Misha’s version of interior design was to paint the non-brick walls white and buy an extremely expensive leather settee that stripped off an outer layer of your epidermis if you got sweaty. With the addition of some modern art on the walls that I’m convinced he bought when he was pissed, it was beautiful but sterile.

After a few days of me being here, it looks drastically different. My design contribution makes me smile. The black leather monstrosity has gone and in its place is a gorgeous orange velvet sectional settee. It’s big and deep and insanely comfortable and Misha moaned like hell about buying it, saying it looked like clown furniture, but I noticed he wasn’t complaining when he sat in the thing on the first night. I think it’s lovely. I like bright rich colours and the orange makes the brick walls look warm and homely.

“I think there’s a reason that Jona Lewie only had a couple of hits, and you’re listening to it,” Misha says, coming up next to me.

“He features heavily on my Christmas playlist. He’s the embodiment of our childhood, Misha.”

“So are Vicks VapoRub and Calpol. I don’t see you rushing to add them to the flat.”

I walk towards the kitchen, aware of him dogging my heels like a sexily half-naked—

I stop the end of that thought and replace it with, “like a nosy dachshund.”

Jona finishes singing about the cavalry stopping and Michael Bublé comes on, intent on utilising the one period in the year when he’s actually played on the radio.

“Charlie, what the fuck?” Misha whinges. “Christmas music!”

I shake my head disapprovingly as I cross the kitchen and switch on the kettle. “Okay, Mr Grinch. It is the second week in December. Christmas music is allowed.”

He folds his arms over his chest. “And when did you start listening to it?” he asks knowingly.

I slump. “Second week in November.” He laughs, and I wave a teaspoon at him. “It’s Christmas.”

“So you say. Makes no fucking difference to me. I still need to make money for people.”

“Okay, calm down, Gordon Gekko.”

He moves to the side to make a pot of coffee. I bought him a very expensive coffee maker last year, but he still insists on using the old percolator he’s had for years. He takes his coffee so strong you could stand a spoon up in the sludge. I wonder what my chances are of converting him to ginger and lemon tea. Probably not good first thing in the morning.

“Have you done your Christmas shopping yet?” I ask. He winces, and I narrow my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not doing it all on Christmas Eve again?”

“It’s a good time to do it,” he protests. “Really gets you into the Christmas spirit.”