‘What about this one?’ I ask as I hold up a black and red shift dress. ‘You could wear this with those black killer heels you saw in Selfridges.’
I’m trying not to make it too obvious that I’m talking to a ghost, as the teenagers look at me and whisper to each other. They’re probably saying, ‘Have you seen the state of her underwear. What a skank.’
Ange looks at the dress, closes her eyes together and ‘poof’, the image of the dress is on her – and she looks fabulous.
‘It suits her, doesn’t it?’
I spin round to see a middle-aged woman, with short white hair and a kind smile, walk into the changing rooms with an armful of clothes to try on. I feel as though I’m about to have a panic attack, as my head swivels from Ange to the woman and back again.
I hold the dress up against me and look in the mirror. It’s obvious it’s miles too big for me.
The woman puts her hand on my shoulder.
‘Don’t worry; I can see her too, dear.’ She smiles. ‘And she does look lovely.’
‘You can see her?’ I whisper, for fear of the teenagers ridiculing me.
‘Yes. I’ve been able to see spirits ever since I was a child,’ the woman whispers back.
‘Oh … I … Ange, this lady can see you too,’ I say to my dead buddy.
‘Cool. Now do you think I should wear tights or just bare legs with this? I mean tights are a bit tricky to get off once you’re, you know, in the throes of passion.’
Oh my god, do they really do that sort of thing in heaven?
The lady by my side laughs and pulls a curtain around a small dressing room cubicle for the self-conscious or those that are without a dead person to dress.
We decide on a lovely pair of stockings for Ange; that way, if she and Danny do get to the you-know-what stage, then she won’t have too many problems tackling the getting the tights off situation. I, on the other hand, am all in favour of tights and the woollier the better, especially as it’s blooming freezing outside.
‘Come on, let’s go and see if Selfridges still have those shoes you liked,’ I suggest to Ange, who is at this moment twirling round and round in her new dress. I am getting rather cold standing here in my underwear, and quickly change into my jeans and jumper.
‘Right, we’ll go to … what’s that noise?’ I say as we leave the H&M store and head right towards Miss Selfridge.
‘Ha! I don’t believe it!’ Ange squeals.
I don’t believe it either. There, standing on a bench, wearing a pair of dark shades and playing a guitar and singing ‘I Will Always Love You’, is Jack.
‘Oh My God!’ I shriek. ‘Jack! What are you doing here?’ I run over to him.
‘I thought I might find you here,’ Jack smirks, as he jumps down off the bench and hugs me. ‘Well, that’s a lie, actually. Your mother told me you’d gone shopping and seeing as you’re a lousy cook, I guessed it wouldn’t be groceries you’d gone shopping for.’ Jack laughs as I punch him on the arm and then hug him to me. It is so good to see my lovely fiancé once again and I inhale the familiar smell of Lynx and old leather jacket. I can’t believe it. This feels like a dream. Jack is back. My Jack is back.
‘I’ll go and get those shoes and see you two lovers later then,’ Ange says.
‘Yes, that would be good, Ange. Thanks,’ I whisper as I kiss Jack passionately on the lips.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘Err, Sam?’
‘Yeah?’
‘Question: why do we keep vegetables on the window sills and not in a vegetable basket?’ Jack asks, holding up a carrot and looking somewhat puzzled by it.
‘Ahh! Quick, put it back!’ I rush over, grab the carrot from his clutches and put it back on the window sill.
‘Long story short: that Clive chap, you know, the lachanophobic who took a shine to me?’
Jack nods, still looking puzzled by the arrangement of vegetables not in their rightful place.
‘He died.’
‘Shame.’
‘But he came back again - to haunt me.’
‘Oh, right,’ Jack says, ‘and that explains the vegetable décor how?’
‘Because he hates them, remember? He’s a/was a lachanophobic. The only way I can keep him out is to leave vegetables out. Well, at least I think it works. I haven’t seen him since I put them out.’
‘Oh right, but won’t they start to smell a bit?’ Jack sniffs a turnip and pulls a face.
