‘You really do live in some sort of sixties kitchen-sink drama, don’t you?’ said Beverley, looking appalled by these earthy descriptions. ‘Every time you talk I half expect Alan Bates to come in and demand a plate of mashed potatoes and a pint of ale to wash it down. Let’s be clear, there’ll be none of that sort of thing in my book. No one needs that level of detail. What would you have Carolyn do next? Go to the toilet?’

‘The characters in your books don’t use the bathroom?’

‘Of course not. Look, think about when you’re sitting at home, enjoying one of your takeaway kebabs while watching a romantic comedy on television. There’s Nicole Kidman drinking a glass of champagne as fireworks explode over Sydney Harbour Bridge. Behind her, Hugh Jackman gives her a shoulder massage while singing selections from Les Misérables into her ear. Now picture Nicole putting her glass down and saying, Excuse me for a moment, Hugh, but I need to go and take a shit. It rather spoils the mood, don’t you think?’

‘I suppose so,’ admitted the ghost.

‘It’s fine for fiction to reflect reality,’ continued Beverley, warming to her theme now. ‘It just needs to be a lot more hygienic. You can attend every creative writing course in the country and I guarantee you that not one of the tutors will ever offer that piece of advice and, quite honestly, it’s pure gold.’

A young woman with dark hair painfully scraped back from her forehead came over and stood next to Beverley, admiring the Vera Wang. She had immaculate skin and carried a scent of Chanel Chance Eau Fraîche about her person. ‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘And it’s ten per cent off at the moment. Would you like me to see whether we have one in your size?’

‘I beg your pardon,’ said Beverley, turning around with a withering expression on her face. She wished that she’d been wearing a pair of sunglasses so she could have slowly taken them off and destroyed this insolent creature with a look. ‘My size?’

‘Yes, what are you, a fourteen? I think the one you’re holding is a six. I can take a look in our stockroom, if you like. Vera Wang looks very elegant on the older woman.’

Beverley opened and closed her mouth several times, hoping that a series of lacerating words would emerge, leaving the sales assistant squirming in a pool of self-recrimination for the rest of the afternoon but, to her disappointment, nothing emerged. She turned to her ghost, wearing a do-your-job expression.

‘We’re not actually buying,’ explained the ghost. ‘We’re just browsing. For Carolyn.’

‘For who?’

‘Carolyn Worthington. She’s a secretary in a publishing house in Central London but dreams of marrying a wealthy man and living a luxurious lifestyle on the Côte d’Azur. Also, she needs to have her wisdom teeth removed as they’ve been giving her terrible gip. We’re trying to find something for her to wear when she goes in for the operation.’