Perfect Strangers Read Online Free

realising there was no hope of a big divorce settlement, and retreated into a shell. Sophie hadn’t missed the bottle of antidepressants in the bathroom cabinet, the bottle of gin in the closet. What if her husband’s death pushed her over the edge?
    She knelt down beside her mother, feeling her own mood soften.
    ‘Money comes and goes. Nothing matters so long as we’ve got each other.’
    She meant every word she said. So many things had been put into perspective in the last couple of days. The importance of family above everything was one of them.
    ‘But the house,’ sobbed Julia. ‘There’s a mortgage on it. I’ll never keep up the payments.’
    ‘So we’ll sell it,’ said Sophie defiantly. ‘We’ll buy something just as lovely, just a little bit smaller.’
    Julia nodded without lifting her head from her knees.
    Outside, the sun emerged from behind a cloud, sending a shaft of late afternoon light into the kitchen. As it warmed her face, Sophie felt a strange, calm optimism.
    They’d had such a run of bad luck, things had to get better soon. Surely.

2
    She was late again – she was always late. Ruth Boden peered out of the black cab’s window as the streets of Mayfair sped by. Come on, come on , she thought angrily as a white delivery van moved out in front of them. Not today, I can’t be late today of all days . She glanced down at her phone to check the time – it was only five past, not actually late, not really – and wondered if she should send him a text, say she was running behind. No, that would look unprofessional, and that was the last thing she needed.
    ‘Oh God, come on,’ she muttered to herself as they stopped at some temporary traffic lights. ‘Why are they always digging up the goddamn roads?’
    ‘Tell me about it, love,’ said the cabbie. ‘I tell you, since the bleeding recession, there’s more holes in London than they got in Calcutta.’
    Ruth smiled politely and willed the lights to change. She was due to meet Isaac Grey, the Washington Tribune ’s editor-in-chief, and although she knew him well, it was still important to make a good impression, especially when there were rumours flying around that the Tribune ’s London office was about to be restructured. It was, on paper at least, a huge opportunity for Ruth. She’d been the star London reporter for five years, and ever on the job, she’d been up since six chasing a lead. This morning the lead had come from a contact in the Met who had rung to say that some hotshot American lawyer had been found hanging in his million-pound flat; a sex game gone wrong, he’d said. It had sounded too juicy to ignore, so Ruth had shot over to Westbourne Grove, only to find that it was an overdose, the man had been revived by the paramedics – and to cap it all, he wasn’t even American, he was Canadian, for Chrissakes!
    Ruth shook her head at the memory. It was obviously useful having contacts within the police force and she was well aware that the detectives liked having her around – the sassy American journalist who always spelt their names right – but sometimes Scotland Yard’s efficiency left a lot to be desired. Ruth had been brought up on the stories of Sherlock Holmes, and she couldn’t help feeling disappointed that there seemed to be very few Inspector Lestrades left in the force. Even worse, this morning’s wild goose chase had made her late.
    The black cab’s tyres gave a little squeal as they pulled up outside the restaurant.
    ‘Thanks so much,’ said Ruth, pushing a twenty-pound note into the cabbie’s tray before slamming the door and running up the marble steps, her heels clacking on the stone.
    Isaac was waiting for her in a private booth, flicking through his BlackBerry, his trademark scowl on his face.
    ‘So sorry, Isaac,’ she said, leaning over to air-kiss him. ‘Got called out to a big story on the other side of London.’
    ‘I hope it was good,’ he said as she slid into the red leather seat