The article itself only added to her frustrations, describing the romantic entanglement George had found himself in with a therapist. It referred to Beverley as ‘the ageing romantic novelist Beverley Cleverley, last seen batting her eyelash extensions in the direction of handsome Ukrainian dancer Pylyp Tataryn on Strictly Come Dancing’, and the woman who George had cheated on her with as ‘a lithe and still-attractive woman, despite being thirty-eight years old’.

The door to the café opened and as the ghost stepped inside, something about the way she was carrying herself irritated Beverley. She looked more confident than usual, filled with a certain joie de vivre. She was even wearing make-up, which she normally eschewed. She waved across the room, then pointed to the sign leading towards the toilets, and Beverley nodded. In the meantime, she ordered two coffees and another Bellini and, when the waitress brought them over, Beverley asked her to take the newspaper away and shred it.

‘Don’t put it in the recycling,’ she insisted. ‘It has no further business in this world.’

‘So sorry I’ve kept you waiting,’ said the ghost when she reappeared, making a great show of removing her jacket and scarf. ‘I had a bit of a late start this morning. I stayed in bed longer than expected, if you know what I mean.’ She giggled and Beverley frowned. Was this the ghost’s way of telling her that she had had sex that morning? Why on earth did she think that she would care? It was obvious, anyway, from the glow in her cheeks and the faraway look in her eyes.

‘I’ve been waiting ten minutes,’ said Beverley, taking a sip of her coffee. ‘I do have other things to do, you know.’

‘Oh, you got me a coffee,’ said the ghost. ‘You’re a superstar. I need this. I don’t suppose you ordered any food, did you?’

‘No, I did not,’ said Beverley. ‘I’m not your personal assistant.’

‘No, of course not. I just wondered, that’s all.’ She reached forward and, to Beverley’s horror, took her hand in her own. ‘How are you?’ she asked, pulling a sympathetic face.

‘I’m absolutely fine,’ Beverley replied, rearing back and wiping her hand on her skirt. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘Only I saw the article in this morning’s newspaper. About George.’

‘You mean Mr Cleverley.’

‘If you like.’

Beverley looked away and did her best to maintain a calm demeanour. ‘If you think the hacks can upset me, then you’re wrong,’ she said. ‘I know my husband, and I’m sure the entire thing is a massive exaggeration. Also, the woman in question is obviously a tart.’

‘Oh,’ said the ghost, shocked. ‘That’s really not the way that women should talk about each other, is it? Sisterly solidarity and all that.’

‘Spare me,’ said Beverley, waving this away. ‘She’s not my “sister”. She’s a person of low morals who thought nothing of sleeping with another woman’s husband, pretending to get pregnant by him and then, when scorned, selling her story to the Daily Mail. She’s no more my sister than you are.’