‘Has it?’ asked Beverley, resisting the urge to scratch her eyes out. ‘In what way?’

‘Well, as I told you when we met, I originally wanted to go into journalism,’ said the ghost. ‘But this week, spending time on The Ski Instructor of Verbier, I’ve come to realize that my true calling might be fiction.’

‘Then perhaps you should go into journalism after all? The tabloids would find you indispensable.’

‘Taking rather mundane plots and stereotypical characters and then breathing some actual life into them has proved rather interesting to me. I’ve started to think, well, what if I didn’t have to start with a bunch of clichés and do everything I can to make them sound a bit less ridiculous? What if I could start with authentic characters who do things that people actually do in the twenty-first century? And perhaps play with the language a little. I even have an exciting idea about page layout that—’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘To shape prose on the page to mirror the emotions of the—’

‘I don’t care, dear.’

‘Even to find a way to blend poetry with prose and—’

‘Is this monologue going to continue much longer? I don’t know if you’re mistaking me for the Publishing Director of Faber & Faber, but that sort of thing doesn’t interest me in the slightest.’

The ghost shrugged her shoulders, looking a little disappointed by the lack of encouragement.

‘Well, it was just a thought,’ she said.

‘Some thoughts are best kept to oneself,’ replied Beverley, making a distinct effort to stop gritting her teeth, worried that she might pare them down to stubs in anger. ‘During the whole Brexit drama, I found myself erotically drawn to John Bercow, but I didn’t go around telling people.’

‘I feel that I’ve offended you,’ said the ghost after a slight pause.

‘It’s just that you have such little respect for what I do,’ replied Beverley. ‘Speaking as a mother, you do realize that, having sold twenty million books around the world, there are some who might say that my work actually appeals to readers?’

‘Well, it’s not really your work, though, is it? It’s the work of your ghosts.’

‘They’re my ideas!’ insisted Beverley, finishing her Bellini now and wishing she had four more lined up, before throwing a quick, imperious look towards the waitress, who scampered off to pour another. Waiting for it to arrive, Beverley decided that she’d wasted enough of her morning on this smug little creature and wasn’t going to indulge her any longer. ‘I’m glad you’re not upset,’ she said. ‘And, naturally, I wish you all the best with your literary endeavours.’

‘Thank you. As it happens, I have an idea for a historical novel set in Ukraine during the Cossack uprising of 1648.’

‘Sounds utterly tedious,’ said Beverley.

‘Sort of a Doctor Zhivago tale. Only set in Odessa. My new boyfriend, Pylyp, has been telling me some stories and—’