Melody Bittersweet and the Girls' Ghostbusting Agency

by Kitty French

  Melody Bittersweet and The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency

  A laugh-out-loud romantic comedy of Love, Life and… Ghosts?

  Kitty French

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Letter from Kitty

  Also by the author

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  This book is for my brother, to correct the terrible oversight of having not dedicated one to him before. This is my craziest book to date, and therefore fitting.

  Chapter One

  ‘So, what do you do with your spare time, Melody?’

  I look my date square in his pretty brown eyes and lie to him. ‘Oh, you know. The usual.’ I shrug to convey how incredibly normal I am. ‘I read a lot . . . Go to the movies. That kind of thing.’

  I watch Lenny digest my words, and breathe a sigh of relief when his eyes brighten.

  ‘Which genre?’

  ‘Movies or books?’ I ask, stalling for time because, in truth, I don’t get much in the way of spare time to do either.

  ‘Movies. Action or romance? No, let me guess.’ He narrows his eyes and studies me intently. ‘You look like a sucker for a rom-com.’

  ‘Do I?’ I’m genuinely surprised. I’m five foot three and look more like Wednesday Addams than a Disney princess. Maybe Wednesday Addams is over-egging it, but you get the idea; I’m brunette and my dress sense errs on the side of edgy. I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me and thought whimsy. Maybe Lenny sees something everyone else has missed, me included. I quite like that idea, mainly because everyone who knows my family has a head full of preconceptions about me, based on the fact that my family are all crackers.

  ‘Four Weddings?’ He shrugs hopefully.

  I nod, not mentioning that the only part of that particular movie I enjoyed was the funeral.

  ‘The Holiday?’

  Again, I try to look interested and hold my tongue, because I’m sure he doesn’t want to hear that I’d rather stick needles in my eyes than ever watch an over-optimistic Kate Winslet drag some old guy around a swimming pool again.

  I’m relieved when the bill arrives and we can get out of there, because so far Lenny has turned out to be a pretty stellar guy and somehow I’ve managed to convince him that I walk on the right side of the tracks. Maybe this time, things will be different.

  Lenny pulls his dull, salesman’s saloon into the cobbled cartway beside my building and kills the engine. I don’t mind dull. In fact, my life could really use a bit of dull right now, so I shoot him my most seductive smile, cross my fingers that my mother will be in bed, and invite him in for coffee.

  Oh, just when it had all been going so well. Why couldn’t I have just given him a goodnight kiss, with maybe the smallest hint of tongue as a promise, then sent him on his way? He’d have called for a second date, I’m sure of it.

  But no. I got greedy, pulled him by the hand through the dark back door, placing my finger against my lips to signal he should be quiet as we tip-toed past my mother’s apartment and up the old wooden staircase to my place.

  He rests his hand on my waist as I turn the key, and a small thrill shoots down my back. Look at me, winning at this being-an-adult thing today! Dinner with an attractive man, sparkling conversation, and now back to mine for coffee . . . and maybe even a little fooling around. It’s not that I’m a virgin or anything, but it would be fair to call my love life patchy of late. By ‘of late’ I mean the last two years, ever since Leo Dark and I called things off. Well, by Leo and I, I mean Leo called things off, citing conflict of interests. Ha. Given that he was referring to the fact that my mad-as-a-bag-of-cats family are the only other psychics in town besides him, he was, at least in part, right.

  But enough of Leo and my lamentable love life. Right now, all I want is for Lenny not to know anything at all about my peculiar family, to keep seeing me as a cool, regular, completely normal girl, and then to kiss me.

  ‘You remind me of Clara Oswald,’ Lenny whispers behind me at the top of the stairs. ‘All big brown eyes and clever one-liners. It’s very sexy.’

  Lord, I think he’s just brushed a kiss against the back of my neck! My door sticks sometimes so I shoulder it open, aiming for firm and graceful but, I fear, ending up looking more like a burly police SWAT guy ramming it down. Thankfully, Lenny seems to take it in his stride and follows me into my apartment. Then I flick on the table lamp only to discover that my mother is standing on my coffee table in a too-short, too-sheer, baby-blue negligee with her arms raised towards the ceiling and her head thrown back.

