I died.

Well, not quite yet, but I was definitely on my way out. Stabbed by a complete nutter in an underground car park, bleeding out all over the concrete.

Not exactly how I’d pictured my Tuesday.

The man who did it was clearly a few sandwiches short of a picnic. His face was twisted up like a Halloween mask. ‘This is what you get for trying to steal my goddess’s man,’ he spat.

If I’d had a drop of strength left in me, which was a tall order seeing as my body was haemorrhaging like a burst water main, I’d have told him where to stick it. With a nice hand gesture for emphasis.

‘Now my goddess can finally have the man she deserves,’ he announced, chucking the knife aside. Then he staggered off, practically tripping over his own feet, leaving a trail of evidence a toddler could follow. Fingerprints on the knife. Footprints leading away. I’d have laughed if I hadn’t been busy dying.

My handbag lay on the grimy car park floor, contents scattered to the four winds. My mobile was lying not two metres away.

What little blood I had left was still draining out, taking my body temperature and my will to live along with it. Still, I dragged myself forward, inch by agonising inch, leaving a lovely crimson snail trail behind me. In my mind, I apologised to whichever poor sod found their Vauxhall decorated with my remains first thing in the morning.

Just a bit further. I could almost touch it.

Then a wave of nausea hit, followed by a proper head-spinner. My legs threw in the towel before the rest of me did. Still, I stretched my right arm until I thought it might pop out of its socket. My fingertips brushed the phone. Cold. Hard. So close.

Just ring 999, I thought. Patch me up, stick a plaster on it, job done.

The phone buzzed.

For one glorious, deluded second, I thought it had read my mind and dialled an ambulance.

Of course it hadn’t.

The vibration sent it skittering a few centimetres further away, which at that moment felt like a giant middle finger from the universe.

The screen lit up, and I saw the message.

‘Deny.’

Sent by Fletcher, my childhood sweetheart, boyfriend of seven years, recently upgraded to fiancé. Next month he’d have been my husband.

Not that a wedding was on the cards now. Shame. I’d have knocked ‘em dead in a wedding dress. No pun intended.

Fletcher had been set on a spring do. Lovely weather, he’d said. No guests, though, because his film career meant we had to keep the whole thing under wraps. Fine by me. I wasn’t one for fuss.

Deny.

Only one word, but I knew exactly what he meant. That’s what happens when you’ve known someone since forever. You develop a sort of shorthand.

He wanted me to tell the world we’d never been an item. Just friends. Definitely not dating, let alone engaged. He wanted me to rubbish every photo splashed across the internet, say they were doctored, or AI, or a trick of the light. And, most importantly, he wanted me to clear the name of his new girlfriend.

The very same girlfriend whose unhinged fan had just done me in, in case you’d lost track.

My vision had packed up completely, as if someone had dropped a giant white curtain over my eyes. Was this the famous white light at the end of the tunnel? The thing people banged on about?

But I wasn’t ready to shuffle off this mortal coil just yet. I had friends. Parents. I had papers to mark, a yoghurt with my name on it in the fridge, and a proper life on this side of the veil that didn’t revolve around Fletcher.

Summoning every last scrap of strength, I made a blind grab for the phone. But all that blood made it as slippery as a bar of wet soap. I couldn’t get a proper grip.

Why, oh why, had I gone for that manicure last week? If I’d grown my nails long like talons I’d have got a proper hold on the damn thing.

I felt the final ounce of oomph drain out of me, right along with the final trickle of blood. My hand flopped.

My eyelids weighed a ton. Then two tons. Then five.

Lights out.

***

‘Has she replied yet? Is she going to put out a statement?’

‘No. I’ve only just texted. Give it a minute.’

‘I still don’t understand how the press got wind of those photos.’

‘Search me. You’re sure you didn’t tip anyone off? We were the only ones who knew about that hotel.’

‘Of course I didn’t! Why on earth would I do that? And anyway, I wasn’t talking about our photos. I meant the ones of you and… Jan.’

Was death supposed to be this noisy?

I’d expected a bit of peace and quiet. Instead I got my fiancé and his new girlfriend nattering away on the sofa.

Some afterlife this was turning out to be.

‘I just can’t bear it,’ Elowen said, all trembly. Her perfect heart-shaped face had gone a very becoming shade of pale, the sort of fragile ingénue look that makes people want to wrap her in a big fluffy towel and feed her hot soup. ‘The things they’re calling me . . . Homewrecking bitch is one of the nicer ones.’

Fletcher promptly wrapped a long, manly arm around her. The same arm that used to knot my scarf for me on chilly mornings. Now it was busy kneading another woman’s shoulder blade.

‘It’s not your fault,’ he murmured. ‘I’ve been meaning to break things off with Jan for ages. I just didn’t get round to it.’

Oh, pull the other one.

We’d been joined at the hip since we were in nappies, dated for seven years, got engaged. In all that time, he couldn’t find a spare five minutes to say, ‘Jan, I’m having second thoughts’?

Too busy playing footsie with his new bit on the side, no doubt.

I’d heard quite enough.

I wheeled round and made a beeline for the front door. Mum and Dad would be waiting for my nightly video call. I never missed it. If I couldn’t ring them, maybe I could, you know, haunt them. But in a gentle, loving way.

I hadn’t worked out the mechanics yet, but step one was getting out of this house.

I almost reached for the door handle before remembering I was dead. Ghosts could walk through walls. Everyone knew that. I’d seen it on telly. So I marched straight at the door. Instinctively, I shut my eyes.

When I opened them again, I was… still on the wrong side of the door, like a lemon.

What the hell?

I reached out to touch the wood panelling. Felt nothing but air. I grabbed for the doorknob. My fingers closed around thin air. I stepped forward and my foot vanished into the wood, but the rest of me didn’t follow. It was as if an invisible bungee cord had snagged me round the middle and refused to let me budge another inch.

I whirled round and glared at Fletcher.

He was still whispering sweet nothings to Elowen.

I stared at his stupidly handsome, two-timing, practically-a-widower face. Of all the men in Bayside, I had to be tethered to this one.

‘Are you doing this? Am I trapped here because of you?’