The intercom buzzes. “Charlotte Conners’ is on her way up, Mr Haswell.”
“Thanks, Francis. Send her right in.”
Five minutes later, there’s a tap at the door….
“Come in.”
…. and the young woman I briefly met a few weeks ago enters my office.
She’s wearing standard ‘office dress’, a neatly ironed white blouse, regulation knee-length black skirt, and her hair, which I last saw long and loose, is tightly pinned to her head….
But what I mainly notice is her likeness to my Elizabeth….
Ye gods, you look even more like her now I get a good look at you….
…. It can"t be a coincidence...
…. Surely there’s no ‘Conners’ in Elizabeth’s family…?
The resemblance to my wife is distracting, but I pull myself back to the real world, remembering my manners.
Standing to greet her, I proffer my hand.
