Читать книгу The Stained Glass Heart: A Love…Maybe Valentine eShort - Kat French, Kat French - Страница 7

‘I still think you were a little hasty, Xanthe,’ Alice said, sprinkling diamond heart’s-ease dust along the cracks in the bedroom floorboards from Xanthe’s tiny, old glass vial. ‘He might have actually loved her, given time.’

Xanthe perched on Helen’s new bed that had been delivered to seventeen Delaney Street earlier that day and shrugged her delicate shoulders, thoroughly unrepentant. Her floor-sweeping, simple empire line black dress rippled as she moved.

‘Poppycock. He was no Clark Gable,’ she said.

Alice got on her knees and blew the pale, glittery dust into the cracks, her pencil-skirted backside balanced over her stiletto heels.

‘Clark Gable,’ she muttered, loading her tone purposefully with sarcasm. ‘You might be a witch, Xanthe, but you’re so out of touch.’

‘Well, excuse me for dying eighty-three years ago,’ Xanthe said archly. ‘They just don’t make men like they did in my day.’

Alice swivelled around. ‘Yes they do, and I was having a good time with several of them until you sodding killed me.’

The air around Xanthe turned yellow with mirth. ‘It was your own fault. If you hadn’t insisted on bringing home a different man every week I’d have let you live to a ripe old age. It was wearing me out having to get rid of them all.’

‘Have you never heard of fun, old woman?’ It was an insult Alice threw whenever she wanted to hit Xanthe where it hurt. Even though she’d chosen her twenty-five-year-old self to reside in as a ghost, Xanthe had been almost eighty years old when she’d died alone in the house on Delaney Street.

Xanthe’s shimmering yellow aura turned abruptly red. ‘Men aren’t fun, and love isn’t a joke, Alice. I learned that lesson for all of us. I saved you from yourself.’

‘Did it never occur to you that I didn’t want saving?’ Alice chided, standing up and smoothing her hands down her slender, once gym-toned hips. They’d had this conversation many times over the two years since Alice’s lifeless, fifty-two-year-old body had been spotted at the foot of the stairs by the postman peering through the letterbox.

‘Look at me. I’m foxy,’ she went on, indignant. ‘I was having the time of my life until you bloody ended it.’

‘You should be thanking me,’ Xanthe said, glancing up as Sarah, the other ghost of Delaney Street, slid into the room.

‘Don’t tell me. I should be thanking you too,’ Sarah said, rolling her round blue eyes as she smoothed a hand over her perfectly flicked-out blonde bob, every inch the perfect Fifties sweetheart. If there was such a thing as a spooks am-dram society, she’d have been a shoo-in for Sandy in Grease.

‘Thank you, Xanthe,’ Sarah continued in a bored tone. ‘Thank you for murdering my husband, and then seeing off any other man who ever came near me.’

Sarah and her husband Dennis had bought the house on Delaney Street as newlyweds after Xanthe died in 1933, unaware they’d inherited a ghostly resident even as Xanthe hurled Dennis out of a second floor window when he’d leaned out to watch a shapely neighbour sashay out of view. Unbeknownst to Sarah, Dennis had been indulging in not one but two extra-marital affairs, but Xanthe had sussed him easily and dispatched him without remorse.

‘Biggest favour I ever did you,’ Xanthe said, standing up and clapping her bejewelled hands. ‘Now ladies, enough grumbling. Helen arrives tomorrow. A new start. We have work to do downstairs.’

They melted away, three generations of ethereal women, all tied by a common thread to number seventeen Delaney Street: in their entire earthly lives, none of them had ever known true love.