The Secrets Of Ghosts

‘You’d be brilliant. You’re so organised.’ Katie nudged her. ‘Unlike say, for instance, me.’

‘That’s true. I might not even hire you as a server. You’re a bit rubbish.’

‘Charming,’ Katie said, mock offended. ‘And on my birthday, too.’

Cam had followed Gwen into the garden and Katie watched as he put his arms around her. Gwen leaned back against him, twisting her neck so that they could kiss.

‘Your aunt and uncle are really loved up, aren’t they?’ Anna said, noticing the floor show.

‘Sorry,’ Katie said, although she didn’t know why she was apologising.

‘At least someone is getting some,’ Anna said. ‘I’m in my prime, here. It’s a crime not to be using this.’ She indicated her body.

‘I think women hit their prime really late. Like in their thirties or something.’

‘I’m not waiting that long to have sex.’

Katie laughed. Katie had been really touched when Anna had asked to come to her party. They worked together at The Grange, and had only known each other for a few months. Most of Katie’s friends had dispersed. They’d gone to university or London or on year-long round-the-world trips. A couple might still have been in Bath, but Katie had moved to Pendleford and, truthfully, not made all that much effort to keep up with anyone from school. As a result, Anna was probably her closest friend, but Katie assumed Anna had a battalion of other mates who, rightfully, came above Katie in ranking for time and energy.

Gwen said she had trust issues, but, as Katie liked to reply, she’d earned them.

She watched her party. Figures moved in the shadows at the edges of the garden, away from the lights. Gorillaz came on and Shari began dancing on her own in the middle of the lawn. She was the kind of person who could get away with things like that. The kind of person who got called a ‘free spirit’ and who always knew where the parties were happening and had exotic boyfriends who made films.

‘Is that your flatmate?’ Anna said, gesturing to Shari.

‘Ex-flatmate,’ Katie said. Shari was nice, but Katie had discovered that ‘free spirit’ translated to ‘no boundaries’ and she’d been relieved when Shari had decided to go and live with her latest boyfriend, Liam.

‘Oh, sorry,’ Anna said.

‘Don’t be,’ Katie said, deadpan. ‘If she hadn’t moved out, I might’ve killed her.’

Anna frowned and Katie wondered if her tone hadn’t been jokey enough. She opened her mouth to explain, but Anna had already moved on.

‘This place is amazing,’ Anna said. She gestured to Gwen’s enormous vegetable patch, which spanned the side of the house. ‘Have you seen what your aunt is growing? Aubergines, peppers, chillies. How does she—?’

‘It’s been really hot this year,’ Katie said. She believed in honesty and never tried to hide her family’s peculiarities, but, equally, sometimes it was nice not to endure a double take, a disbelieving look. She usually went with saying as little as possible. As long as it wasn’t an outright lie, she wasn’t breaking her vow of honesty.

‘Another of her special abilities?’ Anna said. ‘That is so cool.’

Of course, this was Pendleford. It was common knowledge that the Harper family had certain abilities. If you needed to find something that couldn’t be found, if you needed good advice, or a herbal remedy that would work when nothing from the GP had helped, you went to see Gwen. Katie wanted to follow in Gwen’s footsteps; she just needed to find her own power, her raison d’être. She put down the empty cake plate and tried to look happy for the party guests, for Anna, for Gwen. It wasn’t their fault she was a massive failure.

*

The next day, Katie still felt out of sorts and the flat was cold and empty. She almost wished Shari were still there, walking around in her underwear while talking full volume into her mobile. Or, maybe not. What the place really needed was a cat, but the lease didn’t allow pets. Not even when Katie had explained that it was vital for her work. Every witch needed a familiar.

She lay on the sofa and tried to relax, but she couldn’t stop thinking about her last failed spell and the way she couldn’t even identify cumin in her birthday cake. She was supposedly in training with Gwen, but she seemed to be getting worse, not better. And the harder she tried, the worse she seemed to get. This was supposed to be her purpose in life. Her role. She hadn’t gone to university or backpacking with her friends; she’d committed to training with Gwen. Gwen had run away, spent thirteen years denying her gifts and Katie wasn’t going to make the same mistake. So why did it feel as if she’d taken a wrong turning?

Katie heaved herself from the sofa, mustering just enough energy to get the biscuit tin from the kitchen and shove a DVD into the player. Back on the sofa she prepared to comfort watch His Girl Friday for the thousandth time and eat chocolate digestives.

The phone rang just as Rosalind Russell was kicking Cary Grant under the table. It was Anna, complaining about how Horrible Frank had been made Head Waiter. ‘It’s a travesty of justice,’ she said, ‘and he’s messed up the staff rota for the week. I need you to save me. Come in early?’

Katie stared at the paused image on the television screen while she deliberated. What would Hildy do? Hildy had a proper career, the answer came back. But she’d work. ‘Okay,’ she said into the phone. ‘Tell Frank that I’m keeping my tips this time.’

‘You make many of those?’ Anna said.

‘I’m an excellent waitress,’ Katie said, ignoring the pinch on her left ear that meant she was lying and that she knew it.

Anna laughed and hung up.

‘Rude,’ Katie said out loud and went to get ready.

