His sister was the reason he was doing this.

He’d known it since their first week with the Mayhoods. She’d seen the drawing on his table, showing the improvements he was planning for his bedroom. There’d been nothing special in the new arrangement he’d designed – in fact, it was a blatant copy of a boy’s room he’d once noticed in a magazine at Huntercombe – but he’d been proud of how he’d used three-point perspective to describe it, all the angles measured to perfection, nice clean lines. Joyce had laid her cold hand on his neck and rocked his head from side to side – not gently – then she’d let it go. ‘You’re bloody good at this,’ she’d said. ‘I mean, I knew you would be. But you’re bloody good. And I can’t even get my pencil sharp. It isn’t fair. I might’ve got the good looks in the family, but I’d rather have the talent. So unfair.’ That’s all it was, a fleeting moment of support, but it was honest. It had given him the sense that he could turn whatever skill he thought he had into a life that was worthwhile. He’d ridden on that confidence for weeks. And in the course of all those days beside her in the draughting room, he’d realized something: she’d become his sole responsibility. It wasn’t just his future he was working for; it was his sister’s, too. If he could make it as an architect, he could deliver them, at last, from their misfortune. He was trying for that now. Still trying.

*

Mr Wright was in the chair already, tilted back and covered to the Adam’s apple with a sheet. He looked as peaceful as a corpse inside a casket. The shop was empty and the sign on the front door said CLOSED, but the barber had his apron on, his sleeves rolled tight, and he was thickening the shaving soap in a tin bowl. When Charlie knocked upon the glass, the great man didn’t flinch. It was the barber who glanced over, waved him in. The shop door gave a tinkle as he pushed it. ‘Am I late?’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

Mr Wright’s pale eyelids didn’t open. ‘What time d’you make it now, Domingo?’

The barber checked his watch. ‘I make it seven, but I wouldn’t trust this cheap old thing.’

‘Well, there you are,’ the great man said. ‘Not late at all.’

‘Why don’t you have a seat right over there?’ Domingo made a gesture to the other padded chair. ‘As soon as I get done with Mr Wright, I’ll see to you. And you can leave your case there in the corner, if you want to.’

‘Thanks.’ He rested his portfolio against the coat stand and got straight into the chair. In the mirror, he could hardly see his whiskers, but he felt them with his palm. ‘I’ve only had a barber shave me once before.’

‘You didn’t like it, huh?’

‘Not much. He nicked me.’