Killing Me Softly Read Online Free PDF

slammed the office door and dashed for her car.
    As she started the engine, the car clock lit up, making it plain that she hadn’t really left anything like enough time for preparing an elaborate meal. Nor was there any question of speeding home through the country lanes in this fog, which had hung about all day and thickened with the dusk. That was the downside of living out of town. Damn! She wondered if she ought to ring Ben and tell him not to venture out to her cottage tonight. Stop making excuses, she told herself firmly. Ben was a journalist, editor of the local Advertiser, and he’d once been a correspondent in far-flung and dangerous parts of the globe and wouldn’t be deterred by a little thing like fog. Besides, he could always be guaranteed to raise her spirits, which was something she could do with tonight.
    And also, she’d had to stand him up far too many times lately.
    A solution presented itself. She could pick up a ready-prepared meal at Miller’s Wife, whose premises she happened to be passing, perhaps not entirely by chance. The shopping precinct was nearby, and kept open late on Thursdays, and Miller’s Wife had followed suit, ready for customers with just such an emergency as hers. Miller’s Wife. Ouch! said Ben, but Ben was a writer.
    She told herself it wasn’t necessary to feel guilty for short-cutting, she was a woman with a busy and demanding job. And with food of this sort, she was in no danger of serving up anything tacky. Miller’s Wife products were superior indeed – and priced accordingly. But tonight was special, and to salve her conscience, she would have time to cook fresh vegetables from those she’d bought in her lunch hour. Moreover, she owed it to Ellie Redvers, whom she’d met at aerobics classes, and begun to make friends with, to extend her custom now and then ...
    The young woman who looked after the shop, typed the odd invoice and sometimes drove their smart little white and honey-coloured van with the Wheatsheaf logo welcomed her cheerfully as she stepped inside. This was Barbie Nelson, a big girl with her hair scraped unceremoniously back into an elastic band, and wearing thick-lensed Bessie Bunter specs. Appallingly dressed, as always. OK, she was frankly overweight, but she could have done better than that, although somehow it didn’t seem to matter too much, with Barbie. She had a warm and vibrant personality and a chuckling laugh; under the thick, clumsy clothing, the abundance of creamy flesh hinted at generosity.
    â€˜Hi, haven’t seen you in here for a while,’ she remarked cheerfully.
    â€˜I’ve been learning to cook for myself, lately.’
    â€˜You and a few others.’
    â€˜Like that, is it?’ Abigail asked sympathetically, peering into the shiny cabinets. ‘Not doing too well?’
    â€˜So-so.’ Barbie was careful. ‘But is anybody, these days? Depressing, isn’t it? For a newish venture, I suppose we can’t grumble. It keeps us off the dole.’
    â€˜Still just the three of you?’ There were staff, Abigail knew, a boy for the heavy work, a woman in the kitchen for clearing up, casual help when they were extra busy. Plus a man who took care of the financial side – but she meant the three who really ran the place.
    â€˜Most of the time, yes. But it’s how we like it, how it works for us.’
    Evidently it did in this case, just the three of them. There’d been other young women somewhere in the background on occasions, Abigail knew, but presumably they hadn’t jelled.
    With Barbie’s help, she began to make a careful selection. A lobster mousse, for starters, then came hesitations over the main course.
    â€˜Why don’t you try the duck with black cherry sauce? It’s a new line, but I can recommend it. One of Clare’s inspirations, out of this world.’
    Barbie looked like a woman who knew and enjoyed her food. Abigail