It’s the middle of the afternoon, more than three hours before closing time, but Clara can’t wait that long before she takes a walk. She’s been pacing up and down the shop for the past hour, willing a customer to come in and distract her from herself but, at the same time, not really wanting to see anyone.

At three o’clock – with the shop still empty – Clara realises that she just wants an excuse to leave early. And, since she’s her own boss, she takes it. Slipping a little sign into the window apologising for the early closure (not that it’ll disappoint too many people, clearly) Clara hurries through the crowded streets of the town centre until she reaches the bridge by Magdalene College and begins walking along the river. Twenty minutes later, having passed through parks and by trees and spotted a fair number of ducks, Clara realises she’s standing outside his house. She peers, a little guiltily, into his front room. It’s empty. Clara sighs. Where is he? Where is his daughter? What are they doing? It’s the middle of the afternoon, she realises, so he’s probably doing whatever it is he does for a living and she’s probably at school. Most people aren’t able to leave their place of employment on a whim. She considers waiting a while in case one of them appears at some point as, indeed, they must. But this feels too close to stalking and, since she’s always been a bit sensitive on this subject, Clara decides to hurry along.

Half an hour later, wandering along a row of houses on the waterfront, she spies an old man, staring sorrowfully at his kitchen wall. He will be the next rightful recipient of a letter, someone who deserves a little love and inspiration simply because he does, and not because Clara has developed a slight obsession with him and his family.

Clara looks in at the old man a while longer, absorbing him into her subconscious, so that she can better write the letter. Though, in truth, she has no idea if this is a necessary part of the process or, indeed, how the process works at all – does she simply identify the recipients and after that she’s nothing but a vessel? – but, nevertheless, Clara goes through these motions every time anyway, just in case.

She doesn’t stay too long at the old man’s window (staring at so much palpable sadness does wear on her heart a little) but doesn’t return to the shop. Instead, she ambles back in that general direction, through the parks, along the river, contemplating the old man, the man whose name she doesn’t know, his daughter, and herself and her life. She has led such a small life, such a safe life because that’s how she’s always preferred it. She’s never wanted to travel, to explore exotic places, to meet mysterious people, to eat unknown foods. She’s always been perfectly satisfied with her internal journeys and the people who’ve come to her. And yet … Very occasionally, on days like these, Clara wonders just how much of her life is a product of genuine passion, or fear.

An hour later, when she’s back at the shop, sitting at the writing desk, Clara has managed to push these thoughts from her mind and focus instead on the recipient of her letter. When she puts pen to paper it is him she’s thinking of. Which is why it’s rather strange that – for the very first time ever – after writing a letter, Clara picks it up and reads it. What’s even more strange is that she finds it’s not addressed to the old man but to her.

Clara reads the letter over and over again. She still can’t quite believe it’s actually intended for her. But it clearly is. Even though her name isn’t on it, the letter can’t be meant for anyone else.

Clara knows it’s meant for her because every time she reads it she cries. For the next few days she reads it before she goes to bed every night, when she wakes in the morning, and several times in between. It’s not long before Clara has memorised every word, but she still reads the inky letters because seeing them flowing across the page reminds her that she’s not making it all up, she’s being told to do something and, eventually, she’s going to have to act.

Deep down, or not so deep down, really, Clara knows what she needs to do. It’s obvious. If she’s being told to take a trip then it must be to Amsterdam. Where else? Well, she could go somewhere properly faraway and exotic, like Hong Kong or New Zealand, but those places don’t hold any special significance for her. For which, quite frankly, Clara is rather grateful. She hates flying. Or, since she’s never actually done it, she hates the idea of flying. A heavy metal tube hurtling through the sky? No, thank you. But Amsterdam is, by all accounts, beautiful and quiet and, happily, close to Cambridge. She can catch a train to London, then get the Eurostar and arrive at her destination a few hours later, unscathed.

