26

Anna Mitchell surprised me.  She was smart and attractive in her dark blue trouser suit, with blonde hair and a pale complexion; she stood out from the rest of the customers in The Old Cannon Brewery. A group of young men at the bar tracked her when she appeared, but they turned away as she sat down opposite me at the table near the window that overlooked Oxmarket Tye’s  snow-covered cobbled market square.

          “Pleased to meet you, Mr Handful,” she said, although there was a frost to her tone.

          “Thank you,” I said, “may I get you a drink?”

          “A Prosecco would be lovely.”

          I walked to the bar and ordered a glass of Prosecco and a pint of Calvors 3.8. On my return, Anna Mitchell thanked me with a con