{"product_id":"ghosts-isbn-9780593313978","title":"Ghosts","description":"\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eINTERNATIONAL BESTSELLER • F\u003cb\u003erom the author of \u003ci\u003eEverything I Know About Love \u003c\/i\u003ecomes a\u003c\/b\u003e smart, sexy, laugh-out-loud romantic comedy about ex-boyfriends, imperfect parents, friends with kids, and a man who disappears the moment he says \"I love you.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e“An absolute knock-out. Wickedly funny and, at turns, both cynical and sincere… feels like your very favorite friend.” —Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of \u003ci\u003eMalibu Rising\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR:\u003ci\u003e NPR, VOGUE, PEOPLE\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNina Dean is not especially bothered that she's single. She owns her own apartment, she's about to publish her second book, she has a great relationship with her ex-boyfriend, and enough friends to keep her social calendar full and her hangovers plentiful. And when she downloads a dating app, she does the seemingly impossible: She meets a great guy on her first date. Max is handsome and built like a lumberjack; he has floppy blond hair and a stable job. But more surprising than anything else, Nina and Max have chemistry. Their conversations are witty and ironic, they both hate sports, they dance together like fools, they happily dig deep into the nuances of crappy music, and they create an entire universe of private jokes and chemical bliss.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut when Max ghosts her, Nina is forced to deal with everything she's been trying so hard to ignore: her father's dementia is getting worse, and so is her mother's denial of it; her editor hates her new book idea; and her best friend from childhood is icing her out. Funny, tender, and eminently, movingly relatable, \u003ci\u003eGhosts\u003c\/i\u003e is a whip-smart tale of relationships and modern life.\u003cb\u003eONE OF THE BEST BOOKS OF THE YEAR: NPR, \u003ci\u003eVogue, People\u003c\/i\u003e • A People Best Book of the Week • An \u003ci\u003eEntertainment Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e Best New Book to Read\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"A funny, touching take on modern relationships, the struggles of adulthoodand embracinglife as it unfolds.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e—People\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"An astonishingly assured debut... Deftly observed and deeply funny, \u003ci\u003eGhosts\u003c\/i\u003e considers where we find, and how we hold onto love with what might well be described as haunting precision.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eMarley Marius,\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e Vogue\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Hilariously accurate... Powerful... Alderton brings her British wit and fresh writing to online dating and all its ups and downs.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eKarin Tanabe\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e, The Washington Post\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Deeply relatable... Wonderful... With hints of Bridget Jones (though thematically more serious), and shades of a younger Nora Ephron, \u003ci\u003eGhosts\u003c\/i\u003e is a must-read for millennials looking to be seen and older and younger generations in search of a more accurate portrayal of the age group they love to roll their eyes at.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e—\u003c\/i\u003eSarah Stiefvater,\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e PureWow\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\"Dolly Alderton is funny, and she has the same kind of engaging conversational writing style that has made Carrie Bradshaw and Bridget Jones characters who will live in infamy... Every generation needs a heroine that has her Doc Martens on the ground and her head in a battle between reality and perceived reality. Nina is a fresh, smart and funny protagonist who finds some truly graceful (and not-so-graceful) ways to grow up for real. As the world continues to unravel on the outside, a book like \u003ci\u003eGhosts \u003c\/i\u003eis gold. It is not just a beach read, though. Put on your big person pants, and ride the waves of humor and relatability into a wonderful story about a young woman whose entire life is transforming. Like all of us, Nina must learn to sail these ever-changing seas--with a mixture of fun, anxiety and jubilation. \u003ci\u003eGhosts \u003c\/i\u003eis magic. Read it now.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Jana Siciliano, \u003ci\u003eBook Reporter\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Ghosts\u003c\/i\u003e is wonderful. Funny, sharply observed, poignant, and full of truths about life and love and friendship.”\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Matt Haig, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eThe Midnight Library\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ghosts\u003c\/i\u003e is an absolute knock-out. Wickedly funny and, at turns, both cynical and sincere, Dolly Alderton's voice feels like your very favorite friend. I devoured it.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Taylor Jenkins Reid, author of \u003ci\u003eDaisy Jones \u0026amp; the Six\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Witty, touching without ever being sentimental, hugely enjoyable.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—David Nicholls, author of \u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eOne Day\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Such clever writing, wonderfully funny; fab characters and delightful details. Divine.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Nina Stibbe, author of \u003ci\u003eReasons to be Cheerful\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dolly Alderton has clearly mastered every form of writing. Which is a surprise to nobody.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e—Candice Carty-Williams, author of \u003ci\u003eQueenie\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A sharp-eyed debut.