Melody Bittersweet and The Girls' Ghostbusting Agency: A laugh out loud romantic comedy of Love, Life and ... Ghosts? (8 page)

I bite my lip at Douglas’s glib words. ‘Except it’s hardly “all for one and one for all” if one of them murders you, is it?’

He grins, outwitted, and looks as if he’s about to say something equally pithy, but before he can he freezes, eyeing the doorway. Within a couple of seconds all three ghosts disappear into thin air, leaving us alone in their living room.

‘Is this a private séance or can anyone join in?’

The fact that Marina and Artie both swivel at the sound of a new voice in the room assures me that it’s a living, breathing human rather than yet another of Scarborough House’s ghostly inhabitants. I groan, and if I was given to stamping my foot in temper, I’d do it right now, because it’s not just any human who’s just walked in unannounced. It’s Fletcher goddamn Gunn.

‘
W
hat the hell
are you doing here? This is private property,’ I say, slamming my hands down on my hips.

He gestures behind him nonchalantly. ‘Side gate was open.’

I seethe inwardly at my own incompetence. Lesson learned; cover your tracks. Fletcher Gunn, or Fletch, as he is ubiquitously known, is a jumped-up wannabe, a supposedly hot-shot reporter from the
Shropshire Express
always looking to discredit my family at any chance he has. We’ve moved on opposite sides of the same circle for several years, baiting each other every now and then but always keeping to our respective halves. To be completely fair, his problem isn’t personal to the Bittersweets; he has an issue with anything that has a sniff of the supernatural about it. He likes his facts to be as black and white as the newsprint he churns out, and he makes it his business to stick his oar in where it isn’t needed or wanted in the name of proving himself right.

‘Well, if it isn’t Fox Mulder himself,’ Marina drawls, as unimpressed as I am by the new arrival. Just so you get the picture, he’s not unlike a young Duchovny. He’s got that same louche air of confidence and ‘just tumbled out of bed with two blondes’ look about him that irritates the hell out of me. Is he hot? God, yes. He has eyes the colour of seawater on a warm day, rockpool green glass that reflects his every thought, and his conker-brown hair kisses his collar in that ‘I just shoved my hands through it and, hey, doesn’t it look gorgeous’ style that no amount of actual styling can capture. He’s sexy in an effortless kind of way; it just rolls off him the way the tide rolls off the sand. I mean, sure, he’s hot, but that can’t disguise the fact that his heart is a cold, dead, weight in his chest. In fact, he probably stores it in the freezer at night.

‘I liked
The X-Files
,’ Artie pipes up. ‘The truth
is
out there.’

Fletch nods. ‘Well, it sure ain’t in here. Is that the whiff of Bittersweet bullshit and baloney I smell?’

‘Go back to your desk and write the problem page, or whatever it is you do over there, Fletch. You’re boring me.’

Artie’s eyebrows crawl into his hairline at my deliberately rude tone. I want Fletch out of here.

‘They don’t let me answer the problems anymore,’ he says, walking to the far end of the room to gaze out over the gardens. ‘People complained that my style was too abrasive.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s not my fault if people prefer to be mollycoddled and lied to rather than face hard, cold reality, is it?’

‘Never let it be said that you have anything approaching a compassionate bone in your body,’ I mutter.

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ he says, biting. ‘I’m the king of compassion for the right reasons. Just not when it comes to crackpots and circus acts like Leo Dark. Or Blithe Spirits.’

I refuse to let him bait me with that knowing, cocksure way. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t work for the family firm any longer.’

‘Hang on,’ he says, pulling his dictaphone from his pocket and holding it out to me. ‘If you’re about to finally fess up that it’s all a load of hokum bollocks I want to catch it on tape.’

Marina and Artie move to flank me on either side as I shake my head, not willing to divulge details of the agency to him for derision. ‘I think it’s time you left.’

He strolls back across the room in his own sweet time, taking in the details.

‘I’m watching this place,’ he says. ‘I saw Dark on the telly giving it the big “I am”, and now here you are too. Anything that involves both you and him is definitely on my radar.’

‘I’m flattered,’ I shoot.

He laughs over his shoulder as he leaves. ‘Give my regards to your mother. I hear she speaks highly of me on her radio show.’

As soon as he’s gone, I kick the nearest sofa and Marina gives him the finger through the front window.

