‘Oh, sorry.’ Jack looked at Ellen, who raised her eyebrows. His face felt hot, and the box was – suddenly – very heavy.

‘Well done, Jack,’ Alexa turned quickly, smoothing her T-shirt.

‘Thanks, mate,’ Ben said, clapping Jack on the back.

‘No worries,’ Jack said. Then he added, quietly, ‘Mate.’

‘Shall we tear up one of the other boxes to use as a sign?’ Alexa asked.

Ben pointed to one filled to the brim with crockery and carried it lightly into the centre of the room. Jack struggled over with the box of paint tins and brushes, dropping it with as much elegance as he could muster, emitting a low ‘oof’ as he did so. He hoped Alexa hadn’t heard. Ben and Ellen were removing the crockery, Ellen grimacing as she held a saucer up for inspection.

‘This is horrible.’

‘Have you taken it all out?’ Sometimes Alexa ignored Ellen’s jokes. Jack wouldn’t dare.

‘Yes,’ Ellen said, peevishly.

‘OK, let’s tear into that box to give us a piece of card big enough for a sign.’ Alexa was businesslike now.

With a little difficulty, Ben tore a side off the thick cardboard box and presented it to Alexa.

‘Thank you.’ A grateful smile. ‘OK, and now for the paint.’

Jack rushed to remove a tin for her.

‘Thanks, Jack. Wait … paint doesn’t go off, does it?’

‘Don’t think so?’ Ben offered.

‘Let’s just keep the skylight open,’ Alexa said, after a minute’s contemplation. ‘That way the paint fumes won’t get to us.’

‘I don’t know, I might appreciate the high at this stage,’ Ellen said, drily.

Jack laughed on cue. She looked at him gratefully.

‘Right, so what are we writing?’ Ben asked.

‘I say we go with something basic,’ Alexa replied. ‘Like –’

‘Fuck?’

Alexa ignored Ellen again. ‘OK, let’s say: “SOS, stuck in attic –”’

‘“And there’s a leak in the kitchen”,’ Ellen supplied. ‘“A big one”.’

Alexa gingerly opened the paint pot. The insides looked normal: thick and soupy. She dunked one of the hardened brushes into the pot and then pulled it out, paint dripping in a long stream from the end of the brush. The others watched as she started painting their message in long, precise lettering. Even in decades-old paint with hardened paintbrushes, Jack thought that Alexa’s handwriting looked like calligraphy. He was glad he hadn’t been asked to write the message.

‘HELP! We are stuck in the attic. Kitchen is flooded. Please look up!’

She added an arrow pointing upwards on the end, and removed her brush with a flourish.

They all examined Alexa’s handiwork.

‘Do you think we should add a smiley face, or something?’ Ellen asked, after due consideration.

Alexa made a scornful face.

‘Yes, I know,’ Ellen said, hastily. ‘But it might make us seem more personable. Or should we say something like “This is not a joke!!!”?’