Page 7 of The Ghost of Exes Past

Death comes up more than I expected. Not in a dramatic way – it’s as if everyone understands how to accept the inevitability of it. And if wedding vows are to be believed, I am committed to taking the oath to be married to Timothy till death do us part. But what’s after that? Heaven or hell? And how is Jake here?

My first encounter with death was my pet hamster, Barty. I was six when old age finally took him, and it devastated me. Is it very sad to admit that might be one of my earliest memories? I couldn’t get my head around the fact that he was there one day and gone the next … that I wouldn’t be able to share a carrot with him anymore, watch his little paws working to stuff the orange sticks in his cheeks until his face was all pointy and hard.

Then my grandad, who died when I was twelve. That hit me hard. It was the first time I’d seen my dad cry, whimpering into a sleeve, through a crack in the bathroom door – a sight I’ve never been able to forget. And when Jake died … everything went quiet for a long time. I stopped expecting things to make sense. It took a lot to get over that.

I love my life. I’m not ready to leave it. Death has always felt so final, so if there’s even a chance of heaven, I’m willing to try and secure my spot. Except … Jake was twenty-five and solid and impossibly alive right up until he wasn’t – and now somehow he’s here, seemingly solid and familiar and very much alive.

‘What do you mean, eternal soul damnation? How come you’ve showed up, then?’ If he’s here, then death isn’t the end. It’s the most comforting thing anyone has ever told me, so I have no idea why, instead of relief, all I feel is the ground falling out from under me.

‘I’m in the afterlife – good news. Bad news: unless you follow me, your soul gets damned for all eternity. Ceases to exist entirely. So either do as I say or no afterlife for you. Your call, princess.’

How could this be happening? It’s my wedding weekend! But I don’t want to just stop living when I die if everyone else is going to get another existence. How did Jake manage to wangle his way into the afterlife, but my eligibility is being called into question? I say as much aloud. Jake shrugs, rambles something about being ‘perfectly suited’ to the job – his charm, how well he knows me – but it doesn’t answer the question and I don’t think he means it to.

‘Okay but follow you where? How long will this take? I have ten minutes before I need to attend my party and I still need to clean up my mascara.’

I look down to check the time on my phone, which I’ve thrown on the sofa, and spot three text notifications from Timothy. If he sees me like this, he’ll see the old Belle – the one who can’t keep it together, who sees ghosts due to stress and who is a really ugly crier.

‘I’m not sure.’ Jake shrugs, avoiding an answer … like always.

Why is he putting so much pressure on me if he doesn’t even know how long it takes?

‘Have you even done this before?’ I feel my top lip curling.

‘Of course I have,’ he says nonchalantly, not meeting my gaze.

‘Okay … You said memory lane. Memory lane of what?’ I ask.

‘Well …’ Jake shuffles. ‘Really, it’s …’ He goes quiet, then opens his mouth again. ‘Your journey. The …’ He stops and looks at me, jaw clenching. ‘Your relationships. We go back through those.’

‘What? Why?’ I ask.

He bites his lip and I can’t look away. Focus, Belle.

‘Because that’s what I’m telling you.’

‘And this saves my soul because—?’

‘Because that’s how it works, Belle. And you have to do it, like, today. Anyway, I heard you’re busy tomorrow.’

‘I am very busy tomorrow. And I’m busy today, for God’s sake!’

‘Hey, do you want to go to heaven?’ he says.

I do.

A journey of my relationships … What, all of them? We might be here a while.

‘Is time the same for you in your … realm?’ I ask, as I begin to count my exes on my fingers.

Jake frowns and rubs his brow, before replying, ‘I guess it feels kinda slow?’ He seems unsure. ‘Like walking through treacle, everything is just a bit more … meh.’

Right now, Timothy should be downstairs with the photographers, having some portraits taken, and I’m supposed to be by his side in eight minutes. My palms are sweaty.

‘Let’s do a test. A quick one first, just to see if your time and my time pass at the same rate.’

‘Yeah, I don’t care. Whatever you want – you just need to get it done. And … I think you’re going to need to hold my hands.’ He scratches the back of his neck. My skin crawls. Hold his hands? The ones that are meant to be skeletal and buried six feet deep in St Mary’s churchyard?

Do we really need to hold hands? Like schoolkids? I expected something weirder, a séance circle, or a Ouija board.