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      Insulation, Bryn? I’ll use eighteen-mill tongue and groove. Can’t see you wanting insulation as well.’

      Kati opened her mouth to protest, but Bryn waved her quiet. ‘My brother’s idea of a joke. We’ll stick in a ton of fibreglass.’

      ‘Mineral wool’s better,’ said Kati. ‘Non-carcinogenic.’

      She explored the building’s timbering with her hands, trying to visualise how the insulation would work, and Bryn stepped close to her, not touching, but working alongside her, their breath forming one cloud which rose above them into the vastness of the roof. ‘Mineral wool it is,’ he said, without stepping away from her side.

      ‘Eh, eh, Ewan,’ said Dai. ‘We need to sort out some rooms in here. No point putting in insulation if you’ve got a thirty-foot ceiling. And what d’you want to do about the observation tower? Rip it down or fix it up?’

      Bryn reluctantly left Kati’s side and continued round the derelict buildings with his brother, identifying problems, suggesting solutions. He was a good builder, Dai, and his business would have done well even if it hadn’t been the automatic choice of every Pontypridd fan within forty miles.

      ‘We going to use local labour, or d’you want me to bring my men?’

      ‘Use yours,’ said Bryn. ‘I don’t want to pay London wages if I can help it.’

      ‘I’ll tell that to my lads, see if they want to come.’

      ‘They’ll come.’

      ‘And they’ll have to stay somewhere.’

      ‘They can stay with me.’

      ‘I’ll try, I promise, but no guarantees.’

      ‘How many men d’you need!’

      Dai looked around. ‘Half a dozen, plus trades. Sparky, plumber, decorator.’

      Bryn pulled three wads of tickets from his pocket. ‘Six Nations rugby,’ he said. ‘England-Wales at Twickenham, Ireland-Wales at Lansdowne Road, Wales-France at the Millennium Stadium. I’m still trying to get Wales-Scotland, and the Italy game. Transport and beer thrown in as well.’

      ‘By damn,’ said Dai, fanning out the tickets in admiration. ‘You’re right, they’ll come. Bloody hell, Bryn, we’d even get Dad up to London for this, except he’s under the weather all the time now.’

      After Dai had left, notebook crammed with notes, rugby tickets cosseted like the Crown Jewels in his breast pocket, Kati spoke to Bryn.

      ‘Nice guy, your brother.’

      ‘Salt of the earth, and just as thirsty.’

      ‘He called you Ewan. Why?’

      ‘We had a sheepdog called Ewan when we were lads. It’s just a nickname.’

      Ewan was the name of a sheepdog, alright, but not just any old dog. Of all the many collies bred and trained by Bryn’s dad, Ewan was without question, beyond a doubt, and past dispute the randiest of them all. Dai had noticed Bryn’s not-so-casual closeness to Kati, and the nickname was invoked by either brother when they saw the other in pursuit of a skirt.

      Kati nodded solemnly as though Bryn’s bland explanation made sense, knowing that it didn’t. Later that day, when Bryn took advantage of Cameron’s absence to take a meal alone with Kati, she laughed at his jokes, was merry and outgoing, was happy to talk about herself and her family, and showed a warm interest in Bryn and his family. But when the meal ended, she refused a ‘cup of coffee at my place’, kissed Bryn high on the cheek, and took a separate cab home to her Notting Hill flatshare.

      ‘Eh, eh, Ewan,’ said Bryn to himself as he watched her go, ‘never give up, boy, never give up.’

      5

      Starting in business is like jumping a ravine. Getting it right is terrific. Getting it nearly right is so bad, you’d better not have jumped at all.

      Bryn knew that. He’d seen businesses take the run up, make the jump, lose their footing ever so slightly on take off – and then sail through the air, destined never to make the other side, destined to fall in appalled slow motion a thousand feet to the boulders and thorn bushes strewing the canyon floor.

      He didn’t want to be like that. He took precautions, and one night he drew up a contract and brought it to Cameron, who was sitting in Bryn’s living-room-turned-laboratory.

      ‘Hey there, Money Man,’ she greeted him.

      ‘Hey there, Medicine Woman.’

      ‘Found me my money yet?’

      ‘Nope. Still looking. Found a cure for AIDS yet?’

      ‘Nope. Still looking.’

      They laughed. Because he was laughing, Bryn spilled his coffee (Jamaican roast, double espresso, a hint of sugar). The coffee splurged out on to the sofa, staining the pale yellow silk. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said as Cameron leaped up, ready to mop it up. ‘Leave it.’

      ‘You don’t like the sofa? It’s kind of nice to spoil.’

      ‘It’s OK.’ Bryn shrugged. ‘But Cecily wants it back. As well as that,’ he said, pointing to a little Venetian chess table. ‘And that, that, that and that,’ he said, pointing to most of the other objects in the room.

      ‘She’s cleaning you out, huh?’

      ‘She’s helping herself to the contents of one pocket. The business is taking the contents of the other.’

      ‘So what does that leave you?’

      Bryn laughed. ‘I don’t know. My trousers? Here. I’ve got a contract.’ He handed it over.

      Before she took it, she held his gaze a little longer. ‘Don’t drive yourself too hard,’ she said. ‘You need to look after yourself.’

      ‘Don’t worry, I will. I am.’

      She dropped her eyes and peered at the agreement. ‘I thought I already signed a contract.’

      ‘An employment contract, yes. This is an assignment of intellectual property rights. It transfers your research to the company. It’s required for insurance purposes. Doesn’t mean anything.’

      ‘If it doesn’t mean anything, why do it?’

      ‘Because it’s required for insurance purposes.’

      ‘I hand over everything I’ve worked on for the last five years, because some damn insurance company wants me to?’

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