* * * *
Switching off the radio in disgust, Mitch leaned back in his chair. There hadn’t been anything worth listening to that had held his interest. Mitch didn’t have a TV. The British imposed a tax on owning sets, and the less the government knew about him the happier Mitch felt. Morwenna had offered to pay for the TV license herself and he could pay her back, but he’d refused, saying he doubted he’d watch the set enough to justify its cost.
He’d spent the best part of the afternoon buried in work in an effort to try to block out memories of Ben that the lunch with John had awakened.
Thinking of the man seemed to conjure him up. There was a knock on the door, but Mitch was already on his feet. Forcing himself to pause for a couple of heartbeats, he slowly made his way to the door and was careful to plaster on an expression of surprise that didn’t indicate too much pleasure.
“Good evening,” Mitch said.
“Evening.”