Melody Bittersweet and the Girls' Ghostbusting Agency

by Kitty French

  ‘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.

  ‘Lunch 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.

  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 Cha
rlie’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.

  Chapter Six

  ‘Shall 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.’

  All 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 e
asily 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.