‘The lift isn’t going into the cliff,’ he tells Clive, tapping the new addition on the easel. ‘It’s going outside it. Fifteen feet from the rock face, to be exact.’ He gets out his calculator, works out the dimensions required. He has the exact measurements of the cliff on his computer, but he can remember the important numbers off the top of his head.

‘You’ll still need explosives to secure the lift,’ Clive says.

‘Explosives, explosives,’ Tom says, tutting. ‘You’re just dying to blow things up, you are.’

Clive grins, folds his arms. ‘It would make a good PR video for the YouTube campaign.’

‘If it’s bad for the environment, it’s bad for business, remember?’

‘It would get the job done fast. Fast is what we need, Tom, not more delays …’

Tom doesn’t answer. Clive drains the glass. ‘Seriously, though. How are you going to do this lift business? Because it strikes me this is extra time and money …’

‘I was wondering when you were going to bring up your two best friends,’ Tom says. He turns, fixes Clive with a goading stare. ‘You know, I can’t actually recall the last time we had a conversation where you didn’t mention time and money.’

Clive simmers, bites back the urge to pound Tom’s thick skull. If Tom hadn’t been recently widowed he’d dump this job. Screw the company. Some things aren’t worth the hassle.

Instead, he says, ‘Since you brought it up – how are we doing for time and money, Tom? Are we on track? On budget?’

Tom clears his throat. ‘I thought that was your job.’

Clive smiles. ‘Ah, yes. If only I had the power to create time and money out of thin air. But unfortunately, I don’t, and since you keep messing with the plans and blowing our budget, I’m struggling to know where we stand. So – this lift. How’re you doing it? Because if we need to order a digger I kind of need to know.’

Tom mumbles his reply. ‘Hand drill.’

Clive clearly hasn’t heard him correctly. Tom can’t have said they’re going to install a lift using a hand drill.

‘Come again?’

‘He said he’d do it,’ Tom mutters. ‘It’s not really a hand drill. It’s one of those new ones on a frame. But it’s manually operated.’

Clive reels for a moment. He wants to belly laugh but he might wake the kids, and he’s had enough nights of shrieking babies for a lifetime. ‘Hold on. A hand drill? Who said he’d do what?’

‘Dag,’ Tom says. ‘Probably a week’s work. They’re really efficient, these drills.’

Clive claps his hands to his head and does a circle on the spot.