Melody Bittersweet and The Girls' Ghostbusting Agency: A laugh out loud romantic comedy of Love, Life and ... Ghosts? (5 page)

We’re within touching distance now, and Marina taps Scarborough smartly on the shoulder and gives him a loud ‘Boo!’ as he turns, making him jump out of his expensive suit and swear like a sailor.

‘Christ almighty,’ he explodes, shooting us daggers before he swings back to Leo. ‘What is this? A cheap attempt to turn this into a fairground haunted house to scare me into paying you more?’

Leo doesn’t answer straight away. He’s too busy rearranging his features through a speedy cycle of ‘hello ex-girlfriend who I dumped acrimoniously, oh shit you’ve got your vicious sidekick with you’, and ‘don’t come a step closer, this job has Leo Dark stamped all over it’. Or that’s how I read his micro-expressions when his eyes meet mine in the doorway.

‘You’ve got to be kidding me,’ he drawls eventually, still looking at me rather than Scarborough. For a few seconds I’m caught by his eyes; most people are, they’re pretty hypnotic. Cola-brown shot through with shards of burnt-sugar gold and right now narrowed suspiciously in my direction. He hasn’t always looked at me this way though. Those eyes have laughed into mine and lusted into mine in the past; our lives have overlapped for as many years as I can remember. Leo Dark taught me to drive in his first car, back when I was seventeen and he was an exotic nineteen year old, and, as I remember, we spent quite a lot of time in the back seat of that particular car, too. He hasn’t always been so in love with himself that he can’t love anyone else; this TV gig has obviously massaged his ego like fine Kobe beef. Give a man a microphone and a designer cape and he buys into his own brand so much that he can’t remember those, admittedly hot, tumbles on the backseat of his Nova. Here we go again, I think, and I brace myself against stray un-platonic thoughts, because I’m not a girl given to letting the same man near her heart twice. He broke it quite spectacularly; he pretty much rolled out of bed with me and onto the train to London as soon as the TV job offer pinged into his inbox. If he’d written me a parting letter, which he didn’t, it would have said something like
‘thanks for the last few years, Melody, they’ve been fun but basically worthless given that I’m dropping you like a stone to follow my fortune on the golden paved streets of London, Love Leo. (You should keep this letter safe, my signature will be worth a fortune in a few years.)’

‘Leo,’ I nod, and then turn my attention to Scarborough.

‘Mr Scarborough, I saw your piece on TV this morning and came to offer you our help.’

‘
My
piece on TV,’ Leo snarks, then steps closer to stand shoulder to shoulder with Scarborough, creating a solid no-entry wall in the wide stone doorway to the house. ‘Thanks and all that, but I’m afraid we don’t have time for rubberneckers.’

‘Rubberneckers?’ Marina scoffs, and I hold onto her arm like a vice in case she takes a swing at him.

Still looking at Scarborough, I smile politely. ‘My name is Melody Bittersweet, owner of The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency. We’re local specialists in this area of work, Mr Scarborough, and I think I could really help you.’ In days gone by, I’d have felt disloyal about basically going head-to-head with Leo to try to steal the job from under his nose. But then . . . what goes around, comes around. He lost his right to my loyalty when he decided I was expendable in his life. All’s fair in love, war and ghostbusting, as they say. Or, as I’ll say, if he ever challenges me on it.

‘He has all the help he needs,’ Leo cuts in smoothly. His eyes flash with fury, quite at odds with his dismissive, throw-away tone of voice.

‘I rather think that’s my decision,’ Scarborough scowls, and I notice a chink in their relationship that Leo doesn’t want me to see.

‘We may not be on television,’ I begin.

‘Or wear stupid capes,’ Marina stage whispers, making Leo’s lip curl.

‘But I promise you that I know what I’m doing, and I might be able to speed things up for you here.’