She tied her hair into a high ponytail, smoothing back a stubborn wing of fringe. It fell into her face again, so she twisted it and used nail scissors to snip an inch away at an angle. When she let go the wing looked more asymmetrical and was now poking her in the eye. Fabulous. She put on her waitress uniform: — fitted black shirt, short black skirt, opaque black tights, and platform shoes — and tucked her revolver necklace inside the neck so that it was hidden. She was going to roast in tights, it was a warm day, but she knew from experience that a skirt meant better tips than trousers. It was icky, but true and, as Gwen would say; there was no such thing as a free lunch.

At The Grange Katie checked the staff rota and walked through the kitchen. ‘Here comes trouble,’ Jo said over her shoulder. She was frying what looked like ten different things at once, so Katie didn’t pause to chat. Jo was tiny, four foot something, and the head chef. She also had the loudest shouting voice Katie had ever heard, as if to compensate for her stature. She’d terrified Katie when she’d first started at the hotel, but now she knew that Jo played that role. As long as you weren’t completely inept. Katie cringed as she walked past a new kitchen assistant who appeared to be ladling coulis around an individual cheesecake with all the finesse of a Labrador. Sure enough, she heard Jo yelling before the door had swung shut.

Katie picked up a spare apron and tied it around her waist, slipped a pen and pad into the front pocket and headed into the restaurant. ‘What are you doing here?’ Frank, puffed up with his new position as Head Waiter, greeted her with his customary lack of charm. Katie was not in the mood so she just raised an eyebrow and said nothing.

‘You’re supposed to be in the function room. Wedding. Go. Go.’ Frank made little shooing gestures with his hands, as if Katie were a naughty puppy.

When I get my power, I’m never waitressing again, Katie promised herself. She plastered on her professional smile and pushed open the door to the private dining room. A thin man dressed in waiting-staff black zoomed up. ‘Are you Katie? Thank Christ. You’ve done silver service before, right? Brilliant.’ He practically dragged her to the side of the room where buffet tables were laid out. Platters of cold meat and bowls of salad gave way to gigantic metal trays of chicken wings and pork escalopes crusted with a topping that Katie feared would slide off the moment she tried to haul them onto a plate. She tried to manoeuvre herself to the cold end, thinking that if she threw some salad down a punter at least she wouldn’t give them third-degree burns.

The people who had been seated at round tables around the room decided, as one, that it was chow time and a queue formed. It was a polite queue; no pushing or shoving, just lots of chatter punctuated by braying laughter. Katie picked up the oversized serving tongs and prepared to fling food at the guests.

The waiter next to her smiled hello. ‘I hope the MOPs are hungry — they might not notice the food is lukewarm.’

Katie smiled back. MOP stood for member of public and had been one of the first bits of insider lingo she’d learned at The Grange. It was something she loved about the job, the feeling of belonging to a team, of knowing a secret language. Perhaps more so because of being an only child. Katie had always longed for a sibling — ideally a twin sister — who she could share secrets with.

‘Excuse me?’ A youngish guy was holding out a half-full plate of food. ‘Would you mind giving me some of that—’ he frowned momentarily at the tray of chicken parcels ‘—stuff?’

Katie glanced at the far end of the buffet where the first guests were just beginning to be served. ‘You’re supposed to queue that way.’ She waved her tongs.

He grinned at her and she thought: good looking and he knows it. ‘I’m a rule-breaker. A maverick. And what’s a MOP?’

‘You’ll be a hungry maverick if you don’t join that queue.’

‘Oh, go on, I know you’re not nearly that mean.’ He put a hand to his stomach and Katie tried not to notice how nice his torso looked, how well he was wearing his shirt and buttoned-up waistcoat.

‘You have no idea,’ Katie said, narrowing her eyes.

‘Fine, I shall simply have to fill up on carbs. But I’m blaming you when I feel all bloated and lethargic later.’ He grabbed a bread roll from the basket and stuffed it into his pocket, then piled two more onto the side of his plate.

By now one of the legitimately queuing people had reached Katie so she turned resolutely away from the cheeky good-looking guy and said: ‘Would you like a chicken and Parma ham parcel, madam?’ The woman at the front of the queue opened her mouth to answer but didn’t get a chance.

‘That sounds heavenly. You know, I’ve changed my mind and I will.’ Cheeky guy had his plate out again and was smiling at Katie, his dark eyes shining with barely suppressed humour. Katie wanted nothing more than to slap the plate out of his hands but Frank was hovering nearby, eyeballing her with an intensity that suggested guests ought to be walking away with chicken parcels, not engaging in a Mexican stand-off with the staff.

Katie knew when she was beaten. She successfully manoeuvred the chicken parcel onto the plate and gave him a fake smile. ‘Enjoy!’ Then she turned back to the woman who was waiting.

While Katie concentrated on her silver-service tongs, she couldn’t help watching the chicken thief. He looked quite boyish, but with a scruffy bit of stubble that contrasted rather pleasantly with his smart clothes. She wondered, for the thousandth time, why suit-wearing had gone out of fashion for men. Cary Grant, James Stewart, Henry Fonda, all bona fide hotties in their day, and all unlikely to look quite so delicious in hipster jeans and an over-sized knitted beanie.