Page 6 of The Ghost of Exes Past

I left before the starters arrived.

I walked towards London Bridge, through Borough Market, around the overpriced cheese vendors, under the hanging Christmas wreaths and past the guy selling tins of fancy fish in boxes that looked more like collectable cards than sardines. And then I was outside the greengrocer’s – her greengrocer’s, where I’d spotted her in the week – and I stopped like an idiot.

She’d been browsing artichokes. She used to hate artichokes. How do you even cook an artichoke? She’d put them, two of them, in a reusable tote – a fancy one, with a designer’s name on that probably cost a tenner, alongside other fruit and veg: a plump red pomegranate, a yellow courgette, those cartoon-looking carrots with their tops still on. This girl, whose favourite dish used to be hedgehog mash – literally, a mountain of mashed potato with little cocktail sausages stuck in like spikes – now shopped for her five a day in a market instead of Asda, in a trench coat and cashmere scarf, all big smiles and red hair, humming along to Christmas carols … in high heels. Could she now walk in those, then?

I didn’t even know you could buy yellow courgettes. What’s wrong with a green one?

I’d followed her back to her house – three stories, attic conversion, kitchen island, a hot tap instead of a kettle – and I left once I started feeling like an estate agent rather than a ghost.

That was twenty-five days ago and so now here I am, with approximately eight hours left to figure it all out, in Whitby, so close to the seaside arcade games I can’t even play, ready to watch my ex get married to some random posh bloke who, according to a framed article on their kitchen wall, is an ambassador for caviar.

Twenty-five days of wondering when and how Belle became a literal alien.

And then she looked right at me.

Which means Gabe was right … not that I’m going to tell him that.

‘ANSWER ME, YOU SHIT, WHY ARE YOU HERE?!’ Belle continues to scream.

This should be easy, I thought – turn up, make awkward small talk, do the memory lane stuff, and then fuck off to the afterlife – but now she’s raging at me and we’ve barely said hello. I dodge her again, hands in my pockets. I’ve been trying not to let her bother me, but she’s testing my patience.

‘You need to confront your past, Belle …’ I say this in the sing-song way I know she hates.

I had planned to be honest with her, but I’m not sure she deserves the truth now. Does she really think that I want to be here? That I’m excited to watch my ex get married to some posh bloke called Timothy in this stuffy manor? She used to be so effortless, so chaotically herself, that being around her felt like a relief. Now it seems she’s had a complete personality transplant.

‘What are you talking about?’ Belle growls.

I pause, thinking, stuffing my hands deeper into my pockets. ‘I’ve been sent here by someone powerful … to help you put something right, to save your soul … but if you don’t want my help …’ I say, shrugging, and take a step towards the door.

‘Wait, wait, what?’ Belle rushes after me, pure panic on her face.

There she is.

I knew she’d bite. Gabriel didn’t say that I need to share exactly why I’m here.

‘I’m here to take you on a trip down memory lane. It’s for your own good, Belle.’

CHAPTER THREE

Belle

I don’t have time for this. I really need the ghost of my ex to not be here right now. How is it that he always riles me up like this? It’s been ten years and we’ve somehow fallen back into the exact same patterns as when he was alive. Why do I turn into my worst self around him? Ten years of therapy and I’m back to being twenty-five-year-old Belle in under five minutes. I really thought I was better than this – I haven’t cried like this in a month, since my last scheduled cry-session.

I turn away from him and face the mirror instead. I’m an absolute state. The woman who stood there just ten minutes ago is long gone. In her place: a mess. My hair is now knotty, my mascara smudged and, somehow, the button of my blazer has pinged off. Deep breaths. Compose yourself. Think. What would Beyoncé do? First things first, she would absolutely not let an ex get under her skin like this, especially when she’s worked so hard to build her dream life.

I turn back to face him. Thankfully, he’s found the decency to look sheepish. I’m composed. And I’m going to stand up for myself.

I clear my throat. ‘If you hadn’t noticed, it’s my wedding tomorrow, so I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t have time for a trip down memory lane.’ I smooth my hair down and look around for my brush. ‘I have a hundred guests downstairs for our rehearsal, and press photography in fifteen minutes. So if it works for you, shall we reschedule to … Hmm, let’s see … the twelfth of never?’

With that, I spot my brush on the dressing table, and as I walk over, I notice the smashed vase on the floor behind Jake. I sigh, shame washing over me, but I can’t stress out about this too – one thing at a time.

I half-expect him to be gone when I turn back around, but he’s still there, leaning against the far wall, with his arms crossed.

‘I wouldn’t ignore this, if I were you. Not unless eternal soul damnation is on your wedding itinerary.’

Something cold runs through me. ‘That’s really not something funny to joke about.’

I don’t believe in the devil or heaven and hell, but I have spent the last six months attending Sunday services at church and midweek Bible study in preparation for this wedding. Timothy was raised Catholic, and I respect his and his family’s beliefs, so I had to do that to be allowed to marry in a chapel. Still, I’ve often felt like a polite observer in the pews. I stand when I’m supposed to stand, kneel when I’m supposed to kneel and try to find comfort in the teachings.