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e―\u003ci\u003eThe Guardian\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “A stunning achievement: I was laughing out loud, doing my best a few minutes later not to burst into tears and then angry that it had all come to an end. So moving, so funny, so beautifully written and so poignant. Brilliant.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e―Stanley Tucci\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There are sharply skewered set pieces, but also tender observations . . . a promising, deftly written, often entertaining and poignant debut novel.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e―\u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Utter BRILLIANCE. Dolly is such an insightful commentator on love, longing, friendship and emotional landscapes. I absolutely LOVED it!” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e―Marian Keyes\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"In this heartfelt, funny and insightful tale, Alderton cleverly explores the way memories, doubts and home can haunt us.\" \u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e―\u003c\/b\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003eSunday Express\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e\"This heartfelt tale is in turns smart, caustically witty and achingly sad.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cb\u003e―Sunday Mirror\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “\u003ci\u003eGhosts\u003c\/i\u003e is all heart and humour.” \u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e–Bustle\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"The sprightly, sometimes touching debut novel by British memoirist Alderton (\u003ci\u003eEverything I Know About Love\u003c\/i\u003e) follows a cookbook author through her life’s ‘strangest year...’ This should hit the spot for readers of women’s fiction.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e–\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eDOLLY ALDERTON is an award-winning author and journalist based in London. She is a columnist for \u003ci\u003eThe Sunday Times Style\u003c\/i\u003e and has also written for \u003ci\u003eGQ, Red, Marie Claire\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eGrazia.\u003c\/i\u003e She is the former cohost and cocreator of the weekly pop culture and current affairs podcast \u003ci\u003eThe High Low\u003c\/i\u003e. Her first book, \u003ci\u003eEverything I Know About Love\u003c\/i\u003e, became a top-five \u003ci\u003eSunday Times\u003c\/i\u003e best seller in its first week of publication and won a National Book Award (UK) for Autobiography of the Year. \u003ci\u003eGhosts\u003c\/i\u003e is her first novel.\u003cbr\u003e One\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is our imagination that is responsible for love, not the other person.”\u003cbr\u003eMarcel Proust\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLiving in suburban  North London was nothing but an act of pragmatism  for  my  parents.  Whenever  I  asked  them  why  they chose  to  leave  East  London  for  the  suburbs  when  I  was  ten,  they would  refer  to  functionality:  it  was  a  bit  safer,  you  could  buy  a  bit more space, it was near the city, it was near lots of motorways and close  to  schools.  They  talked  about  setting  up  their  life  in  Pinner as if they had been looking for a hotel that was close to the airport for an early flight—convenient, anonymous, fuss-free, nothing special but it got the job done. Nothing about where my parents lived brought them any sensory pleasure or cause for relish not the land-scape, nor the history of the place, not the parks, the architecture, the community or culture. They lived in the suburbs because it was close to things. They had built their home and therefore entire life around convenience.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen we were together, Joe often used his northernness in argu-ments against me, as a way of proving he was more real than I was; more down to earth and therefore more likely to be right. It was one of my least favourite things about him—the way he lazily outsourced his  integrity  to  Yorkshire,  so  that  romantic  implications  of  miners and moors would do all the hard work for him. In the early stages of our relationship, he used to make me feel like we had grown up in separate galaxies because his mum had worked as a hairdresser in Sheffield and mine was a receptionist in Harrow. The first time he took me home to his parents’ house—a modest three-bed in a sub-urb of Sheffield—I realized just what a lie I’d been told. If I hadn’t known  I  was  in  Yorkshire,  I  would  have  sworn  we  were  driving around the pebbledash-fronted-leaded-window gap between the end of  London  and  the  beginning  of  Hertfordshire  where  I’d  spent  my adolescence. Joe’s cul-de- sac was the same as mine, the houses were all the same, his fridge was full of the same fruit-corner yogurts and ready-to-bake garlic bread. He’d had a bike just like mine, to spend his teenage weekends going up and down streets of identical red-roof houses just like I did. He was taken to PizzaExpress for his birthday like I was. The secret was out. “No more making out that we’ve had completely  different  upbringings,  Joe,”  I  said  to  him  on  the  train home. “No more pretending you belong in a song written by Jarvis Cocker about being in love with a woman in a tabard. You no more belong in that song than I belong in a Chas and Dave one. We grew up in matching suburbs.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eIn recent years, I’d found myself craving the familiarity of home. The  high  streets  I  knew,  with  their  high  density  of  dentists,  hair-dressers and bookies, and total lack of independent coffee shops. The long walk from the station to my parents’ house. The women with matching long bobs, the balding men, the teenagers in hoodies. The absence  of  individualism;  the  peaceful  acquiescence  to  mundanity. Young adulthood had quickly turned into just plain adulthood—with its daily list of choices to confirm who I was, how I voted, who my broadband provider was—and returning to the scene of my teenage life for an afternoon felt like a brief holiday back in time. When I was in Pinner, I could be seventeen again, just for a day. I could pretend that my world was myopic and my choices meaningless and the pos-sibilities that were ahead of me were wide open and boundless.