I keep my eyes firmly on Scarborough, even though Leo is clearly hopping mad and dying to interject. He’s a step away from holding his arm up in the air like a kid desperate for the teacher’s attention, and he’s clearly finding it hard to hide all of that beneath his cool, calm Sherlock-esque veneer. He settles for laying a proprietorial hand on Scarborough’s arm.

‘Donovan. Can I call you Donny?’

‘No.’

Leo falters for a nanosecond then recovers himself. ‘Donovan.’

‘Mr Scarborough.’

‘Very well. Mr Scarborough, rest assured I come with the highest credentials and the back-up of a full professional team at your disposal around the clock.’ Scarborough turns to glance behind Leo at the aforementioned team, and his sidestep allows us to see beyond them to the two blonde women hovering in the hallway just behind them. One holds Leo’s deerstalker, the other his brief case, and they’re wearing matching black mini dresses and patent red shoes. Their clothes are not the only thing about them that’s similar; they have the same heads. Like,
completely identical.

‘Fucking hell! Creepy or what,’ Marina gasps, and I can only agree. Leo seems to have acquired himself a living, breathing twin-set of Barbie dolls.

‘I have a team,’ I counter, and then clear my throat loudly because I realise I (inadvertently) sound quite a lot like I’m trying to impersonate Martin Luther King. All four people on the doorstep look at my team, aka Marina, in different ways. Scarborough’s expression is dubious, the twins’ eyes are vacant, and Leo’s are openly scathing.

‘Marina Malone is your team?’

I nod, unabashed. ‘Marina is integral to my team, yes, along with others. Mr Scarborough,’ I turn my attention back to the homeowner. ‘My family are long-established and well respected in this area, and the service I can offer you is second to none.’

‘Are you suggesting that you don’t think these people are capable of the job they’ve been hired to do?’ He cocks his head towards Leo.

I don’t dare glance in Leo’s direction. ‘No. But I
am
telling you that I’m better.’

‘Bullshit!’ Leo rips the velcro fastenings from the neck of his made-for-TV cape and flings it at one of the creepy twins in the style of an infuriated matador.

‘Is it?’ I say, jutting my chin in the air. ‘Only that’s not what Isaac thinks.’

‘Isaac?’ Scarborough frowns, confused.

I fold my arms over my chest and nod. I fear that my expression is dangerously close to smug. ‘Isaac. Your great uncle.’

‘I don’t have a great uncle Isaac . . .’ Scarborough trails off, unconvinced.

‘Oh yes. Yes, you do. Or should I say, you did. He’s been dead almost fifty years and he’s standing right behind you.’

Finally, the vacant twins become animated, dropping Leo’s belongings on the Minton-tiled floor as they jump back for fear of being trampled by the undead. Marina raises her eyebrows in a triumphant ‘beat that’ expression towards Leo, who swallows hard and looks a tiny bit less sure of himself as he darts a glance over Scarborough’s shoulder.

‘I knew that. Just didn’t want to startle you.’

Scarborough looks rattled, and shoves both of his hands through his hair.

‘I don’t know what’s going on here between you lot, but here’s what’s going to happen. This house is giving everyone who steps inside it the creeps, me included. It always has.’ He pauses to glance around the square hallway and shivers. I think Marina was spot on when she said he was probably a man with an overblown sense of entitlement; he doesn’t seem at all grateful to have inherited Scarborough House. How can he not look at this place and see its potential as a gorgeous family house rather than selling it off to be stripped of its character and turned into a private nursing home?

‘I don’t care which of you clears it, but I’m only paying one of you, and no one sees a penny until I see results.’

He pauses and pulls a key from the inside pocket of his jacket. ‘Here. Back door.’

I hold in a tiny
squee
of triumph as he holds it out to me, and then a tiny sigh of regret as he pulls out a second key with a handwritten ‘front door’ label dangling from it and hands it to Leo.

‘Do your worst, all of you. Winner takes all. Just get a sodding move on, because every extra day this farce drags on costs me a bloody fortune.’

Marina and I jump hastily out of his way as he struts off, and Leo steps outside the doorway to stand beside me on the garden path.

