Free Melody Bittersweet and The Girls' Ghostbusting Agency: A laugh out loud romantic comedy of Love, Life and ... Ghosts? by Kitty French

given her a polish, and even if I do say so myself she’s looking as fresh as a lamb in springtime. It’s all cosmetic of course, she’ll always be mutton underneath, but all the same I like that she’s been given a pretty new dress and a second life here with us at the agency.
    As we file back inside, I glance into Babs and notice the multicoloured Hawaiian garland hanging gaily from the rear view mirror. My eyes meet Marina’s.
    ‘What?’ She looks at me in mock challenge, as if she thinks I’m going to say it’s too much. ‘Every girl needs a good necklace.’
    I shrug, and laugh, thankful for her being part of the agency and part of my life. ‘Thank you. That’s all.’
    ‘She wanted to paint guns in your hands. I stopped her because I don’t think you can stop a ghost with a bullet,’ Artie says, matter-of-fact, from behind us as we head back inside. I laugh under my breath; given Marina’s hot temper and Sicilian heritage, I think he made a good call there.

Chapter Six
    ‘ S hall we head over to Brimsdale Road for a recce?’
    It’s just after 3.30 p.m. and we’re all full of coffee, tea and Nonna’s meltingly-good zeppole. The run out will do us all good, but more pressingly I need to see how Artie fares with the small matter of actual ghosts. Jeez, I hope he doesn’t freak out too much. Marina has been with me for long enough to know how this gig works; she’s borne witness to my extra-oddness ever since we were two dark-haired little girls huddled together in the playground. I used to make her laugh by relaying details of the hideous head-mistresses’ ghostly grandpa who insisted on trailing our very own Miss Trunchbull around in just his greying underpants, shouting obscenities with a cigar hanging from his lips. I can rely on Marina not to turn a perfectly mascaraed eye, but I appreciate that Artie is wet behind the ears and highly likely to be weirded-out.
    He stills with our empty mugs in his hands, electrified. ‘We’re going ghost-hunting?’
    ‘Is that okay?’
    I look at him steadily and cross my fingers under the desk that he won’t have a last-minute wobble about the whole ghost gig.
    A wide smile cracks his face. ‘Okay? God, yes!’
    ‘You know you won’t see them just because she does, right?’ Marina shoots him a ‘been there, done that’ look.
    ‘I might though, you never know. Melody’s magic might rub off on me.’
    ‘It won’t, just so you know.’
    I pick up the Magic 8 Ball and the keys to Babs as the conversation bats back and forth between them. He won’t see them. I know that, and Marina knows that. I love his enthusiasm, but I know that when it comes down to it I’m on my own with this. It’s time to give Artie lesson 101 in ghostbusting. It isn’t magic, it isn’t a transferable skill, and it certainly isn’t something he should covet.
    ‘Enjoy being normal, Artie,’ I say, as I lock the office door behind us. ‘You’ve no idea how lucky you are.’
    We pile into Babs, me in the driving seat, Marina and Artie on the bench-seat beside me. Marina delivers a death punch to the glove box and pulls out her sunglasses and mine, and then digs around in her handbag and hands Artie her spare pair of aviators. In unison, we slide the glasses onto our faces before I turn the key and rev the accelerator.
    ‘I’ve never felt lucky before,’ Artie says, cheerful. ‘Until now.’

    * * *
    A ll seems thankfully quiet at Brimsdale Road when we jerk to a halt outside Scarborough House. No TV crews, no Leo Dark, in fact no sign of anyone at all.
    ‘Why couldn’t he have given us the front door key?’ Marina grumbles and grouches as we pick our way through the tangle of overgrown weeds at the side of the house. Artie goes up front, trampling happily over the worst of the greenery to plough a furrow for us to follow.
    ‘Gate’s locked,’ he informs us, rattling the latch. We all stand back and examine the faded, peeling, green-painted fence. Marina gives