How to Seduce a Ghost

by Hope McIntyre

  I smiled. “It’s beautiful. Well done, both of you. One thing I am worried about though is what will happen to all this furniture if it rains before the paint dries?”

  “Oh, Fred will give me a hand getting it indoors. And if not he’s got a big tarp to cover it all. My mum knows Fred’s mum down the bingo. That’s how we met.”

  “Good for you.”

  I made my excuses and left before I became too embroiled in Angel’s long-running soap opera. Fred hadn’t said a single word and the only reason I knew he actually had a tongue in his head was because I had seen it literally hanging out at the sight of Angel’s cleavage.

  Angel mentioning her mother had made me remember my own and the e-mail she had just sent me reminding me that I had said I would go and spend Christmas in France with them. I had said no such thing but I knew better than to expect my mother to accept that. At least she wasn’t asking about the damp. The real problem was that she had also sent an e-mail to Tommy at the BBC so there was no chance I could get away with not telling him and pretending he couldn’t make it. She’d get him out there whatever it took. She was already asking what he liked to eat so she could impress him with her culinary skills.

  Maybe it would be a good thing to get away, with or without Tommy. Buzz was bound to be tied up with Selma. I had a horror of turning into one of those clichés, the girl with the married lover. I’d read all those silly women’s magazine articles about how Christmas was the worst time because he always had to be with his family.

  Although I’m not sure you could describe Selma Walker as family.

  Besides, once he was no longer in the house I found I was able to think a little more rationally about Buzz. I wanted him, of that there was no doubt. But I couldn’t help noticing that I didn’t feel that overwhelming sense of joy you experience when you begin a new affair. I wasn’t going around with an idiotic smile on my face the whole time. On the contrary I was edgy and miserable. He was married. Moreover he was married to Selma Walker. I could give up the job—but then, why should I?

  The more I thought about it the more I began to understand that the right thing to do—the only thing to do—was to give him up.

  And when he called, I’d tell him.

  Except he didn’t call.

  I didn’t sit by the phone. I was much too mature for that kind of behavior. I just paced around and around it, staring at it, willing it to ring.

  Anyone who did ring got extremely short shrift because I wanted to get them off the line as soon as possible. The only person I engaged in conversation for longer than two minutes was Genevieve who called with the most amazing news. She was on the point of actually doing a deal for Selma’s autobiography. She said she’d sounded out a few publishers and the response had been overwhelmingly positive. It was as I had suspected. People were intrigued because, while she was a national celebrity, not much was known about her private life.

  I pointed out to Genevieve that strictly speaking she wasn’t Selma’s agent and maybe she ought to meet with Selma and Buzz before she tied up a deal. When Genevieve asked how things were progressing, I fought back the urge to say Once in the hall, twice in my bed, and restricted it to:

  “Genevieve, why didn’t you tell me Selma Walker was married to her manager? I almost made a complete fool of myself.”

  What did I mean, almost?

  “You’re not serious?” Genevieve sounded amazed. “How come I didn’t know?”

  “You’re asking me? You’re supposed to know these things and tell me. You’re out there. I’m just the writer who stays in the background and never goes out and relies on you for all the news from the front.”

  “Oh, spare me. Listen, I have to get off the phone and tell as many people as I can find.”

  I could imagine cell phones whirring all over London. What had I done? Would Buzz be furious with me? But then he’d said himself it wasn’t exactly a secret. Well, it certainly wouldn’t be now Genevieve had got hold of it.

  I was surprised she hadn’t mentioned Astrid McKenzie. Rumors in the market were rife. The market merchant Chris had pointed out to me, the one he said had had an affair with Astrid and beaten her up, had been taken in for questioning. The word around the fruit and veg was that his wife had been telling anyone who would listen that he’d been out the night of Astrid’s fire and he hadn’t come home till the small hours. She wasn’t the most reliable of witnesses given that every time she’d called the police when he raised a fist to her, she’d denied it when they turned up. It seemed now she’d really picked her moment to nail him.

