‘But she didn’t,’ I prompt.

‘No, she didn’t,’ he nods, slipping the photograph back into his wallet. ‘Not then, at least.’

His face falls and I feel my heart ache for him. He’s so sad and trying so hard to be brave. He goes to pick up his scraper and we both turn back to the job at hand when ‘Shake, Rattle and Roll’ starts playing on the radio. Valentine starts to whistle to himself.

‘You should teach me.’

‘What? Painting and decorating?’

‘No,’ I laugh. ‘How to jive.’

‘Oh, I’m long past that now.’

‘Rubbish! Look at you, up and down that ladder.’

But he shakes his head. ‘Nay, I’m not as fit as I used to be.’

Ignoring him, I reach over to the radio and turn up the volume. Bill Haley & His Comets blast out. ‘How does it go?’

Valentine hesitates, but the pull of the music is too much and he puts down his scraper and descends the ladder.

‘You know I learned to dance with a chair.’

‘You did not!’

‘I did that, as there weren’t enough girls to go round. Me and Brian Hattersley had lessons every Sunday – I’ll never forget it.’

‘Well, I’m not a chair at least,’ I say and he laughs.

‘Right, well, I’m a bit out of practice, but you put your arm here, like this, and you just follow me.’

Sliding his arm around me, he starts stepping from side to side, with unexpectedly deft footwork. Harry watches us suspiciously from the corner, where he’s curled up on a pile of old dustsheets.

The music is infectious and I try to follow Valentine, being careful not to trip over the decorator’s sheet spread out across the floorboards.

‘There, look, you’re getting it.’

We sidestep together, Valentine’s hips seeming to loosen up as he sways to the music.

‘And now for the twirl,’ he instructs, spinning me around. I laugh and stumble backwards, but he catches me with surprising strength, and for the first time I see the man he used to be, before he was diminished by age and grief and guilt.

‘Now, see, this was the part where I’d spin you over my shoulder,’ he jokes. At least I hope he’s joking.

‘I think we might draw the line at that, Valentine,’ I protest as the song comes to an end and I realize I’m quite out of breath. ‘This isn’t Strictly.’

‘Oh, that used to be mine and Gisele’s favourite.’

Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, he props himself against the rung of the ladder to rest his legs.

‘Mine too,’ I grin, ‘but my ex refused to watch it.’

‘Well, that’s enough reason for a divorce right there,’ he smiles, and I can’t help but smile too.

‘How about this year we watch it together?’ I suggest.

Valentine nods. ‘I’d like that.’

We take a break to eat lunch and get our breath back, before Valentine climbs back up the ladder and I pick up the steamer. The last few feet of woodchip come off like a dream and we’re left with bare, naked walls. And a day that I’ll look back on forever as one of the most fun I’ve had in years.