  ‘Shit!’ Lenny swears down my ear, clearly startled. He isn’t to blame. My mother’s a striking woman, ballerina-tall and slender with silver hair that falls in waves well beyond her shoulder blades. It isn’t grey. It’s been pure silver since the day she was born, and right now she looks as if she’s just been freshly crucified on my coffee table.

  I sigh as I drop my bag down by the lamp. So much for me being normal.

  ‘Err, mother?’

  Slowly, she takes several heaving breaths and opens her eyes, changing from crazy lady to almost normal human lady. She stares at us.

  ‘For God’s sake, Melody,’ she grumbles, taking her hands from above her head and planting them on her hips. ‘I almost had the connection then. He’s hiding out in the loft, I’m sure of it.’

  I risk a glance over my shoulder at Lenny, who sure isn’t kissing my neck anymore.

  He lifts his eyebrows at me, a silent ‘what the hell?’ and then looks away when my mother beckons to him like a siren luring a fisherman onto the rocks.

  ‘Your hand, please, young man.’

  ‘No!’ I almost yell, but Lenny is already across the room with his hand out to help her down. My mother eyes me slyly as she steps from the table, keeping a firm hold of Lenny’s hand.

  ‘Long lifeline,’ she murmurs, tracing her red talon across Lenny’s palm.

  ‘Mother,’ I warn, but my somber, cautionary tone falls on her selectively deaf ears. I expected nothing else, because she’s pulled this trick before. Admittedly, the standing-on-the-table thing is a new twist, but she’s got form in scoping out my prospective boyfriends to make sure they’ll fit in with our screwball family from the outset. Not that her romantic gauge is something to put any stock in; Leo passed her tests with flying colours and look how that ended up. I got my heart broken and he got a spot on morning TV as the resident psychic. Where’s the justice in that?

  Look, we may as well get the clanky old skeleton out of the family closet early on here, people. It’s going to come out sooner or later, and despite my attempts to pull the wool over Lenny’s eyes, there’s never any running away from this thing for long.

  My name’s Melody Bittersweet, and I see dead people.

  It’s not only me. I’m just the latest in a long line of Bittersweets to have the gift, or the curse, depending on how you look at it. My family has long since celebrated our weirdness; hence the well-established presence
of our family business, Blithe Spirits, on Chapelwick High Street. We’ve likely been here longer than the actual chapel at the far end of the street. That’s probably why, by and large, we’re accepted by the residents of the town, in a ‘they’re a bunch of eccentrics, but they’re our bunch of eccentrics,’ kind of way. What began as a tiny, mullion-windowed, one-room shop has spread out along the entire row over the last two hundred years; we now own a run of three terraced properties haphazardly knocked into one big, rambling place that is both business and home to not only me, but also to my mother, Silvana, and her mother, Dicey. Gran’s name isn’t actually Dicey, it’s Paradise, officially, but she’s gone by Dicey ever since she met my Grandpa Duke on her fifteenth birthday and he wrote Dicey and Duke inside a chalk heart on the back wall of the building. He may as well have written it on her own racing heart.

  ‘Silvana!’

  Speak of the devil. Does no one go to bed around here?

  I open my door to find Gran on the threshold with her hand raised, poised to knock. I guess I should be glad she’s slightly more respectably dressed, if a floor-length, purple shot-silk kimono, bearing huge technicolor dragons could be considered as such. Her usually pin-curled gold hair is piled elegantly on her head and she wears a slash of fire-engine-scarlet lipstick for good measure. Most people couldn’t carry the look off, but thanks to her poise, confidence and couldn’t-care-less attitude, my gran wears it with artful success. She glides past me without invitation and gazes at my mother and Lenny, who are still hand-in-hand on the rug.

  God.