‘Uncle Isaac said to say “bye”,’ he calls after Scarborough, who halts momentarily as if considering his response before striding to the safety of his car without glancing back.

‘Liar,’ I murmur, because we both know that what Isaac had actually said was something far more inflammatory.

He doesn’t deny it. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘My job.’

‘Since when?’ he scoffs. ‘Because as far as I recall, your family business mostly revolves around relaying dullsville messages about missing wedding rings or putting the bins out.’

I bristle at his dismissal of my mother and Gran’s work at Blithe Spirits. Missing wedding rings and reminders about bin duties may not be earth-shattering things to everyone, but to the one person the message is intended for it can mean everything. It can mean that even though the person you love isn’t there anymore, they still love and care for you just as they always did. It shows that they know that you’re crying yourself to sleep at night because you can’t find your precious wedding ring, or that you forgot to put the bins out last week because you’re not used to having to do everything yourself. These simple things are gold dust, and as one of the few other people I know who can see ghosts, Leo Dark should know that better than most. I think about ripping into him, and then decide to let it go for now. No way am I going to let Leo Dark rile me on my first day of business, far better to rile him instead.

‘You just keep farting about on TV in your cape, Leo, while I resolve this case right under your nose.’ I pocket my precious back door key and smile brightly, then link arms with Marina and walk away down the path, leaving him there to stew in his own juices.

‘Sashay,’ Marina hisses. ‘Make him scared of us!’

‘I don’t know how to,’ I shoot out of the side of my mouth. It’s all very well for her to say; she probably sashayed out of her mother’s womb. I give my hips a half-hearted wiggle and I can’t be certain, but I think I hear Leo laugh. We’re on the street now, approaching the sanctuary that is Babs.

‘You’ve got the keys,’ I say, aware that Leo’s still watching us. Marina digs around in her handbag and pulls them out, pointing them towards Babs to click the non-existent central locking button before handing them to me.

‘Central locking’s on the blink again.’

I shove the key in the door and slide it back. ‘Put it on the list of things Arthur can look at.’ Before I get chance to close the door, Leo jogs up to Babs and lays his hand flat on the bonnet, his face a picture of relaxed mirth.

‘I don’t believe it. You actually bought the Mystery Machine.’

‘Piss off.’ The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. ‘Babs is a vintage classic.’

‘Babs?’ If one tiny word has been loaded with more derision, I have yet to hear it uttered.

Marina, who by now has taken her position shotgun beside me, climbs across my lap and leans out to smack one of our brand new business cards on the bonnet next to his hand and then returns to her seat, calmly smoothing her hair.

Leo raises his eyebrows as he reads the card, turning it over to look at the back.

‘The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency? Isn’t it a bit . . .’ he shrugs, that resident mocking grin on his smug face. ‘
Scooby Doo
?’

‘Just quit it with the
Scooby Doo
references, okay?’

Leo pockets my business card in his shirt. ‘Penelope Pitstop?’

Walking up behind him, the Barbie Girls titter, even though they most likely have no clue who Penelope Pitstop is. I clutch onto the steering wheel for dear life and lean horizontally out of the van so I can see them properly.

‘For your reference, girls, Penelope Pitstop was a woman ahead of her time. Drove fast cars and beat the boys at their own game.’

I haul myself back inside the van and gun the engine, much to Bab’s startled surprise and Leo’s amusement. Marina menacingly fires an imaginary pistol at Leo with her fingers and blows on the smoking barrel as we lurch away, leaving all three of them staring after us in the wing mirror.

As we take the corner, she hangs onto the handle above her door and laughs under her breath.

‘Drove fast cars?’

I glance across at her as I drag the gear stick backwards, and we both start to laugh uncontrollably.

M
arina loses
a tenner at 8.51a.m. the following morning when Arthur Elliott clocks in for his first official day as a trainee ghostbuster. His tap on the door is every bit as mild as the day before, and Marina’s approach as she lets him into the office is every bit as in-his-face.

