Page 7 of Crazy Spooky Love
Half an hour later, he’s a changed ghost. Together we’ve written a letter to Arthur Elliott Jr. offering him the position of apprentice ghost hunter, stating he’s been highly recommended and that he should come at his earliest convenience and identify himself toMelody Bittersweet, sole proprietor of The Girls’ Ghost-Busting Agency on Chapelwick High Street. The name has been a subject of hot debate over the last week between Marina and me. She made a strong case for The Girls’ Ghost-Busting Agency, though I do still fear customers will expect us to turn up in god-awful white jumpsuits and suck their offending ghosts into tanks on our backs.
Big Art beams approvingly at the letter as I fold it in half. “Little Art loves Harry Potter, the mystery of it will appeal to him.”
“I’m afraid I don’t have an owl to deliver it,” I say, licking a stamp and fixing it on the front of the envelope.
In front of me, Big Art is already starting to fade.
“Seems like you might make your mum’s birthday after all,” I whisper.
“Look after him for me.”
“I’ll try,” I say, carried away by the sentiment. I place the letter in the out-tray to post later on. Look at me using my out-tray! I pause for a second to soak in the mini-thrill of working at my desk for the first time, and then on second thought I pull the envelope out of the out-tray and scrawl “The management regret to inform you that reptiles are not permitted on the premises” across the bottom in red capitals. Eternal promise or not, if Arthur Elliott turns up here with a python he won’t make it past the front door.
Chapter
Three
“I forgot the donuts.”
It’s two minutes before nine, and I stare at Marina aghast then lay my head on the desk. “We’re doomed.”
She laughs and pulls a pretty, vintage Amaretti Virgina biscuit tin from the huge handbag she always carries as she shrugs out of her jacket. “Will these do instead? Nonna made them fresh this morning especially for you.”
I groan happily. “I love your gran so much more than I love my own. The closest mine ever gets to sticky buns is at her exercise class.” I lift the lid from the glitzy lime-green and gold tin and gaze at the shiny wonder of Nonna Malone’s glazed buns.
I sniff the scented air, sugar-drunk. “Lemon?”
“Limoncello babas.”
The heavenly smells that usually permeate the bricks and mortar of Marina’s family home fill the office, sweet and comforting, and I wonder if nine in the morning is too early to start mainlining sugar. Marina makes the decision for me by putting the lid back on the tin and moving it a safe distance away from me. She knows me well;I’ve got no stop valve when it comes to sweet things. I’d happily eat that whole tin of babas and then slump in a heap under the desk by midmorning.
“Any word from Little Art?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. It’s only been two days though, if you don’t count the weekend.”
“That letter probably freaked him right out, to be fair. If he’s got any sense he’ll be hiding in the cupboard under his stairs.” Marina grins, draping herself sideways over our now thankfully dust-free armchair. She’s clocked into work wearing black skinny jeans and a black polka-dot blouse, her dark waves loose around her shoulders. I look down at my own outfit; indigo skinnies and a long-sleeved navy and white Breton T-shirt. I knotted a red silk scarf around my neck at the last minute, and between us, I think we’re channeling an air of jaunty Parisian chic. The only marked difference between our look is that Marina is wearing her signature skyscraper heels and I’m in my equally signature flats. My closet full of ballet pumps and Converse trainers brings me as much joy as other women get from their jewelry boxes.
“It’s not that freaky an offer, is it?” I find it difficult to judge weirdness effectively; my idea of what constitutes odd is skewed by the fact that I’m a Bittersweet.
Marina pulls a face that says “yes, it was possibly the freakiest letter anyone in the whole of Chapelwick has ever received.”
“You’re working here, and you’re normal,” I point out, even though Marina isn’t really all that regular. When she doesn’t answer me, I narrow my eyes and think. “Glenda!” I almost punch the air as I shout her name. “Glenda’s normal.”
Marina’s laugh drips sarcasm. “Glenda’s freakin’ Wonder Woman. She probably wears her knickers over her tights underneath her designer power suits.”
That’s the other thing about Glenda Jackson. She’s businesswoman foxy. We have to keep her away from elderly men with weak hearts in case she dispatches them on the spot and gets Blithe areputation for drumming up business in the most direct way possible.
We both jump as someone taps, featherlight, on the door.
“God, I hope that’s not Glenda. If she heard me she’ll eat my head without even needing to chew,” Marina whispers.
“Shouldn’t be. She doesn’t start until next week. I asked Gran for a week’s grace so we can at least pretend we know what we’re doing.”
“In a week?”
Whoever’s at the door taps again, just as softly, and Marina hoists herself up and answers it with her hand on her hip.
“The Girls’ Ghost-Busting Agency, can I help you?”
