‘You might say I had a chance to rethink my methods,’ Tom says, following this up with an awkward laugh. Too soon, he thinks. He clears his throat and shifts his feet. ‘I see Dag’s doing a lot better. His text messages say that, anyway.’

Erik nods. ‘The doctors say he will not be able to go back to university this year.’

Tom feels shame sweep across him once more. ‘That’s … I’m so sorry. Perhaps … once Dag feels able to return I’ll happily pay for the rest of his tuition.’

Erik shrugs. ‘We’re in Norway. University is free.’

‘Right,’ Tom says, and Erik laughs. Tom joins him. The relief is immense. It’s only laughter and yet it feels like winning the lottery. It signifies forgiveness. Erik slaps him on the back.

‘Come on,’ he says. ‘We have work to do.’

Over the next week, he works harder than he’s ever worked in his life. His presence on site wearing a number of hats, at least figuratively – architect, project manager, foreman, runner, concrete mixer, machinery operator – galvanizes his small team of workers. It becomes more of a team effort than ever, and he notices some of the men staying on long after their shift ends. Even Jakob, Dag’s friend from Ålesund, shows up, ostensibly to take pictures of the build to send to Dag, but before long he’s in a high vis jacket and hard hat and is helping Erik heft joists down the cliff.

‘Cup of tea?’

Tom looks up from the room in the cliff to see Clive standing on the hoist, holding out a flask.

He continues hammering. ‘Thought you’d gone back to London.’

Clive steps inside, looks around. Aurelia’s Nest is looking good. Quite spacious, too. They’re in the natural rut of the cliff in which Tom has built a large open-plan living space and kitchen out of wood. Even the floor is down, and the frame for the next couple of storeys is in place. He can see iron rods poking through the ceiling from where Dag drilled down. Poor kid. Good job he’s not suing the company. Tom’s a genius to lay on the pally-pal act, keep him sweet. Harder to sue friends.

‘London?’ he says, setting the flask on the floor. ‘Hardly. We’re in the thick of things, aren’t we?’

‘Hello, boys,’ a voice calls. Derry. Tom looks up to see her climb out of the hoist, iPad in hand and black-framed glasses on. She’s not wearing workout gear, either – jeans, UGGs, a white cashmere jumper beneath an unzipped padded coat. Her long dark hair is loose beneath the white hard hat. She’s in interior designer mode. ‘Good gracious. This is incredible,’ she says, ignoring Tom and looking around. ‘Wowzers. The size of it. You’d never have thought it was this big, would you?’