‘Um, what the hell are you wearing?’

Arthur looks down at his immaculate buff-coloured overalls and then up at us again. His face is two shades from puce.

‘Too much?’

‘Unless you’re Dan Ackroyd, yes.’ I nod and shoot him a sympathetic smile. ‘Just jeans tomorrow?’

‘I can go home and change?’ he whispers. ‘It’s only two buses.’

Curious mix of granite-tough and butter-soft that she is, Marina caves instantly. ‘You know what? No need. You’re perfectly dressed to help me paint the van.’

He brightens, and holds up a crumpled carrier bag. ‘I brought sandwiches for my lunch.’

Remembering Nonna’s donuts, I reach for the shiny lime-green tin and peel open the lid. ‘And Marina bought zeppole.’

I gaze down at the layer of perfectly bite-size sugared donuts and my teeth ache to bite into one.

‘You made those?’ Arthur looks at Marina with new awe.

‘Her Nonna,’ I interject, because she looks as if she’s about to do Nonna Malone an injustice and claim them as her own. ‘Grandma Malone to you and me,’ I add, when Arthur looks nonplussed.

‘For our coffee break,’ Marina adds, pointedly taking the tin away from me. I don’t like how that’s becoming a recurring thing.

‘Can I have tea at coffee break?’

Marina, a long-time devotee of coffee strong enough to stand your spoon in, shakes her head at Arthur. ‘No tea bags.’

Arthur pats his overall pockets until one crinkles, then reaches in and withdraws a little polythene bag containing a supply of tea bags.

‘Got my own.’

I note a spark of humour in his eye as he lays them down beside the kettle and I approve of it.

From Marina’s scowl, she clearly doesn’t. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Because coffee makes me go bonkers,’ he says, turning back around.

Marina shoots me a ‘let’s give him coffee and see what happens’ look, but I just shrug and smile benignly.

‘If Arthur wants tea, he can have tea.’

‘Nonna wouldn’t approve of tea with her zeppole,’ she mutters darkly.

‘Well, no one needs to tell Nonna, do they?’

Arthur turns his big hopeful eyes on Marina and once more she crumbles.

‘Fine. Not a word to Nonna or we’ll be on shop-bought biscuits, and no one wants that, do they?’

We shake our heads in unison and Marina rolls her shoulders, partially mollified. It’s been one of her longest-held wishes to perfect the art of cracking her neck for added menace, and I know this would be one of those times she’d have used it to full effect.

These two remind me of puppies establishing the pecking order in their brand new pack; Marina is husky-like, pretty but lethal, and Arthur would be a leggy Great Dane, clumsy, bashful and eager to please. What would I be in this pack, I wonder? Something yappy, probably, and liable to bite. A Jack Russell comes unflatteringly to mind; snappy, small and often annoying. Although . . . aren’t they also tenacious and utterly unaware of their own limitations, therefore often foolhardy and brave? I’ll go for that. I want more than anything to be courageous, to make a raging success of the agency. I’ve spent my entire adult life either trying to fit into the outside world like a square peg in a round hole, or else being absorbed into the family business in a way that makes me feel smothered and childlike. I’m not a child any longer, and however hard I try, I’m never going be a round peg. This agency is my attempt to bang a square hole in the wall to accommodate my square peg; create somewhere I fit, somewhere I can be me without apology or the need to qualify myself constantly. This is my pack, and I want to lead them to glory.

Marina opens her handbag and drags out an apron to cover her immaculate outfit. ‘Come on, Arthur. Babs is not gonna paint herself.’

‘Who’s Babs?’

Marina heads for the door. ‘I’ll introduce you.’ She tips her head to one side and studies him. ‘Do you drive, Arthur?’

Sadness washes Arthur’s features clean of any trace of merriment. ‘My dad gave me a couple of lessons, before he . . . no. I don’t drive.’

She nods briskly. ‘I’ll take over your lessons.’

I don’t miss the naked fear that fills Arthur’s eyes at Marina’s offer.

