‘You’re awfully young,’ said Beverley, who had been examining the ghost’s resumé in search of anything objectionable and had found it quickly enough, in the line that detailed her date of birth. She studied her up and down, wondering which particular branch of Oxfam she shopped in, for unlike her own daughter, who kept up scrupulously with the latest fashions, this girl was dressed like one of the maids from Downton Abbey when she pops into the village for a dozen eggs, a slice of best tongue and a flirt with the shy but sexy blacksmith.

‘I’m twenty-five,’ admitted the ghost. ‘But I feel much older.’

‘How old do you feel?’

‘Ancient, sometimes. Like, thirty.’

Beverley resisted an urge to slap the girl across the face and politely returned her attention to the pages that her publisher had sent her earlier in the week. This was the third potential ghost that she had interviewed recently and the selection process was proving tiresome. The first had been dismissed immediately on the grounds that she was an American and, as Beverley pointed out, an American simply couldn’t understand what her readers expected from her. They didn’t have the nuance, darling. The second was rejected because she displayed stalker-like tendencies that Beverley found unsettling. It was one thing, after all, to be a fan of her novels, but another thing entirely to have such an encyclopaedic knowledge of them. But number three, sitting before her now, seemed to have potential, particularly as she claimed to be more interested in journalism than novel-writing.

‘So I won’t be any competition for you in the future,’ she added helpfully.

‘Oh, I don’t worry about competition,’ replied Beverley, who disliked many of the authors she encountered on the festival circuit, particularly those who made no secret of how much they looked down on her books. ‘Life’s too short for pettiness. What I always say is, there’s room for us all.’

‘Of course you’re right,’ said the ghost. ‘But it’s refreshing to hear a writer of your stature feels that way.’

‘I think you’ll find I’m very much a live-and-let-live type of person,’ continued Beverley, warming to the fictional character she was creating, loosely based on her own life. ‘Every year, as the Booker Prize longlist is being announced, I tune in and never feel any sense of resentment that my name isn’t included. Indeed, I say “Bravo!” to those young writers whose books are the sensations of the season but who will never be heard from again once the paperback is published. I shout “Hooray!” at those ageing white men who’ve been writing the same novel over and over for decades and still don’t seem to have got it right.’

‘It’s good to know you’re not bitter,’ said the ghost.

‘The thing is,’ said Beverley, smiling through gritted teeth, ‘I may not have a shelf-ful of prizes but I have what many of those people do not have.’

‘Money?’ asked the ghost.