As Noah's trustee, I had a seat on the board of Whitfield Motors.

I'd never been in a boardroom before. I'd decided I would read every page anyway.

At my first meeting, there were nine people around the table. Tom was one. Elaine was another. She still owned her own shares.

She didn't look at me when I sat down.

The meeting was about plans for the showrooms. Old-fashioned, the managers said. Tired. Customers weren't coming in.

I looked at the photographs they passed round. Grey carpet. Fluorescent lights. Plastic chairs.

“May I say something?” I asked.

The chairman nodded, a little surprised.

I talked for ten minutes about light, and space, and making a family feel welcome when they're spending the biggest money of their year. I talked about what I'd learned in seven years of building a business from nothing.

When I finished, the room was quiet.

Then, from the end of the table, a voice.

“She's right.”

It was Elaine.

Everyone turned to look at her. She was looking at me.

“She's right,” Elaine said again. “Frank would have said the same.”

After the meeting, she was waiting for me in the car park, holding an old envelope.