Dead Romantic (2 page)

And I’d never even asked his name…

“Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!” Susie charges though the coffee shop like a paratrooper with pink dreadlocks and hurls herself next to me on the sofa. My daydream evaporates abruptly and for a second I’m bewildered to be back in the coffee shop rather than at the cold railway station.

“Aren’t these totally worth being late for?” Rummaging through her bags, Susie plucks out a pair of platforms that even the Spice Girls in their heyday would have baulked at.

“Let me go and buy us some lunch,” I say hastily when Susie starts to show me her other purchases. I know from experience that she’s about to unpack every single item. “Latte? Cheese and ham panini?

“Lovely, but a skinny latte, please! I’m on a diet.”

I smile. Susie lost all the weight she carried at school a long time ago, but old habits die hard. I leave her gloating over her shopping, but when I return she’s peering at my Kindle, her brow corrugated with concentration.

“Why can’t you read
Heat
like everybody else? You’re such a brainbox.”

“Stop talking and eat your lunch,” I order, plonking down the tray. “I’ve got to get back to work soon.”

“Work? But it’s Saturday! Your day off, remember? We’re going to Oxford Street and then clubbing. You promised!”

“Suse, I can’t afford a day off right now. There’s an exhibition coming up and the post of Assistant Directorship of the Egyptology Department in the offing. I’m flat out.”

“I don’t know how you can bear working with those mummies,” shudders Susie. “It’d creep me out, especially if I was on my own at night. I’d be pooing myself.”

Late at night has to be my favourite time at the museum. No visitors and no noise. Just my laptop, my research and me. Perfect.

“What on earth would you be worried about?”

“Seeing a ghost, of course! The museum must be crawling with them.”

Susie loves all things paranormal. Our flat’s crammed with crystals and psychic magazines. Her idea of heaven is to curl up in front of the
TV show
Totally Spooked
and watch celebrity medium Lilac Delaney trying to commune with the dead, although why any dead people would want to talk to a woman who wears more make-up than a drag queen and rolls her eyes like a dying horse is beyond me.

“Suse,” I say patiently, “there’s no such thing as ghosts. When you’re dead you’re dead.”

“So
you
say, but nobody’s actually scientifically proven that ghosts don’t exist either.”

“That’s a fair point,” I concede, “but since I spend most of my time in a museum that, according to you, is crawling with ghosts, surely I’d have seen something by now? Maybe a mummy stumbling down the corridor like something out of
Scooby-Doo
?”

“OK, that does sound daft.” Looking abashed, Susie returns her attention to her lunch. “So, if you’re not coming shopping I suppose you’re going to blow me out tonight as well?”

“I’ll be there,” I promise, rashly. “It just might be a bit later, that’s all. I promised Simon I’d go through some notes this evening.”

Susie’s eyebrows shoot into her fringe. “Sexy Dr Simon? Is there something I should know?”

“Simon’s just a colleague.” I say, as I do an impression of an Edam cheese. Drat. Why do redheads blush so easily? It’s so unfair. As if corpse-white skin and freckles aren’t enough to contend with.

Susie stretches out her hands and pretends to warm them on my scarlet face.

“Wow! Look at the colour of you! You really fancy him, don’t you?”

“What are we? Fifteen?”

“Don’t change the subject, Cleo Rose Carpenter. This is
me
you’re talking to, remember? You looked just like that when you fancied Duncan from Blue!”

That’s the problem with having a best friend who’s known you since you were eleven – you can’t get away with anything. I’ve spent years trying to live down my embarrassing teenage crushes and fashion errors, or at least live them down as much as I can when I have Susie on hand to remind me. Thanks goodness I never told her about my Christmas stranger. She’d still be on about him now.

Unable to meet her gaze, I look down at the table, suddenly fascinated by the muffin crumbs scattered across the sticky surface. If Susie takes one look at me now she’ll know the truth – the painful, awkward, unprofessional truth: I do indeed fancy my newest colleague. Since he arrived I’ve struggled to focus on anything else. This is most unlike me. Normally I’m entirely career focused and, give or take a few dates now and then, pretty happy with being single. Life might be a little lonely sometimes but at least it’s under control. Usually my pulse never races, and I certainly don’t find myself checking my hair and make-up in the display cases every five minutes just in case I bump into a particular person. Until now, I’ve never regarded my colleagues as anything other than respected academics, probably because they’re only slightly younger than some of our exhibits – so to suddenly be working with an Egyptologist who’s not only brainy but also sex on a stick has thrown me completely.