‘I’ll renew them every couple of days,’ I say matter-of-factly. ‘Or I suppose I could get some plastic veg?’
‘Right.’ Jack shrugs.
After he surprised me with an impromptu visit to Bath, Jack and I rushed home to our home for the first time together and it was pure magic to see the look on his face when he saw the cottage.
‘This is amazing, Sam!’ he shouted as he ran around the house, taking in each room. I have to admit, I was a little nervous because, after all, I’m a girl and he’s a boy and being a boy, Jack’s idea of interior design is the biggest plasma TV in the world, an Xbox and a fridge.
‘Whoa! A train set!’ I hear Jack shout from upstairs. Personally I have my reservations about the train room, for obvious reasons, but Jack loves it.
‘I was never allowed a proper train set up when I was a kid. I used to save up my pocket money and buy bits of track. Every time, some little bastard at the home would break it or nick it. It wasn’t until I moved in with Dave and Maureen that I could buy some without fear of it being snapped in two, but there was never enough room in the flat to set up a track.’ Jack stares in awe at the miniature village I’ve created for him.
It’s funny to see Jack like this; one minute he’s a rock and roll star with thousands of adoring fans and the next he’s here, with me, getting all excited about his train set. Bless him.
‘So where did you put my Rubik’s Cube beanbag and the didgeridoo?’ Jack asks, looking around the room.
‘Ah … um …’ Oh bugger, I thought he would have forgotten about those by now. The answer is they are currently residing in the Mind charity shop in town. ‘Oh look! Come and see what I’ve done to the bedroom.’ I grab his hand and pull him along the landing into our bedroom and we stay there for, oh, a very good two hours.
‘Well, I’m very glad I came home for the weekend, instead of going to the VIP party with Dillon and the rest of them,’ Jack smirks.
‘And I’m very glad you did too,’ I smirk back. God, you’d think we were two Cheshire cats, with all this smirking going on!
‘I had no idea you were coming home.’ And I didn’t.
‘You’re not a very good psychic then, are you?’ Jack laughs, for which he receives a punch on the arm.
‘Well, I wish you’d given me some notice; I’d have got us something nice to eat.’
‘What, you don’t eat when I’m away?’
‘I try not to, if I can help it. I don’t want to put any weight on. I keep having dreams that I won’t fit into my wedding dress.’
Jack kisses my stomach.
‘There’s nothing to you. You are beautiful in every single way, words can’t bring you down…’
‘You’re quoting the lyrics to that Christina Aguilera song, aren’t you?’
‘Yes. Ouch! What was that for?’
‘For being lazy and plagiarising someone else’s work instead of serenading me with your own words.’
Jack props his head up on his elbow, deep in thought.
‘OK, how about this? You’re the woman of my dreams, you’re my wish upon a star, you’re my rock, my soul mate rolled into one, from my thoughts you’re never far…’
Jack spends the next few minutes singing to me one of the most beautiful songs I have ever heard and I have to close my eyes to stop tears from spilling out of the corners of them.
‘I wrote it for you. It’s going to be our next single,’ Jack says shyly.
‘I love it, Jack. Thank you. I have missed you so much, you wouldn’t believe.’
And I have. It’s hard being part of a couple and being on your own ninety per cent of the time.
‘Hey, what’s up?’ Jack can sense something’s wrong.
‘I just … I just don’t want today to end. I know it’s your dream job being in a band and … I just miss you so much, Jack. When you’re not here …’
‘I’ll give it up then,’ Jack says as he sits upright.
‘Oh god, no I didn’t mean that!’
‘No, seriously, Sam. If this is making you unhappy then I’d much rather be with you than anything else and if you’re not happy, I’m not happy either.’
God, don’t you just love this guy?
‘No. I wouldn’t dream of it and besides, we’ve only got another - one, two, three, four, five, six weeks until we get married … Oh shit!’ I spring out of bed.
‘What’s the matter?’ Jack jumps up too.
