Melody Bittersweet and The Girls' Ghostbusting Agency: A laugh out loud romantic comedy of Love, Life and ... Ghosts? (6 page)

Artie follows her in with flamingo-pink paint in his hair and the widest smile I’ve seen on his face so far.

‘You should come and see Babs,’ he fizzes, animated. ‘She looks, like, amazing.’

‘You’ve met Babs then,’ I say drily.

‘Met her? I’ve driven her!’

I look at Marina in alarm.

‘Chill,’ she shrugs. ‘Only around the DIY store car park. He wasn’t that bad.’

‘I was shocking,’ Artie grins.

‘You’ll be fine after a few more lessons.’ Marina tucks her hair behind her ear and grins at me, her eyes sparkling. ‘Come and see it then, Boss Lady.’

We all troop out to the cobbled cartway at the side of the building to inspect Babs. I don’t know what I’m expecting, and it’s probably just as well that I didn’t have any firm ideas in mind for a logo, because Marina’s design is something that definitely couldn’t have come from my imagination. Or Artie’s, for that matter.

‘It’s . . . it’s . . .’ I’m struggling to articulate my thoughts. ‘Marina, it’s fabulous!’

She preens. ‘It wasn’t just me. Artie helped with the design.’

I look at him standing beside her, a good foot taller and a considerable amount more paint-splattered. Judging by the look of them, Marina had been supervisor and Artie the lackie.

‘We started with this,’ Marina points to the pink circle that forms the outside of the design, following the cross at the bottom with her finger, ‘because it means female, and we are.’ She glances up at Artie. ‘Present company excepted.’

He nods, then points out a little sky-blue circle with an arrow, no bigger than my palm. ‘She let me add this in as long as it’s not noticeable. It means male, because I’m part of the agency too.’ His brow furrows suddenly. ‘You didn’t notice it, did you?’

He holds his breath as his eyes dart towards Marina and then back to me.

I shake my head. ‘I’d never have noticed it was there if you hadn’t mentioned it, Artie.’

I’m not even lying. The small motif is hidden inside Marina’s design. She’s managed to make it so that the Agency name winds in and out of the female sign, bold and feminine, set against two women silhouetted back to back in profile holding a retro pose that is a clear homage to
Charlie’s Angels
. I look closer, and it’s not just any two women. Those silhouettes are us. Perfectly, intricately us. Not only that. I distinctly remember us striking that pose a couple of years ago for a picture after one or five too many cocktails in Marina’s back garden.

‘How did you do that?’ I marvel, stepping close to study it.

Marina shrugs. ‘Good memory.’

‘She had acetate cut-outs and everything,’ Artie beams.

Marina flicks her eyes to the skies and huffs. ‘I might have spent a bit of spare time last night working on it.’

I know her better than to make too much fuss. ‘Well, it was time well spent. It’s perfect.’

Marina nods. ‘I know.’

Who knew Babs could look so splendid? They’ve touched up her rust spots and given her a polish, and even if I do say so myself she’s looking as fresh as a lamb in springtime. It’s all cosmetic of course, she’ll always be mutton underneath, but all the same I like that she’s been given a pretty new dress and a second life here with us at the agency.

As we file back inside, I glance into Babs and notice the multicoloured Hawaiian garland hanging gaily from the rear view mirror. My eyes meet Marina’s.

‘What?’ She looks at me in mock challenge, as if she thinks I’m going to say it’s too much. ‘Every girl needs a good necklace.’

I shrug, and laugh, thankful for her being part of the agency and part of my life. ‘Thank you. That’s all.’

‘She wanted to paint guns in your hands. I stopped her because I don’t think you can stop a ghost with a bullet,’ Artie says, matter-of-fact, from behind us as we head back inside. I laugh under my breath; given Marina’s hot temper and Sicilian heritage, I think he made a good call there.

‘
S
hall
we head over to Brimsdale Road for a recce?’