‘He’s all we need poking around our first case,’ I say, and I mean it. Fletch is bad news for me. I badly want to project the image of a kick-ass businesswoman but something about him turns my insides girly. Jesus, did I even just
say
that? Girly is definitely the completely wrong word. He turns my insides womanly, then, as in every bit of me apart from my brain goes all stupid around him. By stupid, I mean I feel as if I am actually sparkling on the inside. Oh God. That’s so hideously girly that I want to cut my own throat.

‘He’s all smoke and smart-arse.’ Marina keeps it real, picking up her tote and swinging it over her shoulder. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Think so,’ I nod. ‘I don’t think the Scarboroughs are going to tell us any more of their secrets today. They scattered like thieves caught at the scene of a robbery when Fletch turned up.’

As we pile into Babs, I notice a business card stuck under the wiper and lean out and grab it.

‘Fletcher Gunn. Reporter.’ On the back he’s scrawled,
Nice van, Thelma
. ‘Thelma,’ I hiss, through clenched teeth.

‘I think he means like on
Scooby Doo
,’ Artie says, fastening his seat belt.

‘Yes. I got that, thank you.’ I yank the choke out on the van and rev the accelerator to get Babs going.

‘Cheeky bastard,’ Marina mutters. I can always rely on her solidarity. ‘Hot though, and he definitely checked out your backside back there. I caught him red-handed.’

‘He so did not,’ I say hotly. I don’t want him looking at my bottom any more than I want to acknowledge that I snuck a look at his. ‘Did he?’

Marina winks as I file that snippet away to consider later, then she starts to laugh and looks at Artie. ‘To be fair though, you’re a dead ringer for Shaggy.’

He nods, not in the least offended. ‘Does that mean I can bring my dog to work tomorrow?’

‘Do you actually have one?’ I ask, throwing Babs around a corner.

‘No.’

I didn’t think so.

W
hen we pull
up outside his mum’s neat semi-detached ten minutes later, Artie grabs his lunch box and opens the van door.

‘Well done today,’ I say. ‘You handled your first encounter with ghosts like a pro.’

He smiles goofily. ‘Not much to see really, was there?’

I laugh and shake my head at his unquestionable logic as he glances behind the seats into the back of the van, frowning.

‘What have you lost?’ Marina asks as his mum opens her front door and waves at us wildly from the step. She’s comically tiny when you consider that she gave birth to Artie, way smaller than me and I’ve been called ‘titch’ on more than one occasion.

‘Nothing,’ Artie says. He walks away, and then turns back as Marina starts to slide the door shut. ‘We don’t really have a ghost vacuum in there, do we?’

I honestly find it hard to know if he’s serious or joking.

* * *

‘
M
elody
, darling. Can I have a word?’

Coming from my mother, it’s the kind of phrase that sends red flags running so high up the pole you’d see them from the moon. A word, in her terms, usually means something that’s a pain in the ass in mine.

‘Is there a reason you’re phoning me to ask me this? We’re in the same building.’

She’s up front at Blithe Spirits, and I’m at the back just closing up after my third day as a bona fide businesswoman. I have a hot date with my bathtub and I don’t want to break it.

‘I would come around, sweetheart, but I’ve got guests.’

She’s using the honeyed voice she usually reserves for her Saturday morning radio phone-in, which can only mean bad things for me.

‘Who is it?’

‘Thank you, darling. I’ll open that coffee cake you like.’

She hangs up, and I stare at the phone, perplexed. ‘Open the coffee cake?’ Man, she’s good. She’s baiting me with sugar, and I’m about to open my mouth and take a royal-sized bite.

Turning the Magic 8 Ball over on my desk, I ask it whether I should ignore my mother’s invitation/order to attend Blithe Spirits without passing go, or head up the stairs to the sanctuary of my flat.

The bubbles clear, and the answer emerges.

As I see it, yes.

Yes what? Yes go, or yes ignore her? I can’t remember how I phrased the question. Hell. There’s coffee cake involved, of course I’m going to go.

T
wo perfect asses
, the back of two Monroe-esque hairdos. I should have guessed. I consider backing away from the shop before anyone sees me, but I’m scuppered when Gran joins me on the pavement.

‘She called you too, huh?’ she asks.

‘She enticed me with coffee cake.’

Gran sucks down air. ‘She offered me champagne.’

I digest this. ‘She must really want us in there.’

Gran peers through one of the bevelled-glass panes on the old wooden shop door. ‘Who are they?’