  And before I even had a moment to draw breath, I had Tommy on the phone in a state of uncontrollable excitement. When were we going? As late as possible. With luck then there wouldn’t be any flights left. What should he get my mother for Christmas? He couldn’t go wrong with a boxed set of sleeping pills.

  I was being ridiculous as usual. It was the same old story. I looked forward to seeing my parents and at the same time I dreaded it. My mother would be on my case from the minute I stepped off the train. How far had I got with the house renovations? All I ever wanted to do was sleep, read, eat, go for long walks, and generally have a rest but my mother always used my visits as an excuse to be madly social. But somehow I treasured my time with them. I had this idealistic notion that we were a happy family unit and when I was with them I was safe.

  But with Tommy in tow, I wouldn’t have them to myself at all.

  I thought of something. I needed to tell Selma I was going away. As I dialed her number my hand shook in anticipation of Buzz picking up.

  “Oh, hi, Lee. I’ve been meaning to call you. I was really so happy to meet you the other day.” It was Selma and she sounded as if she genuinely meant what she said. I felt worse than ever. “Did you realize Christmas was so close or am I the only one with my head in the clouds? It’s right around the corner, just like you. Are you busy right now? Come on over and have a Christmas drink and we’ll figure out what to do. I haven’t told you my new plans. And isn’t it fabulous about the book offer? Your agent Genevieve just called me.”

  “There’s been an offer?”

  “Six figures. I’m so thrilled. I can’t wait to tell Buzz. He never wanted me to do a book, you know?”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, he never thought anyone would be interested in my story. Well, how wrong was he! Come on over and we’ll celebrate.”

  Bianca the housekeeper opened the door. I smiled. Once again she didn’t.

  “Miss Selma is in the kitchen. She make the mince pies.” Bianca was clearly unimpressed with such industry. She didn’t take my coat. She didn’t even hold the door open for me. Why did I get the distinct impression Bianca didn’t like me? I was being paranoid. She’d barely met me.

  “Is Buzz here?” Very daring of me.

  “Mr. Buzz no here.” Oh, excuse me. Mr. Buzz. “He upstairs.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  She didn’t bother to show me to the kitchen. I had a shock when I entered. Selma was sitting on a stool, stirring something vigorously in a mixing bowl with a wooden spoon. A bottle of champagne, half empty, stood on the counter beside her. The smell of mince pies baking in the oven made me peckish.

  “So you like to cook?” The mixture looked interesting, not least because of the strong smell of brandy emanating from it.

  “Christmas cake for Buzz. I’m leaving him on his own for Christmas. Least I can do is bake him a cake. Have a glass of champagne.”

  His remark about her being left too long in the oven like a baked cake popped into my mind.

  “You’re leaving him on his own for Christmas,” I repeated stupidly. “Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to New York to see my family. It’s been too long since I had a family Christmas.”

  “But can’t Buzz go with you?”

  “I’ll let you into a secret. It probably sounds crazy but I’d kinda like to break it to them gently that I’ve married a man
twenty years younger than I am. I know, I know”—she raised her hands in protest when she saw my look of disbelief—“I should have told them way back when but I was chicken. I’m old-fashioned about these things. I’m worried about what people will say. So I’m going on my own. It’ll only be a quick trip. It’s not as if it’s our first Christmas together and I won’t be gone long. So what I was going to suggest to you, Lee, is that we all take a break for the Christmas holidays and you and I get down to work in January. I rather like that, starting my autobiography right at the start of a New Year. What do you say?”

  Sorry I’ve slept with your husband, I’m never going to do it again.

  Instead, I said, “Well, now it looks like we’ve got a book deal, we’d better think about producing the actual book. The sooner we start the better.”

  “What book deal?”

  Buzz had come in so quietly I hadn’t heard him. I didn’t dare turn around to face him.

  “I’ve had an offer on my book,” Selma told him, rather defiantly, I thought. “A good one. And apparently there are plenty of other publishers interested too.”

