‘I’m sure Mum has a plan,’ she replied. ‘I’m not going anywhere near him.’
‘He was definitely male, then?’
Elizabeth shrugged. ‘Well, I didn’t turn him over to look, but the real-life Ustym Karmaliuk was a man, so I would assume so.’
‘Actually, the way to tell the gender of a tortoise is not how you might expect. The females have shorter tails than the males, and they also have a U-shape notch on their underside, unlike the males, who have a V.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘I’ve interviewed thousands of people over the years,’ he said. ‘I’m a fount of useless information. I hope your mother isn’t going through some sort of mid-life crisis. God only knows what she might bring home next. A starving child from Malawi, for example. Didn’t Madonna do that? And she liked her so much that she went back for more?’
‘That,’ said Elizabeth, fixing him with a sharp look, ‘is exactly the kind of comment that gets you into such deep trouble.’
‘Oh, there’s no one else here,’ he said, waving her criticism aside. ‘Just you, me and a dead tortoise. It’s not as if that @TruthIsASword bastard is going to hear any of it.’
‘Still,’ replied Elizabeth, avoiding his eye, ‘you need to be more careful from now on if you want to make people like you again.’
Before he could reply, his phone rang. He glanced at the screen.
‘Oh Christ, this can’t be good. It’s my agent. Hello, Denise,’ said George cheerfully as he answered it. ‘How are you, darling?’
‘I’m wonderful, darling,’ she replied. ‘And how are you, darling?’
‘Smashing, darling. And what can I do for you? I suppose you’re calling to let me know that the BBC wants to renegotiate my contract a year early and give me a substantial salary bump?’
‘If only wishing made it so,’ she said, laughing joylessly. ‘What are you doing right now, darling?’
‘Talking to you, darling.’
‘I mean, are you at home, darling?’
‘I am, darling.’
‘And are you busy?’
‘Not especially.’
‘Fabulous. Could we meet? Shall we say Soho House in an hour?’
‘Is it good news or bad news?’
Denise laughed properly now. ‘Now, you know I don’t believe in such terms,’ she said. ‘All news is good news. Even bad news leads to new opportunities so ultimately becomes good news.’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘So is it good news or new opportunities?’
‘Have you seen today’s Daily Mail?’
‘No, I’ve given up reading the papers.’
‘Then just meet me at twelve,’ she said. ‘Dean Street, all right? The last time I was in Greek Street, James Corden was there. Never again, I swore after that. Never again.’
‘All right,’ he said. ‘You can’t give me a little clue, though, as to whether I’m going to come away in a good mood or not?’
‘Afraid not, darling. I’ll tell you all at twelve. Until then.’
He nodded and hung up.
‘Well?’ asked Elizabeth.
‘I don’t know. She likes to deliver good news in person so she can receive my gratitude face to face. But she also likes to deliver bad news in person so she can talk me out of firing her.’
‘Something tells me that, of the two of you, she’s the one in more stable employment right now.’
THE SKI INSTRUCTOR OF VERBIER
Sometime before George exited his taxi on Dean Street, Beverley was seated not far away, across the street in Barrafina, enjoying a latte and an early-morning Bellini while awaiting the arrival of her ghost. Before her lay a print-out of the latest chapter of what was now officially titled The Ski Instructor of Verbier, each page scarred red where Beverley had made increasingly furious corrections.
A copy of that morning’s Daily Mail lay on the table, and Beverley unfurled it, reading the lead article once again. She was angry with George, of course, but she also felt deeply upset by how their once happy marriage had reached this place of mutual infidelity and distrust. There was a time when they had loved each other, been kind to each other, when they had been desperate to be in each other’s company. They had thrown themselves into parenthood and, even if their children had so far failed to build lives independent of them, she had plenty of friends who never even saw their offspring, while hers would barely leave the house. There was something positive there, surely? When and how had their passion fallen away?
The article itself only added to her frustrations, describing the romantic entanglement George had found himself in with a therapist. It referred to Beverley as ‘the ageing romantic novelist Beverley Cleverley, last seen batting her eyelash extensions in the direction of handsome Ukrainian dancer Pylyp Tataryn on Strictly Come Dancing’, and the woman who George had cheated on her with as ‘a lithe and still-attractive woman, despite being thirty-eight years old’.
The door to the café opened and as the ghost stepped inside, something about the way she was carrying herself irritated Beverley. She looked more confident than usual, filled with a certain joie de vivre. She was even wearing make-up, which she normally eschewed. She waved across the room, then pointed to the sign leading towards the toilets, and Beverley nodded. In the meantime, she ordered two coffees and another Bellini and, when the waitress brought them over, Beverley asked her to take the newspaper away and shred it.
‘Don’t put it in the recycling,’ she insisted. ‘It has no further business in this world.’
‘So sorry I’ve kept you waiting,’ said the ghost when she reappeared, making a great show of removing her jacket and scarf. ‘I had a bit of a late start this morning. I stayed in bed longer than expected, if you know what I mean.’ She giggled and Beverley frowned. Was this the ghost’s way of telling her that she had had sex that morning? Why on earth did she think that she would care? It was obvious, anyway, from the glow in her cheeks and the faraway look in her eyes.
‘I’ve been waiting ten minutes,’ said Beverley, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘I do have other things to do, you know.’
‘Oh, you got me a coffee,’ said the ghost. ‘You’re a superstar. I need this. I don’t suppose you ordered any food, did you?’
‘No, I did not,’ said Beverley. ‘I’m not your personal assistant.’
‘No, of course not. I just wondered, that’s all.’ She reached forward and, to Beverley’s horror, took her hand in her own. ‘How are you?’ she asked, pulling a sympathetic face.
‘I’m absolutely fine,’ Beverley replied, rearing back and wiping her hand on her skirt. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’
‘Only I saw the article in this morning’s newspaper. About George.’
‘You mean Mr Cleverley.’
‘If you like.’
Beverley looked away and did her best to maintain a calm demeanour. ‘If you think the hacks can upset me, then you’re wrong,’ she said. ‘I know my husband, and I’m sure the entire thing is a massive exaggeration. Also, the woman in question is obviously a tart.’