The Youngs weren’t gypsies but they weren’t petit bourgeois, either, not interested. ‘We are what we are,’ Mr Young had said, when Kev had passed the eleven-plus but they turned down a place at the grammar school. ‘I’m not having that in our family, kids looking down on their parents. My boy’s my boy.’ So Kev had gone to Savvy’s, which was how, five years later, Robin had met Sean Harvey and had fun putting the wind up Christine for a little while. She and Kev had always got on well, shared a sense of humour and an appreciation of boundary-pushing, and because he only lived a few roads away, they’d stayed in touch after she went to the grammar. They’d never so much as kissed, they’d never fancied each other, and then she’d introduced Kev to Corinna. Nothing had ever happened between them, either, but not for lack of trying on Kev’s part. Full credit to him, though: when Rin had finally had to give him a definitive ‘no’, he’d taken it on the chin. ‘Out of my league,’ he’d said. ‘Fair enough.’

Kev’s dad had been the second MD of Young’s Metals and Kev was the third. The yard was where it had always been, over in Bordesley, the slogan in the wrought-iron arch over the gates – Make Your Old Metal Young’s – unchanged. Even on the website, however, she’d seen Kev’s influence. He might not have gone to the grammar but he’d always been ambitious. The old Portakabin his dad had worked in was gone and in its place was a single-storey office building of some size and – for a scrapyard – style. Inside, there were two receptionists behind the desk. There’d been a lot of talk on the website about overseas partners and services for high-volume business, and the yard was twice as big as she remembered, whatever had been next door back then – a factory, was it? – long gone.

She hadn’t known if he’d even recognize her, she hadn’t seen him since Rin’s wedding, but as she walked across the yard behind the offices, following the receptionists’ directions, she saw him notice her then do a double-take. He said a few words to the bloke he’d been talking to then strode across the mud towards her, coat flapping.

‘Christ’s sake,’ he said and put his arms round her. A rib-bending hug and the smell, disconcertingly good, of what was definitely expensive aftershave. The coat was expensive, too, the wool lapel soft against her face. It was like being cuddled by a full-sized, nicely perfumed bear.

He put her down and looked at her. ‘Jesus, Rob.’

‘You’ve heard then?’

‘’Course I have. I’m gutted. That lovely, lovely girl. Can’t get my head round it.’

‘Me neither.’