‘Afternoon,’ he said, though she was gone already.

Mr Wright gesticulated with his cane. ‘Alice, who’s your visitor?’ There was a tone of resignation in his voice.

‘That’s Charlie Savage,’ she replied.

‘It’s Savigear, actually. I should have said before.’ He didn’t mean for this to be embarrassing to her, but Alice flushed.

‘Excuse me. Charlie Savigear. He’s travelled all the way from England to sit down with you and – well, there was an awful mix-up with his interview. My fault entirely. So I thought we might just fit him into your schedule for this afternoon …’

Mr Wright no longer seemed to care. He was examining his pocket watch and winding up the movement. ‘What’s your publication, Charlie?’

‘No, sir. I’m not here to interview you. It’s the other way. I mean, the other way around.’ His tongue had turned to wool. His confidence had gone. Perhaps it was the whiteness of the great man’s hair under the chandelier’s glow, or something in the smart arrangement of his clothes (the graduation from light shades to dark with every layer), or maybe just the pallor of his skin reflected by so many golden surfaces and mirrors – but his presence in the room was almost saintly. The air around him seemed opaque and wobbling, like the shimmer of hot tarmac in the sun. It was difficult to concentrate on anything but him.

‘He’s not with any paper,’ Alice said. ‘He wants to join us out at Taliesin. He’s applied to be a Fellow.’

‘Ah,’ the great man said. ‘A comrade in the making. Well, why didn’t you just say so, Charlie?’

Hearing his name spoken was enough to put the breath back in his lungs. The phones had all stopped ringing and the quiet helped him find his words. ‘I should’ve done.’

‘Charlie Savage. Doesn’t ring a bell, but I’ve no memory for names.’

‘You asked me to set up an interview,’ he said. ‘You wrote to me.’

‘I did?’

‘Yes, sir. I’ve got the letter here, in case you need to –’

But the great man flapped his hand at the suggestion. ‘I do enjoy how courteous you English are. Not like us Welsh.’ He took a few steps closer, leaving indentations in the carpet with his cane. ‘What’s in the tin, there?’

‘It’s a film I hoped to show you.’

‘I see. A film. That’s good. That shows initiative.’ His expression seemed amused, though, unimpressed. There was a sudden openness to his dark eyes. ‘The first thing you can do is call me Mr Wright. You’re sounding rather like the concierge and I don’t want to have to tip you.’

‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t apologize.’ The great man was two yards away now, breathing the same air. It seemed impossible that they were standing there together, but they were: a boy from Gillingham who’d feared to go beyond the limits of his aunty’s close until he turned eleven and Frank Lloyd Wright, the finest architect alive. ‘The second thing that you can do is book a new appointment. I’ve a meeting in the Oak Room in ten minutes – and these people have beeen waiting for a good few weeks to see me. That’s much longer than I’ve kept you waiting, I expect.’ He turned to Alice. ‘Could you find another time for this young man, please? Early next week would be fine.’