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NOW

Sophie sat up. It was time to try to get herself together. She’d taken time off work for the Paris trip. Lying to her head of department about needing compassionate leave for a recent bereavement had felt wrong, but she knew she’d have been denied leave if she’d shared the real reason. It would have been impossible to explain just how important it was.

She fingered her engagement ring as she stood. It had been this that had triggered it all, she was sure of it now.

It had been shortly after Will’s proposal that she’d started to dream about Tom. Healthy, whole, strolling in Paris on her arm. Younger, at university, dressed in that ridiculous tunic. They were happy dreams in many ways, but they always made her ache with sadness on waking. On those mornings, the engagement ring that Will had given her felt cold on her finger, and her heart felt fat and full of emotion.

She’d shake the feeling off as much as possible and get on with her day. The school had been undergoing an inspection and every other member of staff had seemed both terrified and horrified in equal measure. She’d been a little worried, but also relished the distraction that the additional work had given her.

‘You’re quiet,’ Will would say from time to time.

‘I’m fine,’ she’d reply. ‘Just thinking.’

With Will’s career going well, and her salary having increased again a little, they’d been looking for a new place – maybe even a house on the outskirts of the city. Somewhere to perhaps raise a family in, although she’d tried not to think about the hope-and-pain roller coaster that had been her last experience of trying for a baby. Maybe they’d adopt or even foster.

But the ashes had been playing on her mind.

Soon after the funeral, Tom’s parents had asked her about them. Whether she’d like to sprinkle them in the memorial gardens – but she’d taken possession of the little pot of his remains, wanting to do the right thing, not ready to let go.

She’d been sure that the right time would present itself, that she’d feel ready. That one day she’d simply know what to do.

She’d pushed the issue to the back of her mind, and the ashes to the back of the cupboard. They’d moved flats with her three times – once to the small, first flat where she’d lived alone, again into her bigger place, and finally into Will’s flat closer to the centre. She hadn’t been able to imagine taking the urn to their next home, making it part of the furniture there too. It used to symbolise Tom, her memory of him. Now it seemed to have become a symbol of her inability to make a decision.

‘I think Tom would be happy wherever you decided to scatter them,’ Will had said when she’d mentioned it to him. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted you to worry about it.’

‘Probably,’ she’d said. ‘But I don’t want to regret it. I have to get it right.’

He’d looked at her.

‘I know,’ she’d said. Neither of them bought into the idea of an afterlife in any real sense, neither was religious. And if that was the case, then why was she so worried about it?

She hadn’t been able to explain it.

‘Keep him,’ Will had suggested. ‘Well, get a decent urn. He can come with us.’

But that had seemed wrong too. She’d tried to imagine how she’d feel if the situation were reversed, and it was hard to picture herself living alongside the ashes of her predecessor.

She’d been alone when it happened for the first time. Leaning on the edge of the kitchen sink, her hands in rubber gloves, plunged beneath the foamy water when she’d said aloud. ‘I don’t know what to do!’

‘With what?’ someone had said.

She’d turned, expecting to see Will. But instead, there was Tom, standing in the kitchen, looking entirely himself. Except she knew it was impossible.

‘I…’ she’d begun, feeling the colour drain from her face.

‘Happy to help, if you need,’ he’d said casually, as if it were perfectly ordinary to be standing in someone’s kitchen five years after you’d died, ready to discuss where to sprinkle your own ashes.

She’d lifted her hands from the water and turned fully. But the only sight that had greeted her then was an empty kitchen.

She’d felt her legs buckle, had sunk to the tiled floor with a cry. But a few minutes later when her heart had stopped racing, she’d got up again, got herself a glass of water. The sun had shone through the window reminding her of reality, of life. And she’d begun to wonder whether it had happened at all. It had been easy to dismiss. Overactive imagination. Lack of sleep. A trick of the light.

But the next afternoon he’d been there too, in that hour or so she had in the house before Will arrived home. ‘Long time no see,’ he’d said, which would have sounded straight out of a horror film if he hadn’t been there, looking completely lifelike and smiling at her.

‘Are you really here?’ she’d asked, feeling stupid for even acknowledging what was clearly some sort of hallucination.

‘Far as I can tell,’ he’d said, looking down at himself.

‘But you’re…’

‘What?’

‘Tom, you’re dead. You died.’ The words sounded cold, horrible in the afternoon light.

A shadow flickered across his face. ‘Yes, I know.’ He’d sighed as if it were tedious rather than tragic. ‘What a bloody waste of a life.’

‘Well, yes.’ She was clearly in need of a holiday, she’d thought. A doctor, maybe. A drink.

‘Can we just not talk about it?’ he’d asked. ‘Can we just act as if everything is normal?’

When she’d stepped towards him, he’d been gone.

When Will arrived home an hour or so later, she was sitting in the spot where Tom had appeared, sipping from a glass of water.

‘Are you OK?’ he’d asked.

‘Yeah.’

‘You look sort of pale.’

She smiled. ‘Yeah, I feel kind of pale.’ She’d looked up at him, not knowing how to put into words what she needed to say. ‘Will, I think I might need to see a doctor.’

That had alarmed him; he’d sat at her side and listened while she relayed the story – how real it had been, how Tom-like his responses had been.

Will had put an arm around her, drawn her to his side. ‘OK,’ he’d said. ‘Well, it’s a bit odd for sure, but honestly, I think it’s probably just stress. The engagement, work – and you’ve been thinking about Tom a lot. Well, his… his ashes at least. So…’ He’d let his words trail off.

