Page 2 of The Ghost of Exes Past

I see the scrawl first, before my brain catches up.

Jake Marleigh.

It’s not just the name, it’s the handwriting – the scribble of it, two words that I haven’t seen written down in years. The slant of the J that hooks too far left and the E that almost disappears within the K, like whoever wrote it was in a rush. My fingers trace the letters – muscle memory from past Valentine’s Day cards, love notes, and that time he wrote ‘I love you’ on the back of a receipt, which I kept in the back of my phone case for two years.

I lean in closer, blinking in the hope that those two words disappear like invisible ink. They don’t.

Jake Marleigh. My ex-boyfriend.

I turn, cheeks burning, and can’t quite look Grandma in the eye. ‘Well, that is a surprise. Who would do such a thing?’ My voice is wobbly.

‘I know, sweetheart, I know,’ Jules replies. ‘I’ve had these next to me all day … I don’t know how this could have possibly happened.’

My eyes dart around the room, heart now hammering in my chest as I run through every person who could have done this.

‘I always liked that Jake, I did,’ Jules sniffles.

‘Grandma!’

‘But imagine the babies! They would have been so cute! All blue-eyed and—’

‘Grandma.’

She stops, presses her lips together, the picture of innocence.

She’s trying to lighten the mood, trying to stop me from spiralling, I know – but she always had a soft spot for Jake. And if she weren’t my grandma, I might have been jealous of the flirty banter they had. I know she means well, but this isn’t helping, especially as I’m marrying a wholly different man tomorrow.

‘I’m struggling to process this right now,’ I say, my voice quivering. ‘Please could you take his name off and – if at all possible – figure out who did this? It’s probably just a silly prank, but it’s one at my expense and that feels cruel. I’m not sure I want someone like that at my wedding.’ I look down to my hands, which are trembling.

‘I’m on it, sweetheart. Leave it with me.’ I follow Jules to the door, and she kisses my cheek on the way out. ‘Don’t let this worry you, lovely. I’ll get to the bottom of it.’ And with that, she saunters out of the room and down the long wood-panelled corridor.

I shut the door and lean against it, pressing my forehead to the cool wood.

There’s a theory – I think I found it on some blog at sixteen, hunched over my dad’s computer in the dining room – that people have three true loves in their lives. The first one is puppy love. It’s idealistic, all-consuming, but, ultimately, completely unsuited to the real world – that’s Jake. They say the second love is the difficult one – the one that teaches you what you actually need by getting it spectacularly wrong … And the third is the one I have now with Timothy: the one that’s mature, unexpected, built on deep connection – the one that makes sense. Which means I should be fine.

I met Jake when I was twenty-one, fresh out of university. I’d just moved back in with my parents after three years of hard work and mayhem. I needed a year after I graduated to find myself, which mainly consisted of working at my parents’ bed and breakfast. I felt equally like the world was my oyster and totally unsure of where my path would take me next – until the day I saw him.

I say ‘saw’ like it was the first time, but it wasn’t, not really. Growing up in the same town, you know most people, or at least you think you do. Jake was in the same year as me at school but always on the periphery, never in the same form. A name attached to rumours and a face that I’d never properly studied.

But that afternoon, as he waltzed past the B&B while I was sweeping the porch, the July light catching his face, I looked – properly.

Jake was tall. Not just tall, but the constantly-having-to-duck-under-doorframes six-foot-four kinda tall. He had thick, dark hair that looked great wet or dry, and whether pushed back or falling over his face. His jaw was verging on too strong, too sculpted, but his mouth softened him – his (gorgeous!) lips held the permanent ghost of a smirk. And his eyes … Light blue and fringed with lashes that were wasted on a man, they never failed to make me melt.

Jake had a reputation. The consensus among my friends was that he was fit, but not worth the hassle.

‘He’s easy to look at, but those are usually the ones that are bad news,’ my mum warned me, cradling a cup of tea between her palms, when she heard we’d been on a date.

Jules, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have any reservations about how handsome he was. ‘He’s a hunk. A real heartbreaker,’ she’d said approvingly, like that was a selling point. She wasn’t wrong on either count. Even then, I’d surprised myself. Turns out there are things that can compete with a jaw like that. London, for one.

And now his name is on my perfectly curated seating plan. I need to move past this. Surely, it’s just a prank and nothing more. An attempt at a joke gone horribly wrong? Maybe they didn’t mean to upset me. Maybe it’s my cousin Harry trying to wind me up.

Ground yourself, Belle, don’t get flustered. I turn, leaning my head back on the door. This room really is stunning, and that’s what I should be focusing on. I stare at the carved, floor-to-ceiling overmantel that probably costs more than my first flat. It looks like Donatello could have carved it. The fireplace is framed by two plush cream velvet armchairs and in the centre of the room is a cosy sofa covered with plump, embroidered cushions. I can’t wait to curl up with Timothy here tomorrow night, drinking champagne while dissecting our wedding day, laughing about whatever chaos our families have caused.

I push off the door and cross back to the mirror. I’m halfway there when I realise two reflections are looking back at me.

My brain does that thing where it refuses to process what the eyes are clearly reporting. I blink. The second reflection doesn’t move, doesn’t shift, it just stands there, behind me, wearing the expression of someone who has been waiting an unreasonably long time and is finding the whole situation mildly entertaining.

Jake.