It’s just after 3.30 p.m. and we’re all full of coffee, tea and Nonna’s meltingly-good zeppole. The run out will do us all good, but more pressingly I need to see how Artie fares with the small matter of actual ghosts. Jeez, I hope he doesn’t freak out too much. Marina has been with me for long enough to know how this gig works; she’s borne witness to my extra-oddness ever since we were two dark-haired little girls huddled together in the playground. I used to make her laugh by relaying details of the hideous head-mistresses’ ghostly grandpa who insisted on trailing our very own Miss Trunchbull around in just his greying underpants, shouting obscenities with a cigar hanging from his lips. I can rely on Marina not to turn a perfectly mascaraed eye, but I appreciate that Artie is wet behind the ears and highly likely to be weirded-out.

He stills with our empty mugs in his hands, electrified. ‘We’re going ghost-hunting?’

‘Is that okay?’

I look at him steadily and cross my fingers under the desk that he won’t have a last-minute wobble about the whole ghost gig.

A wide smile cracks his face. ‘Okay? God, yes!’

‘You know you won’t see them just because she does, right?’ Marina shoots him a ‘been there, done that’ look.

‘I might though, you never know. Melody’s magic might rub off on me.’

‘It won’t, just so you know.’

I pick up the Magic 8 Ball and the keys to Babs as the conversation bats back and forth between them. He won’t see them. I know that, and Marina knows that. I love his enthusiasm, but I know that when it comes down to it I’m on my own with this. It’s time to give Artie lesson 101 in ghostbusting. It isn’t magic, it isn’t a transferable skill, and it certainly isn’t something he should covet.

‘Enjoy being normal, Artie,’ I say, as I lock the office door behind us. ‘You’ve no idea how lucky you are.’

We pile into Babs, me in the driving seat, Marina and Artie on the bench-seat beside me. Marina delivers a death punch to the glove box and pulls out her sunglasses and mine, and then digs around in her handbag and hands Artie her spare pair of aviators. In unison, we slide the glasses onto our faces before I turn the key and rev the accelerator.

‘I’ve never felt lucky before,’ Artie says, cheerful. ‘Until now.’

* * *

A
ll seems thankfully
quiet at Brimsdale Road when we jerk to a halt outside Scarborough House. No TV crews, no Leo Dark, in fact no sign of anyone at all.

‘Why couldn’t he have given us the front door key?’ Marina grumbles and grouches as we pick our way through the tangle of overgrown weeds at the side of the house. Artie goes up front, trampling happily over the worst of the greenery to plough a furrow for us to follow.

‘Gate’s locked,’ he informs us, rattling the latch. We all stand back and examine the faded, peeling, green-painted fence. Marina gives the latch a second, harder rattle and then stands back with her hands on her hips.

‘Gate’s locked.’

Artie nods. ‘I just said that.’

‘Should I try it too just to be certain?’ I scan the side of the house in the vain hope that one of the tall windows will be cracked open. As expected, they’re all closed tight. I wish I’d had the forethought to get Donovan Scarborough’s number, and there’s little point in knocking on the front door of a house that’s been uninhabited since Scarborough’s recently deceased father went into care several years back. It’s not as if a ghost’s going to handily open it for us, is it? Right then. There’s nothing else for it.

‘Give us a leg up, Artie.’

He turns to me, wide eyed. ‘You’re going over the top? You don’t know what’s on the other side!’

‘Well, there’s hardly likely to be a dog or a twenty-foot drop, is there? The place is empty and we need to get in, so unless you’ve got any other bright ideas, boost me over.’

He studies me, uncertain, and then a slow grin spreads across his face. ‘This is even more exciting than I thought it’d be. Don’t tell my mum I helped you break in, okay?’

‘Technically, we’re not breaking in,’ Marina reasons, opening a fresh stick of Juicy Fruit as she watches us position ourselves. ‘We’ve got a key, remember?’

‘Ready, Artie,’ I say, securing my foot in his big, cupped hands, and a second later he launches me fast and so high into the air that I am practically standing on top of the gate.