“You do fancy him!”

I sigh. Right. I admit defeat. Of course I fancy our new Egyptologist – not that there’s much mileage in it, given that every female with a pulse in the Henry Wellby Museum fancies Simon Welsh.

“Come on, babes, ask him out!” Susie urges. “He sounds perfect. After all, what are the chances of you ever meeting a fit guy who’s as obsessed with dead Egyptians as you are?”

She has a point. The odds of my winning the EuroMillions are probably higher – and I don’t even buy tickets. But ask Simon out? No way! Never! Imagine if he said no? Just thinking about how humiliating this would be makes my skin prickle with horror.

“I don’t think so,” I say.

“Chicken,” says Susie.

She’s right. I’m such a chicken it’s a miracle Colonel Sanders hasn’t coated me in eleven secret herbs and spices and served me up in a KFC Bargain Bucket. When it comes to guys I’m useless. Unlike Susie, who can flirt for England, I just get quieter and quieter. Men probably think I’m aloof, when the truth is I’m just shy.

Dr Simon Welsh is the newest addition to our department. I don’t think anyone’s arrival has ever caused such a stir at the Wellby. Not only does he have very recent field experience and an impressive list of published papers behind him, but he’s also exceptionally good-looking, in a dishevelled, stubbly sort of way. When Simon was introduced at his first department meeting, our Departmental Assistant, Dawn, was practically drooling all over the minutes and her eyelids were batting so much she looked deranged. Even our secretary looked flustered and gave him all the custard creams. I’d kept my face impassive and listened intently to Dr Welsh’s presentation – but I hadn’t heard a word because I’d been far too busy sneaking glimpses at those sleepy denim-blue eyes and that slow, sexy smile. When a lock of corn-coloured hair flopped across his face I’d had to practically sit on my hands to stop myself leaping forward to brush it away.

So for the past few weeks I’ve been a nervous wreck. I’ve done my best to avoid Simon, but on the few occasions we have met, my tongue’s turned itself into a pretzel and I’ve hardly been able to say a word. Which is ridiculous. I’m twenty-nine! Surely I’ll be back to normal soon?

“Anyway, never mind Simon,” continues Susie, who knows me well enough not to push the issue. “I’m your oldest friend and deserve some quality time. You even blew me out on my birthday last week, so you have some serious grovelling to do.”

“I was working!”

“That’s a crap excuse, but because I love you I’m going to let you off. On one condition.”

Susie’s conditions are not for the faint-hearted. The last one involved me tackling a pile of ironing so high that NASA could have used it for the Mars mission.

“Which is?”

My best friend reaches into her bag and pulls out two tickets. Passing one to me, she says quickly, “Annie from work got them for my birthday but she’s going away and I really don’t want to go on my own. Please come with me, Cleo! Please!”

“Lilac Delaney: An evening of clairvoyance and mediumship,” I read. “You have got to be joking.”

“Come on, Cleo, please! You’re always letting me down.”

“Just because I don’t always want to join in your social whirl doesn’t mean I’m letting you down. I pay all my bills and the rent on time, don’t I? And who bailed you out last month when you’d forgotten to pay the council tax and spent the money on some ridiculous new bag?”

“It was really funky,” mutters Susie sulkily.

“So
you
get a brand new bag and
I
get to pay the council tax? I think that makes me the world’s best flatmate.”

“You’d be an even better one if you came to see Lilac Delaney with me. What have you got to lose? It’s not as though you actually believe in any of it.” Susie narrows her blue eyes thoughtfully. “Unless you’re scared that something’ll happen and you’ll be proved wrong, Mrs I’m-Such-a-Sceptic.”

“Hardly,” I snort. “I just don’t want to see you get ripped off, that’s all. And before you say it, I know you believe this woman’s genuine, you poor deluded girl.”

“So prove me wrong? If we go and it’s total bollocks I promise I’ll agree with you, forever. I’ll never ever mention paranormal stuff again!”

Because this sounds too good to resist, I find myself agreeing to accompany her to see the famous psychic. All in the name of research, obviously. I have absolutely no doubt in my mind whatsoever that I’ll be proven right.