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMum   answered   the   door  like   she   always   answered   the door—in a way that demonstrably made the point that her life was very  busy.  She  did  an  apologetic  wonky  smile  as  she  opened  it  to me, portable landline pressed up to her ear on her shoulder. “Sorry,” she  mouthed,  and  rolled  her  eyes.  She  was  wearing  a  pair  of  black jersey-fabric  bottoms  that  didn’t  look  assertive  enough  to  be  trou-sers, weren’t tight enough to be leggings and weren’t slouchy enough to  be  pyjamas.  She  wore  a  grey  marl round-neck T-    shirt  and  was decorated in her base-coat of jewellery: thick gold bracelet, one gold bangle, pearl stud earrings, snake chain gold necklace, gold wedding band.  My  guess  was  she  was  coming  from  or  going  to  some  form of physical exercise—my mum had become obsessed with physical exercise since she turned fifty, but I don’t think it changed her body by even half a pound. She was wrapped in a post-menopausal layer of softness, a small bag under her chin, a thicker middle, flesh that now spilt over the back of her bra, visible through her T-   shirt. And she was gorgeous. The sort of big-bovine-eyed gorgeous that is not hugely  exciting  but  evokes  familiar  magnetism  in everyone—like an  open  fire  or  a  bunch  of  pink  roses  or  a  golden  cocker  spaniel. Her espresso-brown bob, although sliced with grey strands, was lus-ciously  thick  and  her  golden  highlights  shimmered  under  the  light of the overhead IKEA lamp. I inherited almost nothing of my looks from my mother.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yeah, fine,” she said into the phone, beckoning me into the hall-way. “Great, well, let’s do coffee next week then. Just send me the dates.  I’ll  bring  you  that teach-yourself-Tarot  kit  I  was  telling  you about. No, not at all, you can keep it actually. QVC, so easy enough. Okay, okay. Speak then, bye!” She hung up the phone and gave me a hug, before holding me at arm’s length and examining my fringe. “This is new,” she said, looking curiously at it, like it was 3 down on a crossword.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes,”  I  said,  putting  down  my  handbag  and  removing  my  shoes (everyone had to remove their shoes on arrival, the rule was more stringent here than at the Blue Mosque). “Got it before my birthday. Thought it would be good for covering my thirty-two-year-old lines on  my  thirty- two- year- old  forehead.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t be silly,” she said, flicking it gingerly. “You don’t need some mop on your head for that, you just need some effective foundation.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI smiled, unoffended but unamused. I had got used to the fact that Mum was disappointed by quite how ungirly her daughter was. She would  have  loved  a  girl  with  whom  she  could  have  gone  shopping for holiday clothes and gossiped about face primer. When we were teenagers, and Katherine came round, Mum would offer her all her old  jewellery  and  handbags,  and  they’d  sift  through  them  together like two gal pals at a department store. She fell deeply in love with Lola the first time they met, purely on the basis that they both felt particularly passionate about the same face highlighter.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Where’s Dad?” I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Reading,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI looked through the French doors of the living room and saw the profile of my dad in his bottle-green armchair. His feet up on the foot-stool,  a  large  mug  of  tea  on  the  side  table  next  to  him.  His  strong chin and long nose protruding—the chin and nose that also belong to me—as if they were competing to get to the same finish line in a race\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThere  was  seventeen  years’  difference  in  age  between  Mum  and Dad. They had met when Dad was the deputy head of an inner-city state school and Mum was sent there by her secretarial agency to be the  receptionist.  She  was twenty-four,  he  was forty-one.  The  gap between  their  personalities  was  as  large  as  their  age  gap.  Dad  was sensitive,  gentle,  inquisitive,  introspective  and intellectual—there was  almost  nothing  that  didn’t  interest  him.  Mum  was  practical, proactive,  logistical,  straightforward  and  authoritative.  There  was almost nothing she didn’t involve herself in.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  took  a  moment  to  take  him  in  from  behind  the  glass  doors. From here, he was still just my dad as he’d always been, reading the Observer, ready to tell me about where rubbish goes in China or ten things I may not have known about Wallis Simpson or the plight of the endangered falcon. My dad who could instantly recognize me— not the face of me, but everything of who I was—in a nanosecond: the  name  of  my  childhood  imaginary  friend,  my  dissertation  sub-ject,  my  favourite  character  from  my  favourite  book  and  the  road names of everywhere I’ve ever lived. When I looked at his face now, I mostly saw my dad, but I sometimes saw something else in his eyes that unsettled me—sometimes it looked like everything he under-stood had been cut into pieces and he was trying to configure them into a collage that made sense.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTwo years ago, Dad had a stroke. It only took a couple of months after he had recovered for us to realize that he wasn’t entirely better. My dad, always so sharp and cerebral, had slowed down. He’d forget the names of family members and close friends. His easy confidence and  ability  to  make  decisions  dwindled.  He’d  regularly  wander  off on  days  out  and  get  lost.  He  often  couldn’t  remember  the  road  he lived on. Initially, Mum and I wrote it off as an ageing brain, unable to  face  the  possibility  of  something  more  serious.  