With her catering facilities in the garage out of action, Emily had transferred all the items she needed for tomorrow’s party into the house. In the kitchen, she was busy putting all the lettuce she had washed, along with the prepared tomatoes and cucumber, into separate plastic tubs, ready to assemble the prawn cocktails the following day. She paused occasionally to take a sip from the very large glass of white wine she had poured herself.
When she had finished, she mixed up the cocktail sauce, adding her own spin on it: paprika, tabasco and horseradish. She already had several trays of prawns that were almost ready to peel now. Her plan was to finish all the prawns tonight and store them in the fridge, ready to transport tomorrow.
Next, she would put the first of the bowls of lamb tagine, which she had previously prepared, into the double oven, on low heat, to slow cook overnight. Tomorrow, when – hopefully – Louise would be well enough to help her, they would prepare and pre-cook the vegetables, as well as the six salmon en croûtes that had been ordered for pescatarians, and two vegan dishes. The canapés, chosen by their client, were already prepared and at Louise’s.
They were back on schedule, she thought, with relief.
As she closed the oven doors, she suddenly sensed someone standing behind her.
She turned.
There was no one.
The whole kitchen was feeling like a fridge.
Her breath came out as vapour.
She shivered. The temperature seemed to have dropped, dramatically. She closed the door to the hall, but the room felt even colder still.
And again, she sensed someone standing behind her.
Then she heard a click, and felt a sudden jolt of static electricity on her shoulder.
She spun round.
And stared straight into an angry, shrivelled face.