‘Or maybe we could pay for some lessons for you through the business when we’re a bit more on our feet,’ I suggest. ‘It’d be useful for us if you had your license.’

‘You’d do that?’ he whispers, shiny-eyed.

I make a mental note to sign him up for some lessons as soon as we’re financially able. I wasn’t lying when I said it’d be helpful if he could drive, although to be perfectly frank, lessons in a modern car will do little to prepare him for the behemoth that is Babs. More importantly though, it’s high time Arthur Elliott became someone who passed exams and has a place in the world where he is not surplus to requirements or making up numbers. Up until now he’s somehow managed to fall through every crack and miss every party; he may not be a girl, but as of now he’s a valuable member of the agency and I intend to make sure he feels it.

‘Don’t let her go crazy on the van, Arthur. You’re officially in charge out there.’

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and blinks nervously, but I don’t miss the way he puts his shoulders back and stands a little taller. He follows Marina to the door, and then pauses and clears his throat so we both look at him expectantly.

‘It’d be alright if you called me Art.’ The words rush from him all in one nervous breath.

I think of his dad, of Big Art, standing right here in the office making a case for his son, and I nod solemnly.

‘Art it is.’

‘I think I prefer Artie,’ Marina says, looking at him thoughtfully.

For a second he looks taken aback. I think at first that he’s going to refuse her suggestion, and then I realise that the expression on his face isn’t disagreement, it’s shy pride at being given a nickname by someone other than his mother, for the first time in his life.

‘Artie it is then,’ I say, concluding the conversation.

Marina whips the air with her hand, motioning for him to hurry out the door. ‘Quick smart then, Artie,’ she says. ‘You need to meet Babs, and then we’re off on a paint-buying mission.’

They disappear, and within a few minutes I hear the unmistakable sound of Babs backfiring and belching, off down the High Street.

I’m nose-deep in making preliminary notes about the Brimsdale Road case when someone knocks on the door again. I know straight away that it’s not Marina and Artie back already; I’ve been shopping with Marina enough times to know that they won’t be back for a good couple of hours yet. Besides, this isn’t a meek ‘is there anyone in there?’ tap, it’s was more of a ‘I know you’re in there so open up right now,’ rap.

Marina doesn’t knock, and Arthur,
Artie ,
doesn’t rap, so I call out ‘it’s open,’ from my position behind my desk.

The moment Leo flings the door wide and strides in I regret my open-door policy. If I’d known it was him I’d have hidden beneath the desk until he went away again. As it is, I take the only option available to me and brazen it out.

‘I’ve been expecting you,’ I say, for all the world, like a breezy Bond villain.

‘And as if by magic, here I am,’ he drawls, throwing his arms out to the sides as he glances around. ‘No team, I see?’

‘No cape or creepy twins, I see?’

He smirks, unrattled. Not that I expect him to be; his business is established and he has a weekly spot on morning TV. Withdrawing my business card from his shirt pocket, he flicks it over and glances down as if to remind himself of the details.

‘The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency. Seriously?’

I eye him steadily. ‘And your point is?’

He rubs his hand thoughtfully over his clean-shaven chin. ‘It’s a bit . . . low rent?’

‘I prefer to think of it as direct, clear, does-what-it-says-on-the-can,’ I say, folding my arms. If I were Marina I’d probably prop my feet up on the desk at this point, but given that I’m in Converse sneakers rather than spike heels, I’d look more student-cheap than sassy-chic. ‘Have you come to wish us luck, Leo?’

He pushes his hand through his lustrous, liquorice-black hair as he laughs. If I was feeling especially bitchy I’d tell you that it’s not unlike Laurence Llewelyn Bowen’s affected do, but in truth Leo wears it well. Mother Nature certainly looked kindly into his cradle; he’s exotic and strong-featured, gilded with a charisma that assures the camera loves him, as do his growing army of female fans, or his ‘Darklings,’ as they’ve self-styled themselves on Twitter.

‘You’re going to need more than luck, Melody.’