‘Six weeks, Jack! We’ve only got six weeks left and I haven’t even got my dress finished, let alone the flowers, or sorted out the reception! Holy crap, I haven’t even given the printer the guest list!’ I rush around the room (stark naked) like a wailing baboon.
Jack is nearly wetting himself with laughter at the sight of his bride to be. I, on the other hand, am still running around the bedroom (still stark naked), reeling off the list of things I still need to do before we get married, which is imprinted in my memory, while looking for my phone and knickers, in no particular order.
‘Oh stop it, it hurts!’ Jack can barely speak for laughing and is now doubled up in bed, laughing hysterically at me and I can see why. I’ve just caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length wardrobe mirror and yep, I look like a naked, mad woman. One half of my hair is stuck to the side of my face from where I was snuggled in to Jack and the other half is sticking out at all sorts of strange angles; my wobbly bits are wobbling all over the place and there is so much mascara down my cheeks that I look like a Gene Simmons tribute act. Yes, Jack has good reason to laugh.
I have found my knickers and phone and other items of clothing to make me presentable to the rest of the world – and more importantly, not in danger of getting arrested – and Jack has just about managed to hold himself together to get to the bathroom before he wets himself from laughing.
‘Come on, Jack. While I’ve got you here I want to check that your suit still fits and organise when the band members can come over to have their suits fitted.’ God, what do I sound like? One afternoon of sex and I’ve come over all bridezilla!
‘What the f…? Sam!’ Jack shouts from the bathroom.
‘What’s the matter? Oh my …’
As I turn the door knob on the bathroom door, I notice that the room is filled with a fog-like mist.
‘Sam!’ Jack shouts. ‘What’s going on? I only came in for a wee.’
‘Oh no! Not again!’
‘What do you mean, not again?’ Jack shouts through the mist.
It’s then that the writing appears on the mirror – again.
I’m so sorry, Jack. I love you.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ Jack asks as the mist in the room clears.
‘I … I …’
Oh dear, Jack looks cross now.
‘Sam? How did that happen? Who’s that message from? Is it from you?’
‘No … no, it’s not from me. It’s …’ I can’t say it.
‘It’s what, Sam? What the hell is going on?’
Jack slumps down on the edge of the bath. He looks stunned.
‘I don’t … I don’t understand.’
I don’t understand either. I don’t know how to tell Jack what is happening here, so I stall for time and grab hold of his hand, pulling him back out of the bathroom.
‘Marianne, Jack doesn’t know yet,’ I whisper.
‘Doesn’t know what? What don’t I know?’ Jack asks, looking somewhat paler than he did five minutes ago.
‘Come on, Jack. I think you need to sit down.’ I guide him to our bedroom and sit him down on the edge of the bed. Poor Jack. It’s bad enough having a girlfriend who can see dead people, let alone anything else.
‘What don’t I know, Sam?’
I sit on the floor, holding his hand.
‘It’s your mum, Jack …’
‘What about her?’
‘She’s …she’s dead, Jack.’
Jack looks at me as if he’s seen a ghost, which is a bit ironic really given the situation.
‘Jack?’
‘Uh-huh.’
‘Are you OK?’ Stupid question, I know.
Jack looks up, his eyes sparkling with tears.
‘How do you know? You know, that it’s her?’
‘I’ve seen her. I recognised her …’ I’m about to say from the photo in Jack’s special box, but then realise that he doesn’t know that I know about the special box.
‘…because she looks like you. You have her eyes and Ange confirmed that she’s your mum.’
‘Oh right.’ Jack sniffs. ‘So what happened to her?’
‘I have no idea, Jack.’
We sit there for some time, with me holding Jack’s hand and him staring off into space.
‘Will you, you know, do whatever it is you do? You know, contact her? Jack suddenly asks, breaking my thoughts.
‘I … um … I can try. If that’s what you want?’
Jack nods.
