‘Thank you,’ I say when the mattress starts letting out squeals of air because it’s full. I watch as he gathers up the pump and puts it back with the pile of other things, and sort of hovers next to it, paused halfway between helping with something else and picking up his stuff and leaving.

‘How about a cup of tea?’ I ask, because I don’t want him to leave yet. ‘I’m knackered after all that pumping.’

He is, of course, not even slightly knackered. He hasn’t broken a sweat and he isn’t gasping for breath or anything. ‘That bodes well for the amount of Christmas trees you’ll have to lug around if you really are going to get this place up and running again.’

‘Thanks for pointing out my complete lack of fitness. I’m so glad you noticed,’ I wheeze as I unscrew the flask to refill my empty cup and the other one for him.

Instead of replying, he gets the sleeping bag out and lays it on top of the mattress. Finally, he throws a camping pillow next to it, and sits down cross-legged on the floor next to the heater.

I take the two cups of tea across the room and hand him one, his fingers brushing against the back of my hand as he takes it. I wonder how his skin can be so warm when it’s still chilly in here, even with the heater going. I go back and collect the tin with a loaf of pumpkin bread in it. It’s still warm from the oven and the smell of cinnamon and spice that wafts up is mouthwatering. I sit down opposite him on the clean patch of floor, surprised to see the tiles are actually cream and have delicate beige leaf patterns along each edge. Patterns and colours are something that was lost under the grime earlier. I put the bread between us and push the tin towards him, and the way he hesitates before pulling the crust off is quite sweet.

We eat in silence for a few minutes. I want to look at him, to watch that lip piercing because I can see it out of the corner of my eye, catching the glow from the heater as he eats, but I tell myself to stop being weird. I concentrate on the chunk of pumpkin bread in my hand instead.

‘Do you think I can?’ I ask when the silence is almost as cloying as the smell of paraffin the heater is giving off. ‘Get this place up and running, that is?’