‘Jesus, Artie, lower her down a bit! You’re not tossing a fucking caber!’ Marina shouts from behind me, clearly panicked.

I feel him start to wobble and doubt himself. My body starts to sway because I’ve lost confidence in him as a result. Shit! I’m going to die! I’m going to die a horrible death having been hurled into the air like a human rag doll.

‘Down!’ I command throatily, as if he really is that Great Dane puppy. Thankfully he does as instructed and I manage to catch hold of the top of the fence and scramble down onto the safety of a wheelie bin over the other side. I dust myself off, check for broken bones and a heartbeat, then throw back the rusty bolts and creak the gate open to let them through.

Artie is clearly mortified; his wide mouth is downturned and his expression mournful. ‘Sorry.’

‘Hey, it’s fine.’ I pat him on the arm as he walks past me. ‘For a second there I thought I might actually die, but I didn’t, so we’re cool, okay?’

‘You were like a twelve-foot-tall ballerina waving around in the breeze up there,’ Marina says darkly as she files by.

‘I’m really sorry, Melody,’ Artie says, thoroughly miserable. ‘I’ve never boosted anyone before, and you don’t weigh very much. I thought you’d be heavier.’

I laugh. ‘Free dating advice for the future, Artie. Don’t tell a girl that she looks heavier than she is.’

We round the corner of the house and find ourselves on a wide, paved, sun terrace overlooking the gardens.

‘Wow,’ Marina murmurs beside me. I feel the same way; there is a faded grandeur to the place, a sense that beneath the neglect lies the bones of beauty. The garden is a wilderness, a profusion of gnarled old trees, rambling flowerbeds and overgrown lawns, but it’s huge and must have been spectacular in its heyday. I can easily imagine it looking glorious in decades gone by, finely dressed ladies milling around on the manicured lawns whilst gentlemen play croquet. Did gentlemen play croquet? I have no idea really. I’m making it up in my own head, but the point is that this place must have been something special in its halcyon days.

‘This suddenly feels like one of those movies where the family discover the house they just inherited is haunted,’ Artie whispers, awed as he turns and stares up at the building.

‘Isn’t that pretty much exactly why we’re here?’ Marina says, peering up at the imposing, Victorian gothic, rear elevation. Brimsdale Road is a leafy enclave of generous detached plots, all of them occupied by established old houses. Scarborough House is distinctive in that it’s probably the only one left that hasn’t been remodelled and renovated to within an inch of its gable end; it’s shabby and dull-windowed, the ugly sister amongst a bevy of sparkly Cinderellas.

Reaching into my jeans pocket I pull out the large old key and head for the back door.

‘Come on then, troops. Let’s go inside and survey the battleground.’

Truthfully, I’m excited to see inside the house. I know it’s been empty for at least the last few years, ever since Donovan Scarborough’s father moved from there to a nursing home. From what I’ve been able to gather from preliminary research, it couldn’t be sold without the current owner’s say-so, and old man Scarborough point blank refused to sanction any sale during his lifetime. It seems that in recent months his lifetime has come to an end, and his only son hasn’t allowed the grass to grow any longer beneath his feet in trying to offload the house as expediently as possible.

The key is difficult to get into the rusty lock, and even more difficult to turn.

‘Artie give this a go will you?’ I say, and he bounds over eagerly.

‘I didn’t mean that I think you look heavy, you know,’ he says quietly as I step aside.

‘Just get the door open for me and we’ll forget all about it,’ I grin, and he half smiles too. I make a mental note to tread lightly with him when it comes to teasing, and another mental note in bright-red pen to remind Marina to do the same. He isn’t like us; our friendship is based on deep foundations and a lifetime of shared secrets. Artie hasn’t had the luxury of friendship in his life, he’s still learning the ropes and probably finds it hard to understand that our ever-present sarcastic undercurrent is actually based on loyalty and trust.