‘Is that so?’ I load my words with a sigh, a ‘been there, done that, don’t bore me with your crap’ sigh to ensure he knows that I’m not in the least bit bothered by his opinion.

Dropping into the magenta swivel chair opposite me, he slides my card back into his top pocket and nods.

‘Look, I get it,’ he murmurs, slouching casually. ‘You’re not the first chancer to see what I have and want it for yourself.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Your ego really does know no bounds, does it?’

‘My ego? You bulldoze your way into my case and tell my client that you’re better than me, and then you tell me that
my
ego is the problem here?’

Oh, that rattled him a bit. I lean back in my chair, equally slouchy, and meet his gaze head on. ‘Look, I get it. You’re used to being the only kid on the block and you’re scared of the competition.’

Silence reigns for a moment as we regard each other across the expanse of the wooden desk. We know each other’s capabilities and weaknesses pretty well, but we’ve never been out-and-out adversaries like this before. A nostalgic part of my brain likes to think that somewhere deep inside he still holds me in affection, because a sliver of my heart will be forever his. It’s a small, manageable sliver though, not enough to prevent me from living my life or, please God, from one day loving a normal man without an ego the size of the moon. As it stands we are old lovers and new business rivals, and he is clearly here to try to psyche me out.

‘If you give me your key to Scarborough’s house, we’ll say no more about it.’ A small, consolatory smile tips his mouth at one edge, as if he’s offering me a good deal. He reminds me of a vampire trying to glamour me, and I can well see how he could charm people into letting him into their homes before he sucks their jugular dry for the fun of it. He has always had a Svengali-like quality, and for a good chunk of my life I was a willing follower in his cult. Not anymore though, sadly for him. It’s hard to keep your rose-tinted, handmaiden glasses on when your skipper readily discards you for the bright lights and temptation of fame and fortune.

‘Not a prayer,’ I laugh. ‘Scarborough gave me the key to that house fair and square. You do your thing, and I’ll do mine. I’ll try and stay out of your hair, if that helps.’ I pointedly flick my eyes over his shiny waves.

‘It doesn’t.’

I shrug. ‘Then I guess we’re at an impasse.’

He casts his dark eyes around the office. ‘Is this whole thing your idea of revenge?’

He really is an ego on legs. ‘Leo, I hate to break it to you, but I’m over you. I have been for a long time, so no, hard as this might be for you to believe, my business venture has diddly-squat to do with you.’ I pause, and then amend my sentence to piss him off. ‘Unless you count the fact that we’re now rivals.’

He narrows his eyes at me, and his lip curls as if a hundred derisive thoughts are running amok in his head. No doubt they are, but he keeps them inside for now and settles for shoving his chair back with a flourish as he stands.

‘Fine. Have it your own way.’

I nod, standing too with my arms folded and my chin jutted at a jaunty angle in challenge. ‘Thank you. I will.’

Our eyes clash, and for a second I fear I might give in and let him suck my jugular.

‘Then may the best man win.’

‘Or woman,’ I say sweetly, throwing him a wink and a smile as he takes his theatrical leave. I stare at the closed door for a few seconds after he’s gone. As I listen to his angry footsteps retreat over the cobbles, I’m not sure if I feel unnerved or empowered by the fact that he felt it necessary to come by and check us out. A bit of both, I think.

* * *

‘
L
unch time
,’ Marina declares when she walks into the office a few hours later, paint in all colours of the rainbow splattered liberally over her apron. She and Artie had arrived back a while ago armed with enough paint and paraphernalia to cover the whole of Babs three times over, and I’ve deliberately left them to it for a couple of reasons.

Firstly, Marina is the arty one out of the two of us, my input would be minimal and most probably ignored. She’s strong-willed like that. More importantly though, I’ve decided this is the perfect staff-bonding exercise for Artie and Marina, a getting-to-know-you, over a bottle of turps instead of a bottle of vodka, because he barely drinks and she could leave a sailor for dead in a drinking competition.