  “And you know this how?” Buzz had come to stand beside her now and his face was grim. In the midst of trying to remain calm in his presence, I couldn’t help wondering why he didn’t seem a little more pleased at the news. Maybe he just hated to be proved wrong. He was standing very close to Selma now and I suddenly noticed she was trembling.

  “Lee’s agent told me,” she said.

  “Lee’s agent should have told me,” snapped Buzz.

  “Well, I expect she will. So what are you doing for the holidays?” she asked me, rather obviously trying to change the subject.

  “I’m going to France. My parents live there.”

  “Very nice,” said Buzz casually. “What part of France?”

  “The Lot-et-Garonne. The southwest. My parents retired there a few years ago. It’s a beautiful old barn, woods, church on a hill, idyllic country setting.”

  “Sounds dreamy, lucky you,” said Selma. “So will you be taking—excuse me, I can’t remember his name—the boyfriend you told me about, the one you’ve had for eight years.” She winked at me and I could have killed her.

  “Tommy,” I muttered.

  “Tommy. So is Tommy going too?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, it’s nice the two of you will be together. When I get back we’ll have to have you and Tommy over for dinner, won’t we, Buzz?”

  “Absolutely,” said Buzz. He put his arm around Selma’s shoulders and I saw her flinch. And when she did so, he held her even more tightly as if to stop her moving altogether.

  “I can’t wait to meet Tommy,” said Buzz. “Tommy and Lee. Sounds good to me.”

  CHAPTER 8

  I LEFT FOR FRANCE NOT KNOWING IF THE MAN IN THE market had been charged with Astrid’s murder. Nobody had seen him around the market, and his wife, who had been minding his stall, had disappeared. They might have gone away for Christmas or he might be hanging up his stocking in the clink. Nobody seemed to know. I couldn’t quite work out why I was still so uneasy about Astrid’s fire. After all it had nothing to do with me. All I knew was that I wouldn’t relax until they had a suspect in custody.

  Tommy and I had to fly to Paris because I’d left it too late to get two seats on the Eurostar. At Charles de Gaulle we jumped in a taxi to the Gare d’Austerlitz and then took a fast train down through the center of France to Cahors. On the plane, Tommy was so excited he could barely contain himself. I am someone who likes to read on long train journeys, or stare out the window at the countryside racing by and lose myself in uplifting fantasies about a possible future life living in an idyllic spot in the middle of nowhere. I never look people in the eye as they approach the empty seat next to me and I never initiate a conversation. Though, of course, on a plane to Paris just before Christmas, an empty seat was out of the question.

  Tommy is the opposite. On the plane flying over the Channel, he chattered to other passengers across the aisle and in the seats behind us, telling them all about our plans for Christmas and how my parents lived in France, and then he asked them what they were doing. All in all there were a lot of heads popping over the back of the seat and people crouching down in the aisles and the poor Air France flight attendant had her hands full trying to restore order. The thing about Tommy is that he can be very engaging and people instinctively trust him and want to tell him everything. I wasn’t really terribly interested in the fact that the woman sitting diagonally across the aisle from us had had a terrible problem with her teenage daughter who had refused to accompany her mother to Paris, preferring instead to remain with her boyfriend in London. If anything, judging by the mother, I thought the daughter probably had a point. And by the time Tommy had her going into details about her messy divorce and how the trouble with the daughter had begun at the same time, I noticed other passengers were beginning to look a little irritated too.

