Chapter Eight #2
Bor-ring. My eyes sweep the room, looking for anyone else to focus on, and they land on Grandma Juliet.
She’s close by, standing next to a high table at the bottom of the stairs.
Her phone is beside her and she’s all distracted – laughing, cooing, and nodding in all the right places.
Of course she is, she’s thrilled – her Belle is getting hitched to a Michelin-star chef who runs marathons and baked cakes at the age of eight, instead of getting detentions for cheating in tests.
Soon, though, Juliet starts looking nervously at her phone, once, twice – I’m guessing she’s up next.
An idea forms. It’s probably a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea, but now in the background I can hear something about the proposal, about hiring out the Natural History Museum after hours, just the two of them under a blue whale. I actually don’t care and maybe it’s time to make this party livelier.
I inspect the room once more and it’s dimly lit, candles flickering.
Everyone seems half-cut on booze already.
No one’s paying attention. Juliet is mid-laugh, head tilted towards Aunt Susan.
I crouch down by her side, level with the table, and tilt the screen of the phone up just enough to catch her face – carefully, the way I’ve seen people do it.
It’s a shame I died right before everyone got to unlock stuff with their faces rather than their fingers.
The home page snaps open, unlocked. Too easy.
I stay ducked down, thumb hovering over Juliet’s Notes app. Her speech is right there, but let’s make it better, shall we? Juliet always did love a bit of chaos. She’d find this funny, I’m sure.
My thumbs remember how to type before my brain is able to catch up with them – muscle memory, or a sign from the universe that I’m exactly where I need to be: editing a Scottish grandmother’s speech in a manor house in Whitby at a party I wasn’t invited to.
I grin as I scroll, changing words here and there – nothing obvious or mean, I might be a ghost but I’m not a monster – just some small improvements to make things a bit more interesting.
As I slip the phone back in place, my hand brushes a piece of paper on the table next to it: the seating plan for the evening.
Juliet’s handwriting is a neat, Shakespearian scrawl that I just know Gabe would die for.
Guest names, table numbers circled … and there, at the bottom, Jake Marleigh, in my own handwriting.
Still funny. I fold it and slip it into my pocket as applause dies down.
I shuffle backwards. This is it, Grandma’s turn. She makes her way up a couple of steps, adjusting those flower-like chandelier earrings she always wears, and clears her throat into the microphone.
‘I don’t usually get to stand up and make speeches, but when your granddaughter asks you to, you say yes, and so, firstly, I want to say congratulations to my beautiful Belle and her tiny Tim—’
Juliet stops. Blinks into her phone. The room falls silent.
‘Handsome Tim. Handsome Tim, I do apologise.’ She laughs it off, the familiar Scottish trill that used to fill Sunday dinners, but I catch the flicker of confusion across her face before she covers it. I have to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek. Tiny Tim. Brilliant.
I watch as Belle’s hand flies to her mouth. Timothy’s smile has gone a little rigid. Absolutely worth it.
Juliet clears her throat again and soldiers on.
‘Even as a wee girl, Belle was kind, thoughtful, and bossy—’ She stops, squints at her phone. ‘Brilliant! I meant to say brilliant – this phone is too small!’
A ripple of laughter runs through the guests. Belle’s cheeks are flushed. I’m grinning now, can’t contain it.
‘She would often dream about her wedding day,’ Juliet continues, voice warming back up, ‘and to be here now, celebrating that she has found a love in her life …’ She pauses, frowning at the screen. ‘A love? I mean, the love of her life … It fills me with joy.’
Whispering starts. I watch as Belle’s eyes narrow – she’s scanning the room, looking for me. She knows.
‘And a Michelin-star chef at that! I can tell you now, he cooks a mean roast dinner, better than mine!’ She’s rushing now, eager to get through it. ‘Belle, I hope you know how loved you are by us all and how excited we are to witness this new chapter of your life.
‘My best tip for love is that marriages are built on kindness and laughter. It’s not about grand gestures every day but choosing each other again and again. And Belle, my love, I’m so glad you’ve found someone who made you happy again after J—’
Juliet stops dead.
The room goes silent. Oh shit.
She looks up from her phone, eyes wide. Her mouth opens, then closes as she scrolls up and down the screen, checking what she just read.
‘After all this time …’ She’s improvising now.
‘… All this time being so focused on your career.’ Belle’s gone pale, her hand gripping Timothy’s arm. She motions to Juliet to hurry up.
Juliet squints at her phone again. ‘And to my new grandson, Timothy. You’re a bonnie wee—’ She stops. Looks up. ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, I think someone’s been mucking with my phone! Bloody technology! Please excuse me! Let’s just raise a glass together instead now, shall we?’
Worth it.
Totally worth it.
Belle is scanning the crowd again, looking like she’s contemplating murder. Good thing I’m already dead. She finally catches my eye. I steal the glass on the table next to me and raise it in cheers. That’ll teach her to be so uptight.
I feel bad for Juliet, genuinely, as she descends the stairs, shaking her head, still muttering something under her breath that I suspect is directed at her phone, specifically, and technology, generally.
Timothy materialises at her elbow to relieve her of her microphone, smooth as anything, and ushers everyone through to the dining hall for the rehearsal dinner, with the confidence of a guy who has never once not known what to do in a social situation.
In the flurry of bodies, Belle cuts through the crowd and storms towards me.
She reaches me and hooks her arm through mine, stern and purposeful – the kind of gesture you’d use to steer your drunk uncle away from the buffet – and starts walking.
To anyone watching, we look like a couple having a private word, a little dig at each other.
Except I’m invisible and she’s steering thin air towards the corner by a fireplace.
She stops when we reach an alcove, drops my arm and turns to face the wall.
Hands at her sides, she’s staring at eighteenth-century panelling like it’s the most fascinating thing she’s seen all evening.
I’m still facing out towards the room; a woman in a fascinator glances over, clocks Belle’s odd position and frowns, but keeps walking.
‘This looks a bit Blair Witch Belle.’ I smirk as her shoulders go rigid. Without turning around, she reaches out and grabs both of my hands. Now she’s a woman in a white silk gown, facing a wall, holding hands with … absolutely no one.
Timothy’s mother stops – actually stops – and does a full double take as she passes. She stares at Belle and then looks at Timothy, who is standing ten feet away, talking to one of the caterers. He hasn’t noticed yet. I should feel worse about this than I do.
‘People are staring,’ I say, which is true, but also deeply unhelpful.
Her grip tightens, her voice low and furious. ‘Shut. Up,’ she says, closing her eyes.