‘Yes, that’s probably it,’ she’d said, but something in the back of her mind wouldn’t let her fully feel the truth in her own words.

When she’d seen Tom for a third time, a couple of weeks later, sitting in the early spring light of the garden and waving at her, she’d finally booked a doctor’s appointment.

‘What can I say is the matter?’ the receptionist had asked her.

‘I think I might have something wrong with my brain,’ she’d said, not knowing how else to put it.

‘Any other symptoms?’

‘Not really. It’s complicated.’

Luckily, she’d been granted an appointment the next day without further questions. And she’d been relieved – whatever happened, at least she could get some answers.

But then, seated in the plastic chair opposite a GP she hadn’t seen before, she’d felt suddenly shy. What happened when people confessed they were seeing things? Would she get sectioned or something? Labelled as mad or crazy? Would this end up on her medical records?

She’d taken a breath and explained, as calmly as possible, what was happening. The GP, who’d looked to be about the same age as her, nodded her head. ‘It sounds like you’re experiencing grief hallucinations,’ she’d said matter-of-factly.

Her calm, sensible tone had come as a shock. Because whatever was happening to her couldn’t be normal, surely? Were there other people being stalked by dead loved ones? Was everyone talking to people who were no longer there?

‘Oh. But he talks to me?’ she’d said. ‘We have… we have conversations, kind of.’

The GP had nodded. ‘I realise it must seem very strange, and I will make a referral for a few tests just to rule things out. But from what you’ve described, it does sound as if they might be a product of your mind. Usually, they happen quite close to a person’s passing. But it’s not unknown for them to occur later. When we’re overwhelmed with grief, when we want more than anything to see the person we’re missing, the brain can play all kinds of tricks.’

‘So what do I… how do I…?’

The doctor had tilted her head. ‘In all honesty, if they’re not causing you any great distress, you’ll probably find it’s best to let them take their natural course. They will fade off with time. If not, we can arrange some support for you,’ she’d said as she rummaged in her drawer. ‘There’s a grief centre here, and they have specialist counsellors.’

‘Thank you.’ She’d slipped the card into her bag.

When she’d got to the car, Tom had been sitting waiting for her.

‘Do you want me to drive?’ he’d said. ‘Only joking.’

She’d ignored him, putting the car into gear and making her way out of the car park. Moments later, he’d melted away and she’d been left feeling his absence so strongly that she’d nearly had to pull over. Why was it that just when her life was sorting itself out, just when she was beginning to dare to feel happy, she had to experience this brain glitch, this grief symptom that hadn’t revealed itself at all in the early days when – who knew – it might have brought her some comfort?

Once home, she’d called in sick for the rest of the day and keyed in Libby’s number.

‘Libby Cannings, can I help you?’

It always made her grin when she heard her friend’s work voice. But not that day.

‘I hope so,’ Sophie had said grimly.

After making sure that her friend was alone and had the time, Sophie had outlined what had been happening down the silent phone line.

‘Tom’s ghost?’ Libby had said when she’d finished.

‘No. Not a ghost. A hallucination.’

‘What’s the difference?’

Sophie had sighed; she’d forgotten that Libby was more open to this sort of thing than she was. ‘The difference is,’ she’d said, ‘that ghosts aren’t real, but hallucinations are.’

‘So you say.’

‘OK. Well, ghosts are beings in their own right. Hallucinations come from the mind.’

‘So what makes you sure you’re not seeing Tom?’ Libby had sounded intrigued.

‘Libby! This isn’t helping! What should I do? Ignore them? Get counselling?’

‘What do you want to do?’

She’d closed her eyes, leant her head against the wall. ‘I’m not honestly sure,’ she’d admitted.

‘Well, is it horrible?’

‘What? Seeing Tom’s gh—I mean, the hallucinations?’

‘Yeah. Is he, like, mean or, I don’t know… dripping with blood or something?’

‘Ew! No. He’s just Tom. Annoying at worst.’

Libby was quiet for a minute. Beyond her, Sophie could hear the buzz of the office, the sounds of daily life. ‘Well, maybe just… enjoy it?’ she’d suggested.

‘Enjoy my hallucinations?’

‘Enjoy seeing him. If, as the doc says, it won’t last, then maybe just enjoy the ride. It sounds pretty harmless.’

‘It’s weird though.’

‘Well, yeah. But this is you we’re talking about, Sophie.’

Sophie had grinned. ‘Fair point.’

‘Have you thought about why it’s happening now?’ Libby had asked then. ‘If it is just your brain kind of firing off? Why didn’t it happen earlier?’

Sophie had scratched her nail along the length of the hall cupboard, making a small dent in its varnished top. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, what might have triggered him, I mean… them? Are you happy with Will? Looking forward to the wedding? Feeling OK?’

‘Of course!’ she’d said, slightly riled.

‘Good. Good. Well, maybe it’s to do with some unfinished business with Tom. Maybe it’s a chance to say goodbye to him.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Or maybe he’s going to haunt the hell out of you and Will and try to break you up?’ Libby had said, her tone slightly lighter, teasing.

‘Libby!’

‘Sorry. But seriously, Sophie, just… try not to worry, OK? I know that’s hard for you.’

‘I’ll try.’

‘Atta girl. Oh, and Soph?’

‘Yeah?’

‘Say hi to him for me.’