‘I can manage.’

‘It’s ten litres of paint.’

‘And you a woman too,’ he puffed, his breathing laboured.

‘I didn’t have you down as sexist, as well as stubborn.’

‘It’s not sexist – it’s how it should be.’

‘Since when did we time-travel back to the last century?’

‘Gisele never carried anything. I did all the heavy lifting . . . Oof! Bloody hell.’ Forced to rest on the step, he hung on to the bannister. ‘That’s heavy.’

‘What did I tell you? It needs two of us.’

Which makes me think how it’s not only a ten-litre pot of Dulux Trade that’s too heavy for one person – it’s so many things in life. So we managed it together, each holding the handle, shifting the weight between us. We all need help sometimes; the hardest part is accepting it.

And so for the last two days we’ve been attacking the woodchip, a type of textured wallpaper that, in the past, was used to cover up a multitude of sins and is a complete nightmare to remove. The cottage is covered in it, and it’s become my nemesis. Still, it has to come off before Valentine can start to work his magic with his paintbrushes. So we have a system. He uses the edge of the scraper to scour the paper, making a diamond pattern on the walls, while I follow with the steamer, holding it for a few seconds over the marks to let the steam penetrate. We started at the bottom, as the steam rises, and are working our way slowly upwards.

It’s hard and messy work. Years of wallpaper and woodchip, and coats of nicotine-stained paint. Slowly we chip away at the layers, peeling them back, revealing what’s underneath. And we talk.

‘So how did you and Gisele meet?’ I’m asking him now, aiming the steamer at a particularly stubborn patch.

‘At a dance at the Plaza,’ he informs me from halfway up the ladder. ‘She was with her friend Betty. Took me ages to get up the courage. And then she said no.’

‘She did not!’

Valentine nods and continues scraping at the woodchip. It floats down like confetti. ‘So then I asked Betty.’

‘Valentine!’ I look shocked.

‘Tactics.’ He laughs and taps his nose. ‘Of course, once she’d seen me jiving, Gisele couldn’t refuse.’

I laugh then and put down the steamer. ‘That’s a good bit,’ I point to a large piece of wallpaper that’s bubbled up from the wall.

‘I’ll say.’

With a swift piece of professional wrist action, Valentine neatly slips his scraper underneath and a large piece peels off. It’s hugely satisfying. Less satisfying is the state of the plaster underneath.

‘My ex-husband preferred golf to dancing.’

‘Hitting a little ball into a hole?’ Valentine tuts and shakes his head. ‘What’s the point of that?’

‘He’d probably say the same about dancing.’

‘He doesn’t know what he’s missing.’ Pushing his flat cap back from his forehead, Valentine wipes his brow and peers down at me. His face softens. ‘And I’m not talking about the dancing.’