Sometime before George exited his taxi on Dean Street, Beverley was seated not far away, across the street in Barrafina, enjoying a latte and an early-morning Bellini while awaiting the arrival of her ghost. Before her lay a print-out of the latest chapter of what was now officially titled The Ski Instructor of Verbier, each page scarred red where Beverley had made increasingly furious corrections.

A copy of that morning’s Daily Mail lay on the table, and Beverley unfurled it, reading the lead article once again. She was angry with George, of course, but she also felt deeply upset by how their once happy marriage had reached this place of mutual infidelity and distrust. There was a time when they had loved each other, been kind to each other, when they had been desperate to be in each other’s company. They had thrown themselves into parenthood and, even if their children had so far failed to build lives independent of them, she had plenty of friends who never even saw their offspring, while hers would barely leave the house. There was something positive there, surely? When and how had their passion fallen away?

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.’