Page 9 of The Ghost of Exes Past

She looks at Peter. His mousy hair is parted in the middle, his brownish eyes sit slightly far apart, and his skin is dusted with pimples. Unremarkable, but fine. She studies the mouth of her soon-to-be first kiss – thin but a nice blushing pink and Belle silently thanks God that the spots don’t verge anywhere near it. Right on cue, Peter pulls out a tub of lip balm, dips his stubby finger into the pot and smears it over his lips.

Is it safe to kiss someone who’s just applied a thick layer of Carmex? Belle wonders and then panics that maybe she should have done the same. Her arms are crossed, hands pinching the skin of her inner elbows, as she begins panicking that her breath smells.

The jeering is getting louder and everyone watching starts counting down.

‘Ten … nine … eight …’

Peter crawls past the bottle and over to Belle.

‘Seven … six … five …’

Belle fumbles forward, closing her eyes, half-grimace and half-cringe.

‘Four … three …’

She opens one eye slightly and spots Matty behind Peter. He doesn’t look at all disappointed that he’s not the one getting this chance with her and she wonders what that twinge of pain in her chest is.

‘Two … one …’

And in that second the NOW Hits CD skips to the next track. It’s Black Eyed Peas’ ‘My Humps’. It’s too late for Belle to pull out now – everyone would think she’s frigid. She pouts and feels Peter’s warmth as their faces collide. Their lips touch just as will.i.am asks Fergie what she’s gonna do with all that junk.

Belle is mortified. She keeps her lips shut, but feels resistance as a wet, sloppy tongue tries to enter her mouth, like a slug squeezing its way between a door and its frame. She opens her mouth a little, hands still at her sides, fingers digging into the carpet. It’s over in a second, although it feels like an eternity. Kissing has got to be better than that, Belle thinks as she nervously laughs, scanning the room, and folds in on herself just as the person to her left reaches for the bottle.

CHAPTER FOUR

Jake

One second we’re in Belle’s hotel suite, the next … marigold walls. A living room, aggressively warm. Belle lands beside me, exactly as she was a moment ago. So that’s how this works, then.

Every part of the room is covered – the walls dense with family photos in mismatched frames, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves absolutely loaded with everything from Dostoyevsky to David Jason’s biography. Wooden sideboards are home to incense holders and stuffed animals. A glass dome containing a small bird perched on twigs sits on a shelf next to a rat wearing a top hat.

‘Wait, is this your aunt Susan’s house?’ I laugh. It has Susan written all over it. She was the wild child of her mum’s siblings, with a hankering for hoarding and taxidermy.

I look down at Belle and realise we’re still holding hands. Belle clocks it at the same moment I do and she pulls away sharply, wiping her palms on her dress. She avoids my eye and she’s not looking at the room either. Her eyes sweep past the clutter and land straight on the mantelpiece. She’s looking for a clock. There isn’t one. Her wrist flips over, checking for a watch she’s not wearing, and her fingers pat down her hips for a phone that isn’t there.

She’s flushing as she whispers, ‘Shh, she might hear us!’

‘Belle, I promise you she won’t hear us. I’m a ghost, remember?’ I say with cocky assurance, despite being totally unsure. Pans clatter from what I presume is the kitchen, and laughter floats up the hallway. Belle turns to a bookshelf and picks up a blue-and-white china teacup, home to two taxidermied mice.

‘She taxidermied these two herself, you know.’ Belle laughs fondly. I lean in, my face grimacing – it looks like the nose of one of the mice has been pushed in too far, and the other one looks scrawny, with wire poking out from its feet.

‘Hope she didn’t quit her day job,’ I remark.

My eyes flick to a photo on the wall of Belle as a baby. She’s lying on a red floral pillow, on her front, smiling into the camera, dribble leaking from the corner of her mouth, while her cousin Harry sits upright beside her, dummy in his mouth, clutching a baby blanket.

‘You look exactly the same.’ I nudge and wink at Belle, who scowls.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ she says, grabbing hold of my elbow and dragging me towards the door.

Out in the hallway, we stop with a jolt, almost colliding with Aunt Susan herself. I feel Belle’s grip tighten on my arm and she pulls back, but Aunt Susan has no reaction. She looks like the sort who’d be thrilled a ghost had come to visit – immediately usher you in, sit you down for a cuppa, dig out the Ouija board from the back of a cupboard. She’s certainly dressed for a séance – layered up like she’s expecting a chill from the other side: a floaty purple paisley blouse studded with brooches, over a long-sleeved peacock-print top, a long swishy brown skirt and a bright yellow scarf wrapped in her updo, accentuating her huge, oversized earrings. I hesitantly reach out and tap her shoulder. Nothing. She stands transfixed, peering through the open basement door under the stairs.

‘Oh my God, she was spying on us!’ Belle squeals, cheeks flushing. ‘I wondered why she made us keep this door open, but I thought it was because of a possible fire emergency!’ I smirk as Belle stands there, aghast. It’s my turn to lead her now, so we squeeze past Susan and follow the sound of laughter leading down to the basement.

As we walk down the stairs, I halt. Two teens are snogging at the bottom while a group of rowdy youths cheer them on. They pull back and I realise one of them is Belle. She looks flustered, her face flicking from ‘I’m having the time of my life’ to ‘I’m SO bored’ to ‘I hate you all’, in the space of a second – like she’s concentrating too hard on her appearance and can’t settle on which persona to wear.

I continue down the stairs and look over to Belle. ‘Look how young you are here! How old were you?’ I nudge her, teasing.

But she’s not with me – she’s looking back up the staircase, one hand gripping the banister like she’s about to bolt.