Page 11 of The Ghost of Exes Past

‘No, genuinely, I always thought it was so weird how much you clammed up when I asked about him.’ I feel my cheeks aching; I haven’t smiled this much in a decade. ‘What was that story again? Met in an art gallery, broke up because he was too emotionally unavailable?’

‘Shut up.’

Belle is practically vibrating with rage, which is only making this funnier.

‘Didn’t you give him a tragic backstory too? Lost all his poetry in a house fire? Had to live on the streets until his parents came to the rescue?’

‘I hate you.’

‘Oh, it’s coming back to me … You even gave him a Facebook page, didn’t you?’ I can picture it now: Belle, aged twenty-one, hunched over her laptop at the kitchen table in her parents B&B, Photoshopping some random fit bloke’s profile picture to make it look like he’s in an art gallery. ‘How many mutual friends did you get in the end? Wait, didn’t you make him grow up in France, too, so no one could verify him?’

I’m still grinning but it’s slipping. The Tesco bloke didn’t work, but this – a basement full of sweaty teens and a first kiss – this worked. So it’s not just random memories, it’s ones that mattered. The ones where she actually felt something?

And Xavier wasn’t real, but I was. Shit. So is that what comes next?

‘JAKE!’ She lunges forward and grabs my hands, yanking hard enough that I stumble into her. Her eyes are squeezed shut, jaw clenched. The basement vanishes.

CHAPTER FIVE

Belle

I open my eyes and we’re back in my hotel suite. Although I felt his hands in mine a second ago, the ghost isn’t here anymore. Thank fuck for that. I frantically check the clock in the room and it’s still 3.55 p.m. I stare at the clock face for a second longer than necessary, just to be sure. We were there, what … fifteen, maybe twenty minutes? Long enough for me to have watched my fourteen-year-old self kiss a boy who used lip balm, and the clock sits unchanged. Time hasn’t moved on at all.

Phew.

Outside, in the distance, Whitby is starting to glow. The harbour lights are flickering on and someone’s strung Christmas lights along the pier. White, tasteful ones – the type I’d have chosen myself. Then I remember the fact I’m being haunted by my ex.

I do the maths quickly. Not every relationship, then, just the ones that count. And if time doesn’t change here while I’m gone, I can do this. I can save my soul and still make the seating plan work. I’ve always been a brilliant multitasker.

I stand for a moment, both hands on the dressing table, to catch my breath. Right, think. If this is a test, and it feels like a test, then there’s a right answer. There’s a lesson in this. Something I have to take away from each one. If my soul is on the line, I need to treat it seriously and show whoever’s watching that I’m actually learning something. And I do hope I’m not just stumbling through my worst memories for fun.

I hunt in the drawers for some paper and a pencil, and locate them – hotel branded, marigold stationery. I love lists. I have a list for practically everything: Christmas gifts I’ve bought people, dream clients to pitch to at work … even a list of dates I’ve been on and their score out of five. But this is one I never thought I’d write. Hell, if it helps save my soul from damnation, I’m willing.

Things I have learned from my exes (working title, for reference only):

First kisses are not the point.

Expectation does not equal outcome.

Praying and wishing for someone to be Matty does not make them Matty.

I fold the paper into a tiny square and sneakily stuff it into my bra. Luckily, the pencil is small enough – and my bra big enough – to be stuffed inside too.

I straighten, blow my hair from my face and turn to the mirror.

He’s behind me, leaning against one of the four posts of the bed, with an eyebrow raised. The smirk on his face tells me he’s absolutely delighted with himself.

I press my hand to my chest, involuntarily. ‘You didn’t get left behind, then.’

‘Apparently not.’

I turn back and resume getting ready. There’s a twisted part of me, one I’m not proud to admit, that is glad he didn’t disappear. How often do you get to time-travel through your past? Seeing my younger self was like finding an old diary I’d forgotten I’d kept. I wanted to look away, but also couldn’t stop watching – the awkward gawking, the emo phase, every excruciating detail of which is now completely intact in my memory, thankyouverymuch. Turns out you can absolutely get the ick for yourself.

Though it’s more complicated than that. Because alongside the cringe, there was something else – the urge to take her by the shoulders, not to shake her, but to tell her she’s going to be okay, that she doesn’t need to try quite so hard.

‘What’s the deadline?’ I ask.

‘Midnight … tonight,’ he replies confidently.