And so, at last, Clara goes to the library. Nearly three hours after she’s sat down at the infernal computer (having failed to find any available library assistants), Clara finally buys her train tickets to Amsterdam. It only takes her fifteen minutes of fumbling to purchase the damn things; the extra two hours and forty-five minutes are whittled away in worry and panic. When she stands again and stumbles out of the library, Clara is still so overwhelmed with nerves that – even though she passes by a lovely smiling librarian who’s softly humming Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony – Clara forgets all about checking out any books. A fact that makes her feel rather guilty when she remembers. So, when she’s lying in bed that night, she divides her fretful thoughts between the terrifying subjects of European travel and the tragic decline of local libraries.

 

Edward’s feeling odd. He knows he should be absolutely over the moon, giddy with joy, drunk with delight that his wife’s come back at last – even if she is a ghost and he can’t touch her – but he’s not exactly. He’s happy, very happy indeed, to see her again. He’s happy to know she’s okay. He’s happy to be with her. But his happiness doesn’t seem to be coated with desire and craving. He doesn’t long to embrace her and kiss her and never let her go. Which is odd since, for years after she died he’d have traded a year of his life for just one more touch, one more kiss, one more glance …

Edward still loves her, certainly. He still loves her, deeply. He doesn’t want her to leave again. He wants her to stay for ever. He’s overjoyed to get his best friend back. But now, two weeks after the event, the shock of Greer’s return has softened and settled into something almost ordinary and expected, so Edward is no longer surprised to see her floating into rooms and hovering above floorboards and materialising beside him.

Despite their talks late into the night – about everything from Tilly, architecture and heaven to cold crumpets and Downton Abbey – he hasn’t been able to admit the true complex, conflicted nature of his feelings to Greer. He skirts around the subject but hasn’t yet found the courage to settle on it. Tonight they sit (rather he sits, she hovers) in the living room by the fireplace. Edward slowly sips a scotch, with ice.

‘You can’t remember anything?’ he asks, for perhaps the hundredth time since Greer arrived.

‘I told you I can’t,’ she says. ‘I’d tell you if I could.’

Edward raises an eyebrow. ‘Would you? Or is being dead like a secret society and you’re not allowed to reveal any of the particulars to the living? In which case, that’s exactly what you’d say, if I asked.’

Greer laughs. ‘Well then, I’m afraid you’ll just have to trust me.’

As Edward looks at her he realises that he doesn’t, not entirely. He suspects that there is something she’s not telling him – whether it’s about heaven or another matter entirely.

They’ve been putting off telling Tilly. First of all, because they didn’t know how long Greer would stay. They reasoned that, if it was only a brief visit, it wasn’t worth upsetting Tilly and possibly scarring her for life, for a momentary reunion. The potential cons outweighed the pros. But now it seems that she might actually be here to stay, it feels wrong to keep the secret any longer.

‘How the hell are we going to do it, though?’ Edward says, for perhaps the hundredth time in twenty-four hours.

‘I have no idea,’ Greer replies, which has been her standard response – sometimes coupled with a sigh, sometimes not – every single time.

‘Well, we’ve got to think of something,’ he says again. ‘It’s got to be subtle, so she doesn’t “totally freak out” and not sleep through the night till she leaves home.’

‘Yes.’ Greer considers. ‘Or faint and hit her head on something nasty.’

Edward nods. He has missed this; he’s missed this so much. After his first wife, Tilly’s mother, died he found parenting pretty challenging but since Greer died he’s found it well-nigh impossible. Being a good father to a toddler was one thing – since it mainly involved potty training and learning all the words to every nursery rhyme ever written – but being a good father to a teenager is something else entirely.

Edward smiles at Greer. She’s glanced away and doesn’t see but as he soaks her in suddenly he wants to hug her, to hold her close. His heart aches to know that he can’t.

‘I’m so glad you’re back,’ he says softly. ‘I can’t tell you how much.’ When she doesn’t reply, Edward returns to the topic. ‘Why don’t we just tell her at dinner tonight?’ he suggests. ‘I’ll cook her favourite. We’ll keep it low-key and casual. I’ll just bring it up in the conversation and then you can come in. What do you think?’

Greer shrugs. ‘It’s as good a plan as any, I suppose.’ She smiles. ‘I can’t wait for her to see me. I wish I could …’

Edward sighs. ‘I wish I could hold you too.’

