Melody Bittersweet and The Girls' Ghostbusting Agency: A laugh out loud romantic comedy of Love, Life and ... Ghosts? Read Online Free PDF Page A

groan happily. ‘I love your gran so much more than I love my own. The closest mine ever gets to sticky buns is at her exercise class.’ I lift the lid from the glitzy lime green and gold tin and gaze happily at the shiny wonder of Nonna Malone’s glazed buns.
    I sniff the scented air pleasurably. ‘Lemon?’
    ‘Limoncello babas.’
    The heavenly smells that usually permeate the bricks and mortar of Marina’s home fill the office, sweet and comforting, and I wonder if nine in the morning is too early to start main-lining sugar. Marina makes the decision for me by putting the lid back on the tin and moving it a safe distance away from me. She knows me well; I’ve got no stop valve when it comes to sweet things. I’d happily eat that whole tin of babas and then slump in a heap under the desk by mid-morning.
    ‘Any word from Little Art?’
    I shake my head. ‘Not yet. It’s only been two days though, if you don’t count the weekend.’
    ‘That letter probably freaked him right out, to be fair. If he’s got any sense he’ll be hiding in the cupboard under his stairs.’ Marina grins, draping herself sideways over our now thankfully dust-free armchair. She’s clocked into work wearing black skinny jeans and a black polka dot chiffon blouse, her dark waves loose around her shoulders. I look down at my own outfit; indigo skinnies and a long sleeved navy and white Breton T-shirt. I knotted a red silk scarf around my neck at the last minute, and between us, I think we’re channelling an air of jaunty Parisian chic. The only marked difference between our look is that Marina is wearing her signature sky-high heels and I’m in my, equally signature, flats. My closet full of ballet pumps and converse trainers brings me as much joy as other women get from their jewellery boxes.
    ‘It’s not that freaky an offer, is it?’ I find it difficult to judge weirdness effectively; my idea of what constitutes wacko is skewed by the fact that I grew up in screwball central.
    Marina pulls a face that says ‘yes, it was possibly the freakiest letter anyone in the whole of Chapelwick has ever received’.
    ‘You’re working here, and you’re normal,’ I point out, even though Marina isn’t really all that regular. When she doesn’t answer me, I narrow my eyes and think. ‘Glenda!’ I almost punch the air as I shout her name. ‘Glenda’s normal.’
    Marina’s laugh drips sarcasm. ‘Glenda’s freakin’ wonder woman. She probably wears her knickers over her tights underneath those close-fitting little power suits.’
    That’s the other thing about Glenda Jackson. She’s foxy. Literally. All swept-up red hair and vavavoom bosoms, we have to keep her away from elderly men with weak hearts in case she dispatches them on the spot and gets Blithe a reputation for drumming up business in the most direct way possible.
    We both jump as someone taps, feather-light, on the door.
    ‘God, I hope that’s not Glenda. If she heard me she’ll eat my head without even needing to chew,’ Marina whispers.
    ‘Shouldn’t be. She doesn’t start until next week. I asked Gran for a week’s grace so we can at least pretend we know what we’re doing.’
    ‘In a week?’
    Whoever’s at the door taps again, just as softly, and Marina hoists herself up and answers it with her hand on her hip.
    ‘The Girls’ Ghostbusting Agency, can I help you?’
    It might have sounded professional if she wasn’t chewing gum in the style of Julia Roberts’ wise-cracking prostitute friend in Pretty Woman . Actually, she’s not unlike her . . . except Marina is not a prostitute.
    ‘Can I speak with Melanie Sweetbitter, please?’
    ‘Melody Bittersweet,’ Marina corrects. ‘You can’t be that interested in speaking to her if you don’t even know her name.’
    I clear my throat and cross the room to stand beside Marina. We watch the toweringly tall, awkward boy on the doorstep turn an unattractive shade of beetroot as he roots around in the inside