‘Nothing at all, really,’ said Beverley with a shrug. ‘I’m just making conversation, that’s all. I’m interested in people, you see. Well, you have to be when you’re a writer. I suppose you heard what happened to my last ghost?’
‘I heard something, yes, but to be honest it sounded a little fantastical.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘That she was eaten by a lion.’
Beverley nodded. ‘It’s partly true,’ she said. ‘She was on safari in Kenya and made the mistake of stepping out of her jeep in the middle of an unsafe area. She wandered a little too far from safety to capture photographs for her social media accounts and was in fact mauled to death by a lion, not eaten. Although I daresay it took a few, you know … chunks. By the time they got her to a hospital, however, her injuries were too great for her to be saved.’
‘How awful!’
‘It is awful, yes, and she hadn’t quite delivered the final draft of The Surgeon’s Broken Heart, so that took some fixing. But I thought I might use her dismemberment as a scene in my next novel, as a sort of homage. I assume that Philippa has explained to you how this all works?’
‘A little, but she said that you’d go into more detail.’
‘The thing is,’ said Beverley, leaning forward, ‘I’m an incredibly creative person. I always have been. Inspiration runs through my veins. And I absolutely adore literature. I read six or seven books a year, if you can believe it, which is probably why I’m one of the most popular writers in the country. But, you see, with my family responsibilities and philanthropic duties, I simply don’t have the time to actually write them myself. Which is where you come in.’
‘Of course,’ said the ghost.
‘Naturally, I insist upon remaining very hands on during the creative process. The stories are mine, so the hard work is already done for you. Really, all the ghost has to do is take my ideas and type them up. I suppose you could compare it to how Leonardo da Vinci took on assistants and pupils, told them what he wanted and then they just got on with it. I feel a great affinity to da Vinci, actually. He’s been a tremendous influence on my work.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know much about him,’ admitted the ghost. ‘Although I’ve read The Da Vinci Code.’
‘I saw the film,’ said Beverley. ‘Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not comparing what I do with what Leonardo da Vinci did. His work is probably a lot better than mine. But, as fellow creatives, I imagine we would share a certain sympathy.’
A noise came from the corner of the room and both women turned to look towards its source.
‘There’s a box over there,’ said the ghost. ‘And it appears to be moving.’
‘It’s not my box,’ replied Beverley.
‘It’s in your drawing room.’
‘I know. And I wish it wasn’t. It contains a tortoise named Ustym Karmaliuk. I’m taking care of him for a friend.’
‘Ustym Karmaliuk, the great Ukrainian folk hero?’ asked the ghost, opening her mouth in surprise. ‘The Robin Hood of post-Napoleonic Europe?’
‘I’m surprised you’ve heard of him,’ said Beverley.
‘Hasn’t everyone?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so, no.’
‘Well, the truth is, I have a great interest in the region,’ explained the ghost. ‘My grandparents emigrated from Kiev in the fifties and, when I was growing up, they told me many stories of their history.’
‘Really,’ replied Beverley. ‘How interesting. And have you been there yourself?’
‘Not yet,’ said the ghost. ‘The flights are quite—’
‘Expensive, yes. You’ve mentioned your financial difficulties. You see, there is something less interesting about you than your looks, after all.’
The ghost smiled and blinked a few times. A curious silence ensued and Beverley began to feel that they were two unprepared actors on a stage, each one convinced it was the other’s line.
‘May I take a look at your tortoise?’ asked the ghost eventually.
‘As I explained, he’s not my tortoise, but feel free. Just don’t expect too much back from him. He’s not like a puppy or a child, always demanding attention and, you know, love.’
The ghost stood up and walked across the room, lifted the lid from the box and looked inside. Beverley could hear her whispering something, and then she appeared to be singing slightly out of tune. Finally, she replaced the lid and left Ustym Karmaliuk to reflect upon their conversation as she returned to her seat.
‘Beautiful,’ she said. ‘Simply beautiful. Did you know that tortoises can live for up to two hundred years?’
‘I didn’t,’ replied Beverley. ‘They’re not really my area of expertise. Although I’m reliably informed that this one is a hundred and fifteen. Now, tell me, since you’re currently unemployed, you’d be able to devote all your time to my new book?’
‘Oh yes. Of course. Philippa said that a timetable is usually put in place?’
‘Ten weeks,’ said Beverley. ‘That’s usually enough time. If you spend any more time on a book, it just feels overworked. We need a finished manuscript by the end of the summer if it’s to be ready for publication in March, as I always publish my novels in the week leading up to Mother’s Day.’
‘And do you have an idea for the new one?’ asked the ghost.
‘I do,’ said Beverley, smiling widely. ‘It’s about a young man from Eastern Europe who becomes a ski instructor in Verbier and falls head over heels in love with an English woman.’
The ghost nodded and waited for more information, but none seemed to be forthcoming.
‘And what happens then?’ she asked finally.
‘Oh, there are any number of misunderstandings and chance encounters. Some witty dialogue and obstacles to their love. You can figure out all those minor details, I imagine. But they get past them and, in the end, marry.’
‘I see,’ said the ghost. ‘But I expect you provide a more detailed synopsis at the commissioning stage?’
‘Not really, no,’ replied Beverley cheerfully. ‘I think there’s more than enough there for you to be getting on with, don’t you? What do you think, does it fire up your imagination?’
‘Well, it gives me a lot to play with, certainly.’
‘Good. And remember, my readers don’t like an awful lot of description. No need to spend pages and pages describing clouds and wallpaper and fields filled with flowers. Sometimes the sky is just blue, all right?’
‘And what is your philosophy of writing, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘My what?’ asked Beverley, frowning.
‘Your philosophy of writing. As in, what do you think a novel should be?’
‘Ah,’ replied Beverley, considering this. ‘Well, a novel must have interesting sentences that gather together to make fascinating paragraphs. I believe very strongly in the idea of the chapter – that’s crucial. And good spelling. I mean, if a writer can’t spell, then what use is she? And the characters are very important to me. It might sound simplistic to say that they should be clearly divided into what one might call “the good guys” and “the bad guys”, but art must imitate life and, in life, I find these are the categories into which most people fall. You’re not taking notes, I see?’