Greer floats over to her husband and hovers close to him. She lifts her hand close to his cheek and he closes his eyes. Her almost-touch is surprisingly warm and sends pricks of sensation along his skin. Edward’s heart begins to beat a little faster and he can feel the stirring of something he hasn’t felt in a very long time. He opens his eyes and looks up at her. Suddenly he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her so much he can feel his lips tingling as if he’d just eaten chillies. He wants it. All at once, he wants it more than anything in the world.

‘Are you still my wife?’ he asks softly.

Greer nods. ‘Yes, I suppose I must be.’ She should say something else. She should mention her feelings about the musician. She should be honest and open. But she can’t face the thought of breaking his heart all over again. First cancer, then an unfaithful heart. How much cruelty can one person be expected to bear? So instead she leans forward and places her lips against his.

Edward gasps, then quickly pulls away, touching his fingers to his lips.

‘Oh, shit, I’m sorry,’ Greer says. ‘Did I hurt you? I didn’t mean – I didn’t know what it’d be like, I just …’

Edward shakes his head. He feels it now. He feels everything he felt before. It’s all come rushing back, surging through his body: love, adoration, desire, longing, tumbling over each other in a gluttonous flood of emotions. ‘No, no, it’s okay,’ he says, ‘please, don’t worry. It wasn’t … It was a bit like getting an electric shock, that’s all.’

Greer looks stricken. ‘Oh dear, how awful.’

‘No, no, just a tiny one,’ Edward reassures her. ‘I was just surprised, that’s all. Now I know, it’s okay. We can try again. Next time it’ll be fine, I’m sure.’

Greer nods. ‘As long as I didn’t hurt you.’

‘You didn’t, I promise, you didn’t.’

Greer sighs, tension leaving her body in little sparks.

Next time. The words hang in the air between them. When? From his chair, Edward gazes up at his wife. She gives him a small, reassuring smile, then glances out of the window and into the garden.

 

‘What’s going on, Dad? You’re being weird.’

Edward frowns. ‘I am not “being weird”, I’m being perfectly normal.’

‘You are not.’

Edward sighs and looks down at his plate. He’s meant to be creating an atmosphere of relaxed calm and then, when the mood is right, he’s meant to introduce – carefully and gently – the subject of Tilly’s deceased stepmother and her strange but welcome return to this earth. Unfortunately, actually doing this is as awkward and difficult as it sounds. Finally, after procrastinating by poking his fork into a slice of pizza for a few minutes, Edward decides, since he’s clearly failing so spectacularly at the delicate approach, to plunge in head first.

‘Till?’

‘Yeah?’ Tilly picks the fresh basil off her pizza.

‘What would you say if I told you, if I told you …?’

‘What?’ She says, still not looking up.

‘That your—that Greer has, um, well … come back as a ghost.’

Tilly looks up. ‘I’d say that you should probably see a therapist or stay off the drugs – like you’re always telling me to.’

Edward glances around the room. ‘Greer! It’s time, I’ve told her!’

Tilly looks at her father as if he’s just declared a lifelong desire to dress up as a drag queen and take to the stage.

And then Greer materialises in the kitchen, a few feet from Tilly.

Tilly screams, then plants her hands over her mouth, then lets them drop to her lap. ‘What the fuck?!’

‘Tilly!’ Edward and Greer exclaim in unison. They both stare at Tilly, who just stares at Greer.

‘Although,’ Edward admits into the ensuing silence, ‘if ever there was a time for swearing, I suppose now would be very much it.’

Tilly says nothing. So they both continue to watch her, waiting.

Tilly just stares at Greer, incredulous.

Greer and Edward stare at Tilly, nervous.

‘Till, are you … okay?’ Edward ventures.

And then Tilly bursts into tears. Sobbing, she reaches out to Greer.

‘Mum … Mummy,’ she gasps. ‘You’ve come back.’

And then Edward feels his heart shatter. He’d forgotten that his daughter had called Greer that in the last few months before she died. And the sorrow and joy in Tilly’s voice is almost more than he can bear. He wants to take them both in his arms and hold them so tight that no more misery can ever touch these two women he loves more than life itself. In that moment Edward vows that, no matter what, he will move heaven and earth to be certain that Greer never leaves them again.