Page 23 of The Ghost of Exes Past

My jaw tightens, but I force myself to keep watching.

The tiny-glasses man makes his way to the staircase with the couple as I dip behind a group of lads beside me. He clears his throat into a microphone, feedback reverberating as he starts.

‘I’m aware this isn’t strictly traditional, but when your son is Timothy Small, you find you simply have things to say. And so, a little speech for my son, to say how proud I am of you today, this weekend, and always.’

I roll my eyes. When your son is Timothy Small … I mouth the words back to myself. The man’s been waiting to say this his whole life, I’m sure.

‘I always knew you were destined for greatness, Timothy. Since you were young, your mother and I have been completely in awe of you. We both agree that one of our favourite memories is when you took your first step outside the Eiffel Tower on a family holiday – we captured that moment on VHS and the tourists’ reactions were priceless. I have the tape in our room if anyone wants to watch it later.’

Blimey. My first steps were probably in our council flat on the Shepway Estate, no video evidence taken, no tourists to impress.

‘I also fondly remember the first time you baked the family a cake at the age of eight but used salt instead of sugar … We’re glad you’ve not made that mistake since. Also, of course, when you ran the London Marathon at the age of twenty-two, raising over £20,000 for the Stroke Association, as a tribute to your late grampa Bertie.’

My eyes widen. At twenty-two I was still working out how to pay my phone bill.

‘We are constantly amazed by your determination, loyalty, and commitment in everything you do. From completing culinary school at the young age of nineteen, to opening your first restaurant and receiving a Michelin Bib Gourmand just a year after opening.’

My fists are clenched so tight, my knuckles ache. I don’t know why this is winding me up so much … Is it the fact that his dad is reading the speech from his phone? He could at least have printed it off.

‘The first time we heard you talk about Belle, we knew you’d fallen in love. And when we saw how you both laugh together as a couple, well … we wish that for you both forever.’

Bor-ring. My eyes sweep the room, looking for anyone else to focus on, and they land on Grandma Juliet. She’s close by, standing next to a high table at the bottom of the stairs. Her phone is beside her and she’s all distracted – laughing, cooing, and nodding in all the right places. Of course she is, she’s thrilled – her Belle is getting hitched to a Michelin-star chef who runs marathons and baked cakes at the age of eight, instead of getting detentions for cheating in tests. Soon, though, Juliet starts looking nervously at her phone, once, twice – I’m guessing she’s up next.

An idea forms. It’s probably a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea, but now in the background I can hear something about the proposal, about hiring out the Natural History Museum after hours, just the two of them under a blue whale. I actually don’t care and maybe it’s time to make this party livelier.

I inspect the room once more and it’s dimly lit, candles flickering. Everyone seems half-cut on booze already. No one’s paying attention. Juliet is mid-laugh, head tilted towards Aunt Susan. I crouch down by her side, level with the table, and tilt the screen of the phone up just enough to catch her face – carefully, the way I’ve seen people do it. It’s a shame I died right before everyone got to unlock stuff with their faces rather than their fingers.

The home page snaps open, unlocked. Too easy.

I stay ducked down, thumb hovering over Juliet’s Notes app. Her speech is right there, but let’s make it better, shall we? Juliet always did love a bit of chaos. She’d find this funny, I’m sure.

My thumbs remember how to type before my brain is able to catch up with them – muscle memory, or a sign from the universe that I’m exactly where I need to be: editing a Scottish grandmother’s speech in a manor house in Whitby at a party I wasn’t invited to. I grin as I scroll, changing words here and there – nothing obvious or mean, I might be a ghost but I’m not a monster – just some small improvements to make things a bit more interesting.

As I slip the phone back in place, my hand brushes a piece of paper on the table next to it: the seating plan for the evening. Juliet’s handwriting is a neat, Shakespearian scrawl that I just know Gabe would die for. Guest names, table numbers circled … and there, at the bottom, Jake Marleigh, in my own handwriting. Still funny. I fold it and slip it into my pocket as applause dies down.

I shuffle backwards. This is it, Grandma’s turn. She makes her way up a couple of steps, adjusting those flower-like chandelier earrings she always wears, and clears her throat into the microphone.

‘I don’t usually get to stand up and make speeches, but when your granddaughter asks you to, you say yes, and so, firstly, I want to say congratulations to my beautiful Belle and her tiny Tim—’

Juliet stops. Blinks into her phone. The room falls silent.

‘Handsome Tim. Handsome Tim, I do apologise.’ She laughs it off, the familiar Scottish trill that used to fill Sunday dinners, but I catch the flicker of confusion across her face before she covers it. I have to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Tiny Tim. Brilliant.

I watch as Belle’s hand flies to her mouth. Timothy’s smile has gone a little rigid. Absolutely worth it.

Juliet clears her throat again and soldiers on.

‘Even as a wee girl, Belle was kind, thoughtful, and bossy—’ She stops, squints at her phone. ‘Brilliant! I meant to say brilliant – this phone is too small!’

A ripple of laughter runs through the guests. Belle’s cheeks are flushed. I’m grinning now, can’t contain it.

‘She would often dream about her wedding day,’ Juliet continues, voice warming back up, ‘and to be here now, celebrating that she has found a love in her life …’ She pauses, frowning at the screen. ‘A love? I mean, the love of her life … It fills me with joy.’

Whispering starts. I watch as Belle’s eyes narrow – she’s scanning the room, looking for me. She knows.

‘And a Michelin-star chef at that! I can tell you now, he cooks a mean roast dinner, better than mine!’ She’s rushing now, eager to get through it. ‘Belle, I hope you know how loved you are by us all and how excited we are to witness this new chapter of your life.

‘My best tip for love is that marriages are built on kindness and laughter. It’s not about grand gestures every day but choosing each other again and again. And Belle, my love, I’m so glad you’ve found someone who made you happy again after J—’