If only to retain her company a little longer, he said, ‘Maybe when we’ve got our drawings in for Lundy, I might take you for a bite to eat? I mean, to thank you.’ She didn’t give an answer right away. He watched the backward motion of her shoulders, bracing to return the disappointing news, and tried to intervene before she voiced it: ‘Not the union. Somewhere nicer. There’s a place in Chinatown – the people sort of know me there. I thought you’d like to see it.’ And he couldn’t quite believe it when she told him, ‘Yes, I’d like that.’

Afterwards, he traipsed into the square and found the only bench that wasn’t caked in droppings. Grey clouds trawled the sky. The light was dwindling. He felt her absence strongly and he did his best to deaden it with reading. When specks of rain began to fall, he gathered all his books and his portfolio and went to sit in the refectory to sketch. But the only visions he could summon were of her somewhere without him, and he’d never been in such a hurry to complete his work or so indifferent to its standard.

*

The Wah Yuen restaurant was small and noisy. She had to concentrate on listening. There wasn’t just the clatter of the kitchen and the bellowed conversations in Chinese to overcome; there was a vendor on the street outside enticing folk to buy his fruit. Arthur ordered what he knew was good by pointing at the numbers on a blackboard hanging by the door. There weren’t a lot of tables, so they sat beside each other on a low bench near the window. The owner, Mr Peng, brought out their dishes on a tray. Fried rice, noodles, medleys of green vegetables, char siu and strips of beef in a dark sauce.

‘How long have you been coming here?’ she asked.

‘A while,’ he said. ‘Until last summer, I was washing pots for them. The weekend shift. It didn’t pay well, but I’d get a proper feed at closing time.’

The meal was special – rich and flavoursome and filling – and she told him so. She’d never tried its kind before.

‘I’m glad you like it. We’ll come every week, then, since you’re keen.’ His voice softened as he smiled.

‘Do you live nearby?’

He shook his head. ‘I live in Fairfield. I’ve a room above a bakery.’

‘That sounds nice to me.’

‘It has its charms. I’ve grown a bit attached to it.’

‘You didn’t want to be in halls?’

‘Not me, no. They’re far too – let’s just say, I didn’t want to be cooped up.’ He hurried on, as though she might’ve been offended: ‘What I mean is, I prefer it on my own. And if I lived in halls, I’d get distracted. There’s a chance I’d start forgetting where I came from. Once that happens, I’ll be done for.’

‘Done for?’ she said. ‘How’d you mean?’

He squared his eyes at her. ‘Well, let me put it this way: did you always want to be an architect?’