The property is its own world. All you can see is the lake, the mountains across the other side and untamed native bush. So isolated, so private. Invisible to the rest of the world.

Cain carries a box up the steps to the front door, with its faded red paint. He crouches down and removes the old lock and then sands the whole door down, wiping the wood smooth with a cloth after each stroke. He then retrieves a small tin of paint from the box and pops its lid open to reveal a dark liquid. I just lean against the balustrade and watch as he rolls the black gloss up the door. I’d resisted this but against the stained timber of the house, the result is striking. He has a good eye, I’ll give him that much.

‘Is there a blow dryer here?’

‘In the bathroom.’

He disappears to grab it, then dries the area around the lock before he installs the new one he’d picked up at the hardware store. We’ve changed the locks before. After the police had kicked the squatter out, we’d driven down and found food still in the fridge and one of the beds looked slept in. Cain took to calling the squatter Goldilocks. He changed the front door lock and installed deadbolts on the other doors. Now, just two years later, he’s installing another.

The lock is a smart lock. We can change the passcode from anywhere in the world provided we have an internet connection. He’s also bought white paint from the hardware store to touch up the walls, and stain for the back deck that he’d built the summer he returned from Afghanistan, when we decided it was time to start a family and move down.

He’s testing the new lock out now; it’s shiny black like a giant beetle halfway up the door.

He doesn’t bother fixing the back door, a jammy old thing that scrapes when you close it. We need only one lock to get in, then guests can open the other doors from the inside, and with a digital lock we never need to worry about lost keys.

I fill a teacup with hot water and watch him as the tea steeps. His shirt off again in the warmth of the early spring sun. He’s sweeping away woodchips from around the door.

‘It looks great,’ I say, outside. I step back and gaze out over the lake, take a mouthful of tea. ‘I was thinking about getting some wine to leave for guests, what do you think?’

‘As a gift?’

‘Yeah, a welcome package. Wine, a nice bar of soap and maybe a candle.’

His dark eyebrows rise. ‘Sounds like a waste of money.’

Unlike your fancy new lock.

‘I read online that it’ll help us to get good ratings and more bookings. So we could eventually charge more.’