In twenty-nine years, the only thing that hasn’t let me down is my research.

Chapter 2

“Are you still here?” the security guard scolds. “It’s gone half eight. Haven’t you got a home to go to, Dr Carpenter?”

Ripping my attention away from my computer I’m amazed to discover the hours since three o’clock have melted away. The day has bled from the sky and now buttery lamplight spills from the Anglepoise, pooling across my notes and casting long shadows against the walls. The voices and footfalls of visitors faded away hours ago and quietness seeped into their absence, but absorbed in my work I hadn’t noticed.

“I’m so sorry, Tom. I didn’t realise it was so late.” I pull off my reading glasses and grind my knuckles into my eyes. “Give me five minutes and I’ll be out of here.”

“I don’t know why you don’t just move in,” the guard grumbles as he shuffles back into the corridor.

“It’s official. I have no life,” I say to a photograph of Aamon’s sarcophagus. “Maybe Susie has a point? I should get out more.”

Aamon doesn’t reply, of course, but the cheeky sloe-black painted eyes in the photo seem to follow me as I scoot around my office putting my books away and powering down my laptop.

“And what about this?” I wonder aloud, looking at the unfilled application for the Assistant Director’s job. “Shall I apply?”

The silence is heavy around me. Somewhere in the depths of the museum a door bangs and a draught sighs through the empty spaces; it breathes its way towards me, lifting the application forms from the desk and scattering them at my feet.

“If I was Susie I’d take that as a yes,” I laugh. Susie loves to imagine signs and spiritual interventions at every turn. Nothing so mundane as a draught driven by a slamming door for her: it would have been the spirit of a long-dead Egyptian telling me I should apply for the post.

How ridiculous!

I pick up the application forms and place them back on the desk. I’m ready for this promotion. I know I am. My research into Aamon is ground-breaking, and out of everyone in the department I’m by far the most qualified for the role. Or at least I was until Simon arrived. He’s the only member of the team who’s my equal, and even then I know my paper on Aamon, the Boy Pharaoh, gives me the edge. I wonder if Simon will apply too? And if he does, how will he feel about having some competition? We’ve hardly spoken – mostly because my vocal cords tend to do macramé whenever he’s about – but he strikes me as being ambitious and fiercely intelligent.

As well as drop-dead gorgeous, of course…

I need to get over this. And soon. Time to leave the building and have a few drinks with my best friend. Swinging my bag onto my shoulder, I cast a quick glance around the room and check everything’s in order. The mummified cat and Aamon are side by side on the examination bench. My microscope and reference books are returned neatly to the shelf and my collection of papyri is locked inside a special case. I find this little routine very satisfying because I do like to keep everything neat and in order. That’s not being anal, it’s being organised.

That’s odd. How come my wheelie chair is on the far side of the room rather than tucked neatly under my desk? I must have been scooting about on it at some stage and forgotten. It sounds crazy but I seem to do that a lot, move things around to bizarre locations without being conscious of it. That’s what happens when I get immersed in my research. Only yesterday I came to work and found all my pens stuck into a lump of Blu Tack like a hedgehog. And the day before that, my ball of elastic bands was on top of the cupboard. I must have bounced it up there and forgotten.

Oh dear. Maybe Susie’s right and I am working too hard. Just as well I’m off clubbing to relieve the old intellectual stresses, then.

Shaking my head, I click off the lamp; inky fingers of darkness wrap themselves around the office. I lock the door, check it twice before pocketing the key, then slip into the Ancient World Gallery to make a handy shortcut to the stairs. The mummies slumber behind the polished glass and as I pass by I mentally tick each one off until I’m happy that they’re all present and correct in their carefully controlled environment. The stillness in the vaulted rooms and the dust falling silently through the air always soothes me after a busy day: the ancient peace is like a balm to my busy scuttling mind.

Creepy and crawling with ghosts? Hardly.

It’s my favourite place in the world.

Calling goodnight to the security guard, who secures the heavy door behind me, I step into the drizzly darkness and switch on my mobile. Seconds later text alerts are buzzing like wasps and I scroll through everything, unsurprised to see three texts from Susie and several answerphone messages. Crossing the road, my head bowed against the rain and with my hood pulled up, I listen to the messages and my heart plops into my loafers when Susie’s cheerful voice is followed by my dad’s quieter tones.