Page 35 of The Ghost of Exes Past

‘The spaghetti incident?’

‘Don’t ask. The ceiling was never the same.’ He smiles into the distance, lost in the memory. I laugh. I can almost picture it. Thirteen-year-old Timothy, tomato sauce dripping from the lampshade, refusing to admit defeat.

‘That’s the great thing about Tim,’ Sam continues. ‘He kept at it. Willpower of steel. Practised every weekend until it was perfect. Ended up applying for culinary school and never looked back. Wouldn’t let anyone see him fail.’

I smile and gaze at Timothy. Willpower of steel. That’s a good thing. That’s what I need, someone steady, ambitious. Someone who strives for more. Who doesn’t quit.

So why does wouldn’t let anyone see him fail sound like a warning?

I nod to Sam as he stands, squeezing my shoulder as he goes. Timothy hands me another glass of fizz. When I look up, Jules has materialised beside me, having swapped seats with Mum, clearly unwilling to miss anything.

I take a sip, then another. Then I realise I’ve drained the glass without even tasting it.

Jules watches me, an eyebrow raised. ‘Thirsty, are we?’

I smile but it feels wrong on my face. Too tight, too deliberate.

‘The nerves are normal, lovely.’ She rubs my arm. ‘Everyone has them.’ She picks up the bottle of water on our table and pours me a glass. ‘I nearly ran away on the morning of my wedding. Did I ever tell you that?’

My mouth falls open. ‘You did not!’

‘Oh yes …’ She chuckles. ‘Made it halfway to the train station before your great-aunt caught me. Dragged me back by the tail of my lovely veil.’ She laughs loudly. ‘Not leaving, though … It was the best decision I ever made.’

I stare at her. ‘You wanted to run?’

‘Cold feet, poppet. Everyone gets them.’ She squeezes my hand. ‘I’m saying I didn’t run, though. I had fifty-two wonderful years. The trick is knowing when it’s just nerves and when it’s something else.’

I smile weakly, waiting for her to tell me which one this is. She doesn’t.

Four courses in and I’m running out of small talk. I move a plump scallop around my plate. Six months ago, I would have inhaled these. They’re something I’d never tried before Timothy – before he first dished one up for me in his restaurant, after he’d closed the place just for us, lit a pan just for me. Now the smell turns my stomach. When did that happen? When did the thing I loved become the thing I’m pushing around my plate?

I rest my head on his shoulder and he pecks my forehead.

‘Everything’s running smoothly,’ he says calmly.

I straighten up. ‘Yes, that’s great.’ A flutter of nerves, the suspicious kind, the kind that comes from not having seen my ghost in a while.

‘I forgot to ask … Did you remember to preorder the wedding thank-you cards?’ he says, scooping a scallop into his mouth.

‘Yes, they’re at home, waiting – stamps and all.’

‘Good, good …’ He chews and swallows. ‘And the fireworks team arrived to set up for this evening?’

‘Uh, yes, I think.’

‘This location is pretty remote so hopefully they’ve found it okay.’

‘Yes, I’m sure they have. I gave them the number of the reception in my intro email.’

He nods, satisfied. Another item checked off.

I try to remember the last time we talked about something that wasn’t the wedding. The last time he asked how I was feeling, not whether I’d confirmed the florist. The last time we laughed at nothing.

We’re nearing the end of the meal. Everyone is finishing their lemon sorbets – the final course, which we chose because Timothy said it’s a French tradition. Usually, a ‘Trou Normand’, as he assures me it’s called, is served as a shot between courses, but having sorbet means the cold iciness will wake everyone up after lots of food, so we can continue to celebrate.

I watch as he straightens his tie next to me. ‘I know you weren’t expecting this … but I wanted to make a little speech this evening.’

My eyes widen. ‘Oh, but the timetable!’