Yes, he’d pack his stuff; take his key back to Morwenna and think up some excuse or other for why he couldn’t stay. Maybe his grandmother had fallen and broken her hip, and he needed to return to London to look after her.
Shame on you, an internal voice reprimanded. Your grandmother is dead, and what do you think she’d say to you using her as an excuse for your cowardice?
“Shut up,” he said, raising his head and looking at himself in the mirror over the antique oak dressing table.
He looked a sight. Morwenna was bound to see that something was up. But then, wouldn’t it be natural for him to be upset at hearing bad news about his grandmother? He could say they were close and…
And there isn’t any mobile phone signal out here, so how would you have heard about this fictional hip fracture?
Sometimes he hated his logical conscience.