Donna was at the building suppliers in Bow, trying her hardest to raise their credit. After finding out that the money in her joint account with Georgio was all they possessed, she had been hard put to finance any more building work. After she’d paid over seven thousand pounds to the supplier, he had then informed her that unless another ten was forthcoming in the next few days, all their credit would be cut off.

It didn’t take Donna long to realise that this scenario was nothing new. It seemed Georgio owed money left, right and centre. Stephen had explained that it was the recession and most big builders were feeling the pinch, if not leaving half-built houses to complete at another time, when demand was once more the name of the game. Donna had left two sites with houses built only up to the damp course, laying off men or putting them on other sites. Now she had to see Mr Francis Pemberton and convince him to allow her more credit to finish some of the houses or he’d be paid nothing at all.

As she pulled up at the building suppliers, she rested her head on the steering wheel for a few seconds, savouring the sound of Georgio’s voice once more. He had rung her. She had spoken to him. Those few words had meant the world to her.

She had turned off her car phone earlier, sick of the constant calls while she was driving, wanting a few hours’ peace to think about Georgio and his words.

Finally getting out of the car, she smoothed her suede trousers and tidied her hair before walking into Francis Pemberton’s yard. She passed through the main warehouse and walked over to the small office at the back.

Francis Pemberton was smoking a large Cuban cigar, the reek from it pervading the whole atmosphere. Donna knocked on the door and walked inside, smiling widely.

‘Hello, darlin’, and what can I do you for?’ Francis Pemberton was forty-eight years old, tall, good-looking, and with a permanent smile that never touched his eyes. He wore handmade suits, Freeman, Hardy & Willis shoes, and white towelling socks. His head was big, his features heavy, his hair a curly salt and pepper halo that enhanced his rugged looks.

‘Good morning, Mr Pemberton. I trust I’m not inconveniencing you, calling like this?’

Francis Pemberton laughed out loud. ‘My old woman could do with a few lessons from you, love. She would give her eyeteeth, not to mention her right arm, for your voice. No matter how I dress her up, once she opens that big trap she’s a typical Cockney. Still, she’s my old woman so I have to swallow it, don’t I?’