THE SURGEON’S BROKEN HEART
Although Beverley was sitting in the drawing room of the Cleverleys’ five-floor Belgravia home, trying to maintain a polite interest in the conversation she was holding with a ghost, her mind was far away, soaring 35,000 feet above Europe, on an aeroplane headed for the north-western shore of the Black Sea.
‘You’re awfully young,’ said Beverley, who had been examining the ghost’s resumé in search of anything objectionable and had found it quickly enough, in the line that detailed her date of birth. She studied her up and down, wondering which particular branch of Oxfam she shopped in, for unlike her own daughter, who kept up scrupulously with the latest fashions, this girl was dressed like one of the maids from Downton Abbey when she pops into the village for a dozen eggs, a slice of best tongue and a flirt with the shy but sexy blacksmith.
‘I’m twenty-five,’ admitted the ghost. ‘But I feel much older.’
‘How old do you feel?’
‘Ancient, sometimes. Like, thirty.’
Beverley resisted an urge to slap the girl across the face and politely returned her attention to the pages that her publisher had sent her earlier in the week. This was the third potential ghost that she had interviewed recently and the selection process was proving tiresome. The first had been dismissed immediately on the grounds that she was an American and, as Beverley pointed out, an American simply couldn’t understand what her readers expected from her. They didn’t have the nuance, darling. The second was rejected because she displayed stalker-like tendencies that Beverley found unsettling. It was one thing, after all, to be a fan of her novels, but another thing entirely to have such an encyclopaedic knowledge of them. But number three, sitting before her now, seemed to have potential, particularly as she claimed to be more interested in journalism than novel-writing.
‘So I won’t be any competition for you in the future,’ she added helpfully.
‘Oh, I don’t worry about competition,’ replied Beverley, who disliked many of the authors she encountered on the festival circuit, particularly those who made no secret of how much they looked down on her books. ‘Life’s too short for pettiness. What I always say is, there’s room for us all.’
‘Of course you’re right,’ said the ghost. ‘But it’s refreshing to hear a writer of your stature feels that way.’
‘I think you’ll find I’m very much a live-and-let-live type of person,’ continued Beverley, warming to the fictional character she was creating, loosely based on her own life. ‘Every year, as the Booker Prize longlist is being announced, I tune in and never feel any sense of resentment that my name isn’t included. Indeed, I say “Bravo!” to those young writers whose books are the sensations of the season but who will never be heard from again once the paperback is published. I shout “Hooray!” at those ageing white men who’ve been writing the same novel over and over for decades and still don’t seem to have got it right.’
‘It’s good to know you’re not bitter,’ said the ghost.
‘The thing is,’ said Beverley, smiling through gritted teeth, ‘I may not have a shelf-ful of prizes but I have what many of those people do not have.’
‘Money?’ asked the ghost.
‘No, dear, not money. Although I do have a lot of that, it’s true. No, I was referring to readers. I met one only this morning, for example, in Heathrow Airport, where I was seeing a dear friend on to a plane, and she came over to congratulate me on the success of The Surgeon’s Broken Heart. In fact, she said it reminded her of Wolf Hall. Just without all the boring historical bits.’
‘I couldn’t write a book like yours if I tried for the rest of my life,’ said the ghost. ‘I mean, I think I could write as you, but not like you. Does that many any sense?’
‘None whatsoever. But then, I’m looking for a ghost, not a member of Mensa. Would you like some tea? Or something stronger, perhaps? I might have a G and T myself.’
‘No, thank you,’ replied the ghost.
‘You don’t drink?’
‘I do, yes. But generally not while I’m on a job interview. It tends to give the wrong impression.’
‘You haven’t been a ghost before, though?’ Beverley asked, glancing down at the résumé again.
‘No.’
‘But the idea appeals to you?’
The younger woman nodded enthusiastically. ‘It does,’ she said. ‘I’ll be quite honest with you, Mrs Cleverley, it’s very difficult to live in London. It’s so expensive here, as I’m sure you know. Taking on a job like this would help me get a place of my own, which would mean I’d be more on the spot, so to speak, if a journalistic opportunity arose.’
‘And where do you currently reside?’
‘In Oxford, with my parents.’
‘Well, if you’re looking for a place to live,’ said Beverley, ‘I did notice a two-bedroom apartment for rent just around the corner on Eaton Terrace the other day. Very close to the gardens too.’
‘I suspect that would be rather out of my league,’ replied the ghost. ‘I’d probably need to look at something a little cheaper. A room in a shared house, most likely.’
‘Oh no,’ said Beverley, grimacing. ‘Who knows what kind of diseases you could catch in such places. Eaton Terrace. That’s the ticket.’
The ghost smiled, seemed on the verge of saying something, then decided against. She took off her glasses, extracted a small pouch from her handbag and removed a piece of microfibre cloth which she used to wipe her lenses, holding them up to the light for a moment before, satisfied with the result, repeating the sequence in reverse.
‘You know, you’re a lot prettier without glasses,’ said Beverley, intrigued by the ritual. It reminded her of a summer at Wimbledon, when she’d noticed how Rafael Nadal always touched the court with the tip of his right foot before serving, then adjusted his shorts, tucked his hair behind his left ear, then his right, wiped his forehead and bounced the ball. This unchanging routine had had an equally hypnotic effect on her and resulted in her flirting with him at the party on the final night. ‘Why don’t you get laser surgery?’
‘Again, it’s quite expensive,’ explained the ghost. ‘And I don’t mind wearing glasses. Appearances don’t interest me.’
‘Yes, I can tell.’
‘I think that what I look like is the least interesting thing about me.’
‘Oh no,’ said Beverley. ‘I’m sure there are many less interesting things about you than that. The surgery is a lot less painful than you might imagine. You hear the sound of the laser cutting through the cornea, of course, and there’s a smell of burning, but other than that it’s fine.’
‘Even still,’ said the ghost. ‘I don’t like anything coming near my eyes.’
‘Do you have a boyfriend?’
‘No.’
‘A girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘You’re not a virgin, are you?’
The ghost frowned. ‘I’m not really sure what any of this has to do with the job,’ she said.