Marina and I watch as he tries the key and it doesn’t budge, and then again when he goes in for a second, more concerted effort and the lock begrudgingly gives way under the pressure.

We both clap our hands as Artie pushes the door ajar and then turns to us flushed with success.

‘You’re officially forgiven, Muscles.’ Marina winks at him, and he flushes raspberry from the neck up as she walks past him into the back porch of Scarborough House. I leave the door unlocked and pocket the key as I walk inside. I don’t know why; an instinct borne from watching too many horror movies probably.

‘Hello?’ We push the inner door open and Marina’s voice rings out loudly around the huge kitchen we find ourselves in. It’s colder in here than it was outside, the drawn blinds preventing any late-spring sunlight from permeating the space.

‘You know there’s no one here, right?’

‘Just being polite.’ She lifts her eyebrows at me. ‘You never know.’

‘Going on the state of the backdoor lock, I think we can be fairly sure,’ I murmur, running my finger through the substantial layer of dust on the kitchen table.

‘What do we do now?’ Artie whispers beside me.

They’re looking to me for guidance, so I clear my throat. ‘Let’s do a slow walk through of the place and get our bearings.’

Beyond the kitchen lies a hallway of grand proportions and shabby upkeep. Marina’s heels clack against the decorative blue, white and terracotta floor tiles until we all come to an eerily silent standstill and I decide which way to go next. A show-stopping central staircase sweeps up to the first floor; it looks as if those women I imagined on the lawns might have walked down it in beautiful evening gowns, as if it were fashioned for a more glamorous era. I glance down at my beloved Converse sneakers and feel entirely underdressed.

‘Let’s look downstairs first.’

Graceful plasterwork arches swoop on either side of the hallway, and I push one of the broad old wooden doors open and lead the way into a formal sitting room. It’s huge; at least four times the length of my own lounge and broken up into two distinct seating areas. Three austere tapestry sofas form a square facing the fireplace, and at the far end a cluster of fireside chairs face the walk-in, floor-to-ceiling French doors, clearly arranged to make the most of the garden views. I can imagine ladies would have gathered on the sofas in days gone by, while their menfolk lounged on the wing back chairs and talked business over Cuban cigars and good whisky. The rest of the furniture in here is all in proportion with the scale of the room; the cherry wood sideboard is probably about eight feet long, and the mirror attached to it soars up the wall towards the high, heavily detailed ceilings. Sunlight dapples the seating area by the French doors, but the rest of the room is distinctly cooler and gloomier.

I can appreciate why this place lends itself for conversion to a nursing home; it offers wide spaces for wheelchairs and lots of opportunities for the simple pleasure of watching the world through its tall windows. The phrase ‘mod cons’ has probably never even been uttered inside here; a thought strikes me and I look up at the light fittings.

‘Is this place wired for electricity?’

Artie glances around to find the switch as Marina saunters towards the windows to look out.

‘You came back then.’

I look towards the deep, matter-of-fact voice as Isaac Scarborough walks into the room. He’s a mature guy; I’d guess he must have been eighty or more when he died. He has a lived-in, melancholy way about him. As ghosts go, he gives off an air of having been around for a fair while, au fait with the ins and outs of being invisible to pretty much everybody.

I nod and send him a small smile, but I don’t reply instantly as I’m super aware that this is going to be Artie’s first time in the presence of a ghost.

‘Bingo!’ he beams as he flicks a light switch and the central chandelier blinks into life. Within seconds one of the bulbs blows, and the others are coated in dust and start to smell of singeing.

‘Just you who can see me then,’ Isaac mutters as he takes a seat on one of the sofas. ‘Some party that’s going to be.’

To be fair, he doesn’t look much of a party animal. I’d say he passed in the 1960s if his wardrobe is anything to go on; white shirt and skinny tie covered in a beige cardigan and sensible turn-up trousers. His hair is steel-grey and quite unkempt. Actually, for an elderly man in such an impressive house, he looks decidedly down-at-heel.