I have to say, aside from doing the Halloween séance, I’ve never actually made the first move when it comes to contacting the dead. It’s always been the other way round; they’ve always contacted me, whether I’ve liked it or not. And up until now I can honestly say I’ve had no intention voluntarily to make contact with the other side and I don’t really know what the protocol is for contacting dead peeps, but it looks as though I’m going to find out, doesn’t it?
‘Are you OK?’ I ask Jack.
‘Yeah. I’m good. You go downstairs and put the kettle on. I’ll be down in a minute. I just want to … you know … make the bed.’
As I walk down the stairs to give Jack a bit of time to himself, I hear him sobbing into the pillows.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
My weekend with Jack has been all too brief, not to mention marred by the fact that Jack’s mum decided to make an impromptu visit to our bathroom. Sunday was spent trying to make arrangements for our wedding, but in a half-hearted way, and we haven’t really got any further than had we not bothered.
My heart aches for Jack now that he’s gone back to London and I’m determined to help him find out what happened to his mum.
‘Ange, please help?’
‘There’s nothing I can do if she won’t talk to me. It’s not like down there, you know! If they don’t want to talk, they won’t,’ Ange says.
‘But I need to find out for Jack.’
‘I’ll do my best, but like I say, if they don’t want to talk, they won’t. Anyway, let me tell you how I got on with Danny.’
Ange goes into great detail about her date with Dan the motorcycle man and I mean great detail, including how she was right about choosing not to wear tights. Way too much information if you ask me. I haven’t heard her this happy in ages and he’s asked her out again! Well, I say asked her out again: according to Ange he actually said, “I s’pose we’ll have to do this again sometime; nowt else to do up ere, is there?’ Romantic, eh? Still, she’s happier than she’s been in ages and the only reason she’s been talking to me is because her new beau said he had to go to the Regent Theatre in Stoke because psychic Mystical Monica was going to be there with her show and his mother and sister were going to try and get her to get in touch with him.
‘Sammy Puddleduck. It’s Dad here.’
Oh! My dad was a man of few words when he was alive and even fewer now that he’s on the other side, so I’m a bit taken aback when just as I’m tidying up the living room after Jack’s brief visit – why are men so messy? – his voice suddenly comes into my head. Dad is another one who refuses to talk unless he wants to and
from past experience the only time he contacts me is to warn me of something, so it’s one of those uh-oh moments.
‘Dad? Are you OK?’ Sounds stupid, doesn’t it? Are you OK? Hum, let me think, what do you think? I’m dead, of course I’m not OK!
‘Sammy, it’s about Amy, she’s in trouble.’
‘What? What do you mean, Amy’s in trouble? What sort of trouble?’
‘Sammy, Amy’s in trouble.’ Dad says again.
‘Yes, Dad, you said. Think you can expand on that?’ I say as I plump up the cushions on the sofa and rearrange the veg on the window sills.
God, it’s frustrating talking to the dead sometimes! And besides, why is my dad telling me about Amy after all this time?
My ex-best friend and I haven’t spoken for over eighteen months now, since she went to the papers and sold a story about me, claiming that I was a fraud and that I made all this psychic stuff up. It resulted in me being hounded by the press, ridiculed and made to prove myself to the nation live on TV. My so-called best friend temporarily destroyed my career and my life and if it hadn’t been for Jack, my brothers and my agent Larry, I wouldn’t be where I am today. In some respects you could say it was a blessing in disguise and that she did me a favour, and a big fat one at that. If Amy hadn’t caused so much trouble, Jack wouldn’t have come to my rescue and I wouldn’t have realised just how much I loved him. So maybe Amy did me a favour in the long run. But that doesn’t make it right, does it?
The last I heard she had gone to live with her mum in Spain and was planning to find herself a rich footballer to date so that she could become an official WAG. Failing that she was going to follow in her mother’s footsteps and find a rich plastic surgeon to marry. The relationship with “The Lovely Kenzie” – son of some lord or other and the photographer who contributed to my downfall by taking the picture that every national newspaper featured on their front page – didn’t last long, so Amy was young, free and desperate once again and in search of someone new, and preferably rich.
Oh Great, Now I Can See Dead People Page 17