  First thing tomorrow morning, I swear, I’m going to look for a new place to live, somewhere, anywhere, that is not in the same building as my mother and my gran. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a charming old place and I love my family dearly. It’s not even as if I don’t have my own space here, because, theoretically at least, I do. Mum and Gran have the ground floor apartment behind Blithe Spirits, and I have the smaller flat upstairs, at the back. In lots of ways this makes me fortunate; I get to have a nice little home of my own and stay close to my family. It would all be fine and dandy, were it not for the fact that my family are officially bonkers and liable to come up and let themselves into my flat – using the spare key I gave them for dire emergencies only – and embarrass the shit out if me.

  ‘Why is Silvana entertaining a man half her age in your flat?’ Gran looks from me to my mother. ‘You should have said you were expecting company, darling. I’d have gone out.’ She touches her hand lightly against her hair. ‘Put a towel on the doorknob or something, isn’t that the modern way to signal these things? Don’t come a knockin’ if the caravan’s rockin’?’

  She looks spectacularly pleased with herself, and one glance at Lenny tells me that he knows he’s way out of his depth with these two and is in the process of writing me off as the worst date he’s ever had. His eyes slide from me to the door, and I can almost hear him begging me to let him go unharmed.

  ‘He’s not mum’s date, he’s mine. Or else, he was,’ I mutter, and then I’m distracted as a beer-bellied pensioner in a soup-stained shirt slowly materialises through the ceiling, his flannel trousers not quite meeting his bony ankles. Stay with me; I see dead people, remember? As do my mother and my grandmother, who also watch him descend with matching expressions of distaste.

  ‘Finally,’ my mother spits, dropping Lenny’s hand so she can round on the new arrival. ‘Two hours I’ve been chasing you around this bloody building. Your wife wants to know what you’ve done with the housekeeping she’d hidden in the green teapot. She says you better not have lost it on the horses or she’s had it with you.’

  My Gran rolls her eyes. ‘I rather think she’s had it with him anyway. He’s been dead for six weeks.’

  ‘You’re a fine one to talk, given that you still sleep with your husband twenty years after he died.’ Mother flicks her silver hair sharply. Touché.

  Lenny whimpers and bolts for my front door, turning back to me just long enough to splutter ‘something’s come up, gotta go,’ before he hoofs it out and down the stairs two at a time.

  I listen to the outside door bang on its hinges and wonder what came up. Probably his dinner.

  ‘Breakfast, darling?’

  The following morning, my mother acts as if nothing untoward happened last night when I stomp barefoot into the warm, farmhouse-style kitchen she shares with Gran.

  It’s a double standard, I know. I moan about them letting themselves into my flat and then breeze into theirs as if I own the place, but in my defence it’s totally my mother’s fault. She props their door open and then lures me down the stairs with the smell of home-cooking; usually something sweet and irresistible. I think she’s actually found a way to pump the smell of freshly-made waffles through the ancient heating system in the building. It’s like a siren she knows I cannot ignore. Sugar alert! Sugar alert! Melody Bittersweet, report to your mother’s cosy kitchen for sweet fabulousness and a grilling on your love life, immediately!

  ‘You can’t get round me with waffles this time,’ I grouch. I’d spent most of the night before tossing and turning, thinking about the fact that my life is heading precisely nowhere and something drastically needs to change. ‘Where’s Gran?’

  ‘She’s behind you.’ I turn at the sound of Gran’s stage-school animal growl and find her standing right behind me making Big-Bad-Wolf claw hands in the air for her own amusement. Resplendent once more in embroidered purple silk, she pours herself a stiff black coffee and takes a seat at the scrubbed pine kitchen table.

  ‘I’m glad you’re both here,’ I say, pulling up one of the mismatched chairs and squirting syrup onto the waffles I’d said I didn’t want. I heap on a few fresh blueberries to stave off my sugar guilt. ‘There’s something I need to tell you.’

  ‘You’re pregnant at last?’ Gran clasps her hands in shiny-eyed anticipation.

  ‘Given the fact that you two terrify any prospective boyfriends, it’s hardly likely, is it?’

