They were walking through Selfridges department store on Oxford Street, looking at clothes, Beverley occasionally raising her hand to roar ‘DON’T!’ at any assistant who dared to approach her, atomizer in hand, preparing to douse her in unsolicited perfume. The shopping expedition was a ritual that Beverley had undertaken with all her previous ghosts when they were setting out on a novel, believing that if they could decide on the sartorial look of her central character, then the rest would fall into place. Her current amanuensis, however, did not seem entirely convinced, pointing out that every hour spent examining overpriced designer outfits that they had no intention of purchasing was an hour that she could pass more beneficially at home, writing.

‘It’s so good to be back, isn’t it?’ asked Beverley, breathing in the air and looking utterly enchanted by her surroundings. ‘Did you find it as difficult as I did during the pandemic? When you couldn’t come here to shop?’

‘I’ve actually never been inside Selfridges before,’ replied the ghost. ‘I’m more of a Topshop girl.’

‘Of course you are. What do you think of this?’ she asked, pulling a Vera Wang dress from one of the rails and holding it up to her body in the mirror. ‘For the scene in the dentist’s surgery when Carolyn meets Dr Westerley, before she learns that he spends his winters as a ski instructor in Switzerland?’

‘You don’t think it’s a bit over the top?’ asked the ghost. ‘Women don’t tend to wear gowns like this when they’re getting the plaque scraped from their teeth. It’s more the sort of thing one might wear to a New Year’s Eve ball on a cruise ship.’

‘But that’s the problem with young women these days, isn’t it?’ replied Beverley with a sigh. ‘They don’t dress to impress. They never realize that today might be the day they finally encounter the man of their dreams. Instead, they just throw on whatever they find at the back of their wardrobe, something that doesn’t smell too bad or isn’t too wrinkled and might get them through the day without half the threads coming loose. DON’T! They wear polyester and rayon, jackets without a centre back seam, and – I SAID, DON’T! – match short skirts with plunging necklines. No, the women in my books need to look a million dollars from the second they wake up until the moment they slip into a blissful, silent sleep, where they dream of weekend breaks with Ryan Gosling on the Amalfi coast. So, make a note: red Vera Wang maxi-dress. Floral print, V-neck, silk wrap. To be used in Chapter Two.’

‘Fine,’ said the ghost, tapping this information into her phone and taking a photograph of the dress in question for future reference. ‘I suppose she’ll be wearing a bib anyway, so the dress won’t get too stained.’

‘A bib?’

‘Yes, you know, those plastic bibs they give you when you’re lying in a dentist’s chair? To stop all the crud from your mouth falling on your clothes when they’re polishing your teeth.’