‘Darklings.’

‘Vikki and Nikki, actually,’ a deep voice supplies, and we turn to find Leo Dark on the pavement behind us. He’s dressed down in jeans and an old T-shirt, and I’m momentarily and inappropriately reminded of the way he used to be before his superstar-twat gene kicked in and of the times I’ve dragged that exact T-shirt over his head to get him naked.

‘Tell me that’s not their actual names,’ I say, ignoring the fact that he looks hot without his cape in favour of baiting him. It’s a line of defence I’ve settled for since we stopped ripping each other’s clothes off for fun.

‘Leo, darling!’ my grandmother purrs like a cat on heat, holding her arms out and encasing him in her Juicy-Couture-velour hug. I make a mental note to thank her for her loyalty later.

‘As glamorous as ever, Dicey.’ He tips me a wink over her shoulder and my fingers ache to poke him in the eye. ‘Shall we?’ He disengages from Gran and pushes the door open, ensuring everyone inside knows that we’re there. No escape then. I sigh heavily and trail inside after Gran’s jade-green bony backside.

‘You’re here.’ My mother practically cheers, clearly relieved by the arrival of backup.

‘You’re back,’ Vikki and Nikki sigh into their untouched slices of cake, their wide eyes on Leo as if the messiah just showed up.

‘Nipped back to the car to grab this.’ He produces a bottle of champagne and presses it into Gran’s delighted, heavily-jewelled hands. ‘And these are for you, Silvana.’ He hands my mother an artfully arranged, hand-tied bunch of flowers.

She lays them down on the counter with a smile that’s counteracted by her flared nostrils and the acerbic flash in her eyes.

‘Why thank you, Leo.’ She cuts him a slice of cake and pushes the plate towards him. ‘What brings you to Blithe Spirits? I don’t think we’ve seen you since the day you ate Melody’s heart for lunch and spat it back out again.’

I pause, mortified, and the Cheeky Girls gasp in unison and let their forks clatter down onto Gran’s best china plates. I’m not entirely sure if they understand my mother’s sentiment or if they think Leo capable of actual cannibalism and are wildly turned on.

‘I’m sure we’ve all moved past that,’ Leo says, his voice like smooth caramel over ruffled feathers. ‘I came to give you this, Melody.’ He pulls a small, pink tissue-wrapped parcel from his pocket and hands it to me. ‘To wish you good luck with your new business.’

‘A peace offering?’ I say, peeling back the layers of tissue to reveal a little silver horseshoe. ‘Or have you come to tell me that you’ve given up ghost-hunting in favour of being a farrier for really tiny ponies?’

‘Peace.’ He ignores my sarcasm and inclines his head in a way I imagine he considers to be noble. ‘And a request that you stay away from Scarborough House on Friday. It’s a live broadcast.’

Ah, so
that’s
why he’s really here. He’s terrified I’m going to screw up his career on morning TV. I place the bundle of pink tissue down on the counter and sigh regretfully.

‘How are you getting on with the case?’ I ask.

‘Terrible,’ Vikki or Nikki says, at the same time as Nikki or Vikki shakes her head mournfully and whispers ‘Awful.’

Leo takes a second to shoot them a long, dark look, and they both recollect themselves and seem to remember who they bat for.

‘Terribly . . . well?’ Vikki tries again, while Nikki nods and adds ‘Awfully good.’

‘Me too,’ I nod. ‘Quite an interesting bunch, really.’

‘You think? I find Isaac quite belligerent.’

I know perfectly well that Leo is prying me for information, and I’m willing to give him precisely nothing. He’s no fraudster when it comes to ghosts, he sees them as well as I do. I suspect that his problem with the Scarborough brothers is the same problem he has with many people these days; he has a tendency to come over as a bit of a cock sometimes and they’ve decided to clam up on him.

‘Perhaps he prefers my quiet approach,’ I murmur. ‘Rather than all the razzamatazz and jazz hands of live TV cameras.’

Leo flicks his eyes like a bored child. ‘I doubt if he could care less. He’s a ghost, not a vampire scared we’ll spot his missing reflection.’

‘And the others?’

He narrows his eyes, and he can’t rearrange his features quickly enough to fool me. He hasn’t met Douglas or Lloyd; I’m not convinced he’s even met Isaac properly.

‘Champagne?’ Gran asks, and the twins eyes light up until Leo shakes his head.