Marina resists the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she lays her hand on his sleeve. He blushes. ‘I understand. But he doesn’t need to find out. Why don’t you tell me his name?’

He opens his mouth. The woman clears her throat. Wayne shakes his head. ‘I’ll call him today, I promise.’

She frowns and gives up. ‘Fine. But please tell him it’s an emergency.’

‘An emergency,’ he parrots. ‘Yes, of course. In the meantime, there’s an electrical shop not far from here where you can buy . . .’

He doesn’t finish his sentence, because Marina has left. She is marching to buy an electric heater that she will charge to the negligent landlord.

When she gets home in possession of the heater, there is a decorator’s van parked in the street and migraine-inducing hammering coming from above. Marina mutters as she steps inside her flat, heaves the heater from its box, crouches on the carpet and fiddles with the dials. A piece of plaster drops beside her.

‘And now the sky is falling in.’

She smiles thinking of David reading her the story of Chicken Licken. It was always David who performed those quiet tasks, the tea parties for her dolls, the animals on her farm, the Lego and the games. Ruth was a force of nature, ferrying her from one adventure to the next.

She plugs in the heater and warms her hands over its pathetic seep of air.

‘Hey!’ Ron pokes his head into the room. ‘You left the door open.’

‘Did I? Must be the noise interfering with my sense.’

He saunters in – yellow shirt and khaki shorts – and waves a bottle of wine in her direction. ‘Fancy a drink?’

‘Aren’t you cold?’

He chuckles. ‘Never feel it.’

‘Lucky you. Shouldn’t you be at work?’

‘Day off.’

‘Double lucky you.’

She disappears into the kitchen to open the wine and fetch glasses. When she returns, he is examining the photo of Ruth and David. ‘You look more like your dad than your mum,’ he says, taking his drink.

She suppresses a smile. People see what they believe they should see.

He raises his glass. ‘Cheers.’

‘Cheers.’

They sit in armchairs facing each other. Ron lounges easily, long legs sprawled. Above them, the hammering transforms into thumping.

‘You’d think the landlord would mind – at least a bit,’ says Marina.

‘Makes his life easy.’

‘I suppose. I’m planning to paint. So far, I’ve managed that.’ She points at a trio of samples on the walls – burgundy, dark blue and bronze green. ‘What do you reckon?’

‘I like the blue.’

More loud noises above them. They look up in unison.

‘Maybe they’ve discovered a body,’ suggests Ron, ‘underneath the floorboards.’

‘God, I hope not.’ Marina takes a large drink of her wine. The heater sputters. She leans across and alters the setting. ‘I’ve told the estate agent that the landlord has to fix my boiler.’