Then,  one  day, Mum got a call from a stranger to tell her that Dad had been seen driving around the same large, busy roundabout for twenty minutes. Eventually, someone managed to get him to pull over—he’d had no idea where to turn off. We went to the GP, he did a range of physical tests, cognitive assessments and MRI scans. The possibility we were dreading was confirmed.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hi, Dad,” I said, walking towards him. He looked up from the p ap er.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Hello, you!” he said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t stand up.” I bent down to give him a hug. “Anything inter-esting to tell me?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s a new film adaptation of Persuasion,” he said, holding up the review to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Ah,” I said. “The thinking man’s Austen.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Correct.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m going to go help Mum with lunch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“All  right,  love,”  he  said,  before  reopening  the  newspaper  and arranging himself back into the repose I knew so well.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen I went into the kitchen, Mum was chopping broccoli florets that were collecting next to a pile of sliced kiwis. From a speaker, a  woman  was  talking  loudly  and  slowly  about  conforming  to  male sexual desire.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What is this?” I asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s the audiobook of Intercourse by Andrea Dworkin.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s . . . what?” I asked, turning the volume down a few notches.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Andrea Dworkin. She’s a famous feminist. You’d recognize her, quite  a  big  girl,  but  not  much  of  a  sense  of  humour.  Very  clever woman,  she— ”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I know who Andrea Dworkin is, I meant why are you listening to her audiobook?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“For Reading Between the Wines.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Is that your book club you’ve told me about?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe sighed exasperatedly and took a cucumber out of the fridge. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not a book club, Nina, it’s a literary salon.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s the difference?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well,”  she  said  with  a  slight  curl  of  her  lip  that  couldn’t  con-ceal the glee she felt at having to, once again, explain the difference between a book club and a literary salon. “Me and some of the girls have decided to start a bi-monthly meeting where we talk about ideas rather than just the book itself, so it’s much less prescriptive. Each salon has a theme and includes discussions, poetry readings and per-sonal sharing that relate to the theme.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What’s the theme of the next one?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“The theme is: ‘Is all heterosexual sex rape?’ ”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Right. And who is attending?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Annie, Cathy, Sarah from my running club, Gloria, Gloria’s gay cousin,  Martin,  Margaret,  who  volunteers  with  me  at  the  charity shop.  Everyone  brings  a  dish.  I’m  making  halloumi  skewers,”  she said, transporting the chopping board to the blender and piling the assortment of fruit and vegetables into it\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Why this sudden interest in feminism?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eShe  hit  the  button  on  the  machine,  letting  out  a  cacophony  of buzzing as the mix pulverized to a pale-green gunk.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t know if I’d call it sudden,” she shouted over the top of the electronic roar. She turned the blender off and poured the fibrous- looking liquid into a pint glass.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“That sounds great, Mum,” I relented. “I think it’s really cool to be so engaged and curious.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It is,” she said. “And I’m the only one who has a spare room, so I’ve said we can use it for Reading Between the Wines meetings.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You don’t have a spare room.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Your dad’s study.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dad needs his study.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It  will  still  be  there  for  him,  it  just  doesn’t  make  sense  to  have a whole room in this house that’s only occasionally used, like we’re living in Blenheim Palace.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What about his books?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ll move them to the shelves down here.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve  got  everything  important  on  file.  There’s  a  lot  of  stuff  that can be thrown away.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Please  let  me  go  through  it,”  I  said  with  the  slight  whine  of  a stroppy child. “It might be important to him. It might be important for us further down the line when we need as much as possible to jog his memory, to remind him of—”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Of course, of course,” she said, taking a sip of her smoothie with her  nostrils  flaring  in  displeasure.  “It’s  all  upstairs  in  a  few  piles, you’ll see it on the landing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay,  thank  you,”  I  said,  offering  her  a  muted  smile  as  a  peace offering.  I  took  a  deep,  invisible  yoga  breath.  “What  else  has  been going on?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Nothing really. Oh, I’ve decided to change my name.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“What? Why?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’ve never liked Nancy, it’s too old-fashioned.