I could pretend not to notice – it seems the easiest thing to do, otherwise I’ll have to offer him the kitchen sink in the cottage to wash in. But I can tell by the way he’s holding his hands out in front of him that he’s about to ask.

‘Would you mind . . .?’ he says.

It’s crossing another line, but I force a smile and hope that the house is empty, as the last thing I need is Jacob eulogizing about how grateful he is to be living in the flat when Leon knows nothing about it. I consider telling Jacob not to mention it as I lead him up the path, but that will only unsettle him, so I decide to fly by the seat of my pants and hope for the best.

The house is still as I open the back door and I dare to imagine that Leon has already gone to work, but as I turn the tap on and silently gesture for Jacob to use it, I hear footsteps overhead. I hand Jacob a tea towel before he’s even wet his hands and head back to the door, but it’s too late; Leon is at the foot of the stairs with a surprised expression on his face.

‘Oh,’ he says. ‘Everything OK?’

I stand there, not sure what to do for the best. In any other situation, I’d normally introduce the pair of them without a second thought, but I feel compelled to get them as far apart as possible, as quickly as I can.

‘We just needed to use the sink,’ I say. ‘There was a dead bird and . . .’

‘Oh, right,’ says Leon, coming towards us with an extended hand. ‘Hi, I’m Leon, Naomi’s husband.’

I tense up, but force a smile. Leon will be able to sense my awkwardness a mile off.

‘Jacob, good to meet you.’

I will him to leave it there and usher him towards the door.

‘Thanks,’ Jacob says, ‘for—’

‘Come on,’ I interject. ‘The clock’s ticking.’

I can feel Leon’s eyes burn into the back of my head, but I keep looking forward, intent on getting Jacob back in my office, where I get to control the narrative.

He steps inside and shrugs off his jacket, throwing it onto the coat stand.

There’s an energy about him that he didn’t have when I helped him move into the flat last week. Back then, he’d seemed almost grief-stricken, and I wondered if he was doing the right thing. If we were doing the right thing. But seeing the cigarette burns on his arms as he’d lifted a box down from the van convinced me we were.

‘Why are you helping me like this?’ he’d asked, as I’d hung his suits up on a rail and put his online food shop away in the kitchen cupboards.