mistaking it (try as I might to rub this image out of my eyes). 

I stood there motionless for a moment, then turned and walked back out. I closed the door and replaced the tarpaulin over it. It was late afternoon and my husband would be home from work soon. He might be a bit oblivious, wrapped up as he is in a spool of his nerves, but my husband had been just as curious about the progress of the renovation as I was, if not more so, going so far as to watch a series of lock-picking videos on YouTube to see if he could get past the contractor’s lock (though he ended up not buying the hooks, rakes, or tension tools). As soon as he knew they were finished, he would want to inspect the bathroom (that he had a hand in designing), perhaps open a bottle of prosecco. I lifted the tarpaulin once more, cracked the door open, and surveyed the bungled renovation. I was angry more than anything, angry about how inconsiderate people could be, angry about the malicious oversight that had caused this calamity. 

I don’t think of myself as a particularly reticent person – indeed, I often find myself too forthcoming with my opinions – but I knew at once I had to hide this from my husband. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a very understanding man, sometimes too understanding, and though he would understand this – whatever that meant – he has a nervous disposition that manifests itself as bouts of hypochondria. This was precisely the sort of thing to trigger his anxiety so that his stomach is nothing but ulcers and acids in flux, and on his tongue would be the refrain: ‘Dear me! Dear me! O, dearie, dearie me!’ 

I called the builder, but it rang without end. Then I called one of the plumbers, and one of the carpenters, and the tile guy, and anyone else whose number I had, but every call went to voicemail.