When Atticus had first brought home bulging bin bags, wanting Dan to help him sort out old ladies’ clothes and price up Marks & Spencer bedding, Dan was reluctant. ‘They’re full of germs,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to.’

Atticus had laughed and blithely tossed everything into the washing-machine, and Dan, who adored his Miele washing-machine – which he may or may not have named ‘Mr McWash’ and imagined was married to ‘Mrs McTumble’ – was forced to pull the sheets out when they were done and iron them ready for the shop.

And before Dan knew it, he was dropping the laundry down to the charity shop himself, because after all that washing, stain-removing, pressing and scented-water ironing, he couldn’t bear to see them tossed back into the same bin liner and hoisted over Atticus’s shoulder.

Dan thought Atticus was being obtuse on purpose. He wanted to pull apart Dan’s daddy-long-legs excuses for why he couldn’t be seen in public with Atticus (‘I’m too busy training’; ‘I need to catch up on paperwork’; ‘Charity shops make me feel sad’). He wanted them to have a row, a shouty one with door slams and dramatic hand gestures. Atticus was probably excellent at arguing passionately, but Dan’s never done it before. He smooths people down like wrinkled sheets, says sorry to lampposts when he walks into them. He’d never had a lover before, let alone a tiff, and he was scared. He pictured Atticus walking away from him and not looking back, and Dan saying sorry, but Atticus saying it wasn’t enough and never would be.

But just like the bedsheets, it all comes out in the wash anyway. Dan has been forced to deliver another load of laundry. Atticus had coerced him into it, telling him the clothes had been donated by a woman whose child looked like it had head lice. Poor Dan couldn’t resist tweezing his way through them all, plucking at lint that might have legs. Neither could he stop himself airing them, pressing them and folding them neatly. And spritzing them with his own unique blend of fabric conditioner and essential oils.

So now they are wedged together behind the makeshift counter, putting clothes on hangers while Fitz sits by their feet, wearing a bonnet that Atticus put on him earlier.

They’re talking about dinner plans when the door is pushed open with so much force it slams against the wall and knocks a row of DVDs off the shelves.

‘Where is it all?’ says an old man with white hair, like a dandelion clock. He is wearing tangled braces and a scowl. They both freeze, Atticus’s hands still tucked into Dan’s jacket. Before either of them can speak, the old man shouts, ‘Are you deaf? I said, where is it all?’