  Mother looks sanguine beside the Aga she had installed to complete her farmhouse-kitchen fantasy. ‘Marry a woman, marry her family.’

  I grit my teeth as thoughts of my own Miss Haversham-style fate strengthen my resolve.

  ‘I’m starting a business.’

  The pair of them swivel their heads, and stare at me with widened eyes. I suddenly feel very on-the-spot.

  ‘In the empty room beneath my flat,’ I press on. Blithe Spirits is so big that several rooms have fallen into disuse, and the big one at the back on the ground floor is perfect for my new enterprise. It has its own door out onto the cobbled alleyway which can serve as public access, and there’s a big open fireplace in there to keep it warm and cosy through the chilly months. Technically, it’s in my bit of the building anyway, so I don’t expect to have to put up much of a fight for it.

  ‘But that’s my stock room,’ mother says, pausing with the frying pan in her hand.

  I shoot her a sarcastic look. ‘You don’t keep any stock.’

  She can’t argue with me. We deal in the dead. They don’t need shelf space.

  ‘I’ve been known to hold a séance in there once or twice,’ Gran throws in airily.

  ‘Yes, and last time you said you would never do it again because the room has “negative energy”.’

  I rather suspect it was more the fact that the séance was conducted at the behest of the local bridge club and Gran was bored stupid by both the living participants and the dull-as-dishwater spirits they attracted. No matter; her negative energy claims suit my purposes today.

  ‘I’m twenty-seven,’ I reason. ‘It’s time I stood on my own two feet.’

  My mother looks pointedly under the table at my black and white polka dot painted toenails and the ankle chain adorned with silver stars, clearly doubting that my feet are appropriate for, or capable of, business.

  ‘What will you do?’ Gran asks, wrinkling her nose at the waffles my mother offers her and delicately piercing a blueberry with
the tips of her fork instead. She’s whippet-thin and eats like a bird, preferring to save her calories for the champagne she’s rarely seen without. When she dies, if she ever dies, ‘it’s always five o’clock somewhere,’ will be engraved on her tombstone.

  Here goes nothing. ‘Ghostbusting,’ I mumble, shoving a mouthful of waffle into my face as I study my plate.

  ‘What was that, Melody?’ Gran says, leaning in across the table.

  My mother, whose hearing is pin-sharp, narrows her suddenly suspicious eyes at me.

  ‘Yes,’ she says, silkily. ‘Say it again, Melody, only LOUDER.’ She barks the last word out to demonstrate.

  I sigh heavily and clear my throat. ‘I’m going to open an agency to help people get rid of unwanted ghosts.’

  Gran clutches the lapels of her purple kimono in wide-eyed shock.

  ‘Get rid of them?’ She looks to my mother for support. ‘Silvana, are you hearing this?’

  ‘It’s not all that different to what we already do,’ I explain, trying to put a positive spin on it.

  ‘Our family represent the interests of the deceased, not the living, Melody. That’s what we do,’ Mum says with a frown.

  She makes it sound like an advert for a family law firm for the recently departed, and I bite back the obvious response. Which is that actually, Blithe Spirits makes a handsome profit from representing the needs of the living far more than the dead, namely in acting as the conduit between the two. We keep the lines of communication open, sort of like an astral telephone exchange, and therefore we need the ghosts to stick around. So yeah . . . I kind of expected my plans to go down like a cup of cold sick.

  ‘I know that,’ I say, keeping my voice deliberately steady and calm. ‘But you both know that I’m not like you, or like most of our ancestors, either.’

  ‘You’re a Bittersweet, Melody. You see them, just like rest of us,’ Gran says, chewing on another blueberry.

  ‘Yes, I do see them. I do. But the difference between you and me is that I don’t particularly want to see them. I find it bloody inconvenient that they pop up everywhere I go. I don’t want to spend my time finding out what Great Aunt Alice meant by that weird thing she said on her deathbed, or passing messages from disgruntled wives about housekeeping money missing from green teapots.’