Arthur stayed there at his bureau for at least another minute, circling things in pencil. When he was done, he pulled the glasses from his face and dropped them to the table with the bill of quantities. Underneath, his cheeks were flushed and blotchy, as they often were when he had shaved right after bathing. As he came towards the Savigears, he held the open fist for his prosthetic arm in his left hand; a shiny silver disc remained exposed inside his blazer cuff until he made a show of fitting the appliance – it gave a loud metallic snap. She knew that he’d arranged this for the Savigears’ benefit, too.

There were people – some of whom she used to view as friends – who were repulsed by Arthur’s stump, who baulked at noticing the hollow drape of his shirtsleeve; but it was the artificial limb and its attachments people had the damnedest time accepting. She guessed that they equated it with a deception of some kind, like dummy legs in a magician’s box. Well, it had never troubled her the least bit. She’d always found the engineering of it beautiful – the deftness of the mechanism, its ingenuity and practicality – and, except for when he hung it on their towel rail at night, she never paused to think about it.

‘Did you make that for yourself?’ asked Charlie, awkwardly.

Her husband thinned his eyes. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The arm. Did you design it?’

Arthur gave a heavy exhalation. The question had surprised him, but he didn’t seem insulted. ‘You know, it never once occurred to me. Beyond my expertise, I think.’

‘If you can build a house, an arm can’t be that difficult.’

‘Yes, I suppose you’re right. I hadn’t thought of it.’

Joyce spoke up then: ‘Sorry, Mr Mayhood. He can’t keep his gob shut sometimes. Please don’t pay him any mind.’

‘No harm done at all.’ Arthur nodded back at her. ‘My skin is thicker than it looks.’

‘I could say the same about my brother.’

Florence had to bite her lip to keep from laughing. She didn’t want poor Charlie to feel rounded on – he was looking so deflated, scraping his shoe-tip over the parquet, hands thrust deep inside his pockets. ‘I’m sure he was just curious,’ she said. His head had dropped so low that short strands of his hair had worked loose from the grip of brilliantine; and when he straightened up again, casting his eyes in her direction, she caught a hint of his affection in the sharpness of his face.

‘Have they seen their rooms yet?’ Arthur asked her now.

‘Of course.’

‘Good, then. Good.’ He headed to the noticeboard, motioning for them to follow. ‘I want you to submit your renovation plans within a week. Does that sound feasible? Something a bit like this –’ He knuckled the dead centre of a drawing tacked up on the cork: it was an early sketch for the interior of the Proctors’ living room. ‘Cross section or two-point perspective, up to you. I just want to see some logic in relation to the space itself.’