  Mercifully, after about an hour, Tommy fell asleep on the train and I was able to read. There had been a slight problem at a bar at the Gare d’Austerlitz when it had dawned on him that he might have difficulty ordering half a pint of Guinness in France. He’d settled for a bottle of Beaujolais and downed it so quickly, it was rather surprising he didn’t nod off before we boarded the train. I watched him sleeping for a few minutes. He was very proud of the new sweaters he had brought along for the trip to France, one of which he had insisted on wearing for the journey, even though I had pointed out to him that it would be filthy and travel-worn by the time he arrived. To my surprise, I approved of his choice. Tommy never made much of an effort with his clothes unless he was going to see his mother and it had never occurred to me that he would extend a similar courtesy to mine. This was a beautiful sweater. Charcoal gray with a crew neck. But what surprised me the most was that it was made of the softest cashmere. This wasn’t Tommy’s style at all. He was usually in and out of Marks and Spencer in approximately seven minutes, grabbing an exact replica of whatever had fallen to bits on him that morning. Once I had witnessed him stripping down to his vest and putting on a new sweater right there in the store before paying for it and handing his old one to the person behind the cash register to throw away. She was too surprised to protest. I wondered where he’d bought this new one. I was tempted to look at the label but that might wake him up, so I resisted.

  Inevitably my thoughts turned to Buzz. I remembered the look he’d given me when Selma had asked after Tommy, and I felt sick. I’d half hoped he’d turn up on my doorstep demanding an explanation but the days went by and there was no sign of him. Christmas was drawing closer by the minute and in desperation, I telephoned the house. If Selma answered I could always find some excuse for calling her, but the machine told me they were out. They. This was something new. When I’d called before the machine had just said Leave a message and I’ll get back to you. No mention of any name but it was her voice. Now the message had been changed. It was Buzz’s voice. We’re not home right now . . . We. Us. A couple. Was I being paranoid or was this new message directed at me? Had he changed it deliberately to make some kind of point?

  I reached him eventually and the conversation was awkward to the extent that I never even came close to saying what I had intended—that I thought it best that we ceased to have any kind of physical relationship.

  “So who is this Tommy?” he asked when we’d barely said hello.

  “Tommy’s just Tommy.”

  “Your boyfriend.”

  “You never told me you had a wife.”

  “We’ve been through that. At least you knew of Selma’s existence and that she had some connection to me. You never even mentioned Tommy.”

  I didn’t say anything. This wasn’t exactly going as I had planned.

  “You haven’t told him about . . . ?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You make a habit of cheating on him?”

  “It’s the first time it’s happened.”

/>   “How long have you been together?”

  “Eight years.”

  “Eight years and I’m the first?” I could hear his disbelief. I was miserable in my ambivalence. I cared about Tommy and I knew this was the moment when I should tell Buzz I didn’t want to see him anymore but I remained bewilderingly silent.

  “So, isn’t it great that there’s so much interest in Selma’s story?” I babbled.

  He didn’t say anything and I could hear the rustling of paper on the other end of the line. I jumped when he suddenly snapped: “Give me your agent’s number. I seem to have misplaced it.”

  “Why do you want—”

  “Just give it to me.” He sounded so hostile, all I could do was read out Genevieve’s number.

  It was horrible. We left everything unresolved. He wished me a happy Christmas in a curt, dismissive tone. I asked if I could call him from France. Maybe by then I would have summoned up the courage to explain what I wanted.

  “When do you get back?” he asked, evading my request.

  “New Year’s Eve.”

  “Well, have a great time.”

  I had to make do with that.

  When I called Genevieve, ostensibly to wish her a happy Christmas, she started talking about Buzz before I had time to say hello.

  “The man was yelling at me, Lee. I mean he was literally yelling at me. I had to hold the receiver well away from my ear. Why is he so unhappy with the fact that we’re this close to a deal? You would have thought he’d be a happy man. But no, he more or less told me the book wouldn’t be happening. Made it sound as if it was a pointless exercise. What is wrong with the man?”

  “He can’t do anything to stop it, can he?”

  “I get the feeling that’s why he’s so mad. The money’s good, the publisher is the perfect home for the book, and Selma’s more than willing to cooperate. There’s not a damn thing he can come up with that makes it look like a bad idea. Yet he’s being extremely unpleasant. We’ll just have to hope she’ll have a killer story to tell to make it all worthwhile. And you’ll see to that, won’t you, dear?”