‘No, dear, not money. Although I do have a lot of that, it’s true. No, I was referring to readers. I met one only this morning, for example, in Heathrow Airport, where I was seeing a dear friend on to a plane, and she came over to congratulate me on the success of The Surgeon’s Broken Heart. In fact, she said it reminded her of Wolf Hall. Just without all the boring historical bits.’

‘I couldn’t write a book like yours if I tried for the rest of my life,’ said the ghost. ‘I mean, I think I could write as you, but not like you. Does that many any sense?’

‘None whatsoever. But then, I’m looking for a ghost, not a member of Mensa. Would you like some tea? Or something stronger, perhaps? I might have a G and T myself.’

‘No, thank you,’ replied the ghost.

‘You don’t drink?’

‘I do, yes. But generally not while I’m on a job interview. It tends to give the wrong impression.’

‘You haven’t been a ghost before, though?’ Beverley asked, glancing down at the résumé again.

‘No.’

‘But the idea appeals to you?’

The younger woman nodded enthusiastically. ‘It does,’ she said. ‘I’ll be quite honest with you, Mrs Cleverley, it’s very difficult to live in London. It’s so expensive here, as I’m sure you know. Taking on a job like this would help me get a place of my own, which would mean I’d be more on the spot, so to speak, if a journalistic opportunity arose.’

‘And where do you currently reside?’

‘In Oxford, with my parents.’

‘Well, if you’re looking for a place to live,’ said Beverley, ‘I did notice a two-bedroom apartment for rent just around the corner on Eaton Terrace the other day. Very close to the gardens too.’

‘I suspect that would be rather out of my league,’ replied the ghost. ‘I’d probably need to look at something a little cheaper. A room in a shared house, most likely.’

‘Oh no,’ said Beverley, grimacing. ‘Who knows what kind of diseases you could catch in such places. Eaton Terrace. That’s the ticket.’

The ghost smiled, seemed on the verge of saying something, then decided against. She took off her glasses, extracted a small pouch from her handbag and removed a piece of microfibre cloth which she used to wipe her lenses, holding them up to the light for a moment before, satisfied with the result, repeating the sequence in reverse.

‘You know, you’re a lot prettier without glasses,’ said Beverley, intrigued by the ritual. It reminded her of a summer at Wimbledon, when she’d noticed how Rafael Nadal always touched the court with the tip of his right foot before serving, then adjusted his shorts, tucked his hair behind his left ear, then his right, wiped his forehead and bounced the ball. This unchanging routine had had an equally hypnotic effect on her and resulted in her flirting with him at the party on the final night. ‘Why don’t you get laser surgery?’