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t you think it’s weird to change it now? Everyone knows you as Nancy, it’s too late for a new name to catch on.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m too old is what you’re saying,” she said.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No, I’m just saying a more appropriate time to workshop a new name would have been your first week at secondary school, probably not in your fifties.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Well, I’ve decided to change it and I’ve looked into how to do it and it’s very easy, so my mind’s made up.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“And what are you changing it to?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“ Mandy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mandy?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mandy.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“But,” I took another deep yoga breath, “Mandy isn’t all that dis-similar to Nancy, is it? I mean, they sort of rhyme.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“No they don’t.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“They do, it’s called assonance.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I knew you’d be like this. I knew you’d find a way to lecture me like  you  always  do.  I  have  no  idea  why  this  should  cause  you  any trouble, I just want to love my name.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mum!” I said pleadingly. “I’m not lecturing you. You must be able to see this is quite a strange thing to announce from nowhere.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s not from nowhere, I’ve always told you I like the name Mandy! I have always said to you what a stylish and fun name I think it is.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay,  it  is  stylish  and  fun,  you’re  right,  but  the  other  thing  to consider,” I lowered my voice, “is that this might not be the best time for Dad to get his head round his wife of thirty-five years having a completely different first name.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Don’t be ridiculous, it’s a very simple change,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be this huge thing.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s just going to confuse him.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I  can’t  talk  about  this  now,”  she  said.  “I’m  meeting  Gloria  for Vinyasa   Flow.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Are you not eating with us? I’ve come all the way here for lunch.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“There’s loads of food in the house. You’re the cook, after all. I’ll be back in a few hours,” she said, picking up her keys.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI went back in to see Dad, still engrossed by the paper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dad?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Yes, Bean?” he said, turning his head round to me. I felt the glow of relief that came with him using his childhood nickname for me. Like  all  good  childhood  nicknames,  it  had  had  many  nonsensical and  convoluted iterations—what  was  once  Ninabean  turned  into Mr. Bean, Bambeanie, Beaniebean, then finally just Bean.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Mum’s gone out so I’m going to make us some lunch in a bit. How do you feel about a frittata?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Frittata,” he repeated. “Now what’s that when it’s at home?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“It’s a tarty omelette. Imagine an omelette on a night out.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe laughed. “Lovely.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I’m just going to sort through some things upstairs first, then I’ll make it. Do you maybe want a piece of toast to keep you going? Or something else?” I looked at his face and instantly regretted not mak-ing the question simpler. For the most part, he was still completely capable of making quick decisions, but occasionally I could see him get lost in potential answers and I wished I’d saved his confusion by saying “Toast, yes or no?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Maybe,” he said, frowning slightly. “I don’t know, I’ll wait a bit.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Okay, just let me know.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI dragged the three boxes into my bedroom, which hadn’t changed since I moved out over a decade ago and looked like a museum rep-lica  of  how  teenage  girls  lived  in  the  early  to  mid-noughties.  Lilac walls,  photo  collages  of  school  friends  on  the  wardrobe  and  a  row of frayed, greying festival wristbands hanging from my mirror that Katherine  and  I  had  collected  together.  I  sifted  through  the  papers on the floor, most of them marking time and plans but no feelings or relationships: wedges of Filofax pages of dentist appointments and term times from the late nineties, stacks of old newspapers contain-ing stories that must have caught his interest. There were letters and cards  that  I  took  off  the  scrap  heap:  a  garrulous  postcard  from  his late brother, my Uncle Nick, tightly packed with complaints about the food being too oily on Paxos; a card from one of Dad’s former students thanking him for his help with his Oxford application, and a  photo  of  him  beaming  on  graduation  day  outside  Magdalen  Col-lege. Mum was right, he didn’t need these relics of mundanity, but I understood his inclination to hold on to them. I too had shoeboxes of cinema tickets from first dates with Joe and utility bills from flats I no longer lived in. I’d never known why they were important, but they were—they  felt  like  proof  of  life  lived,  in  case  a  time  came when  it  was  needed,  like  a  driving  licence  or  a  passport.  Perhaps Dad had always anticipated, somehow, that he should download the passing of time to papers, Filofax pages, letters and postcards, in case those files inside him ever got wiped.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly,  I  heard  the  piercing  cry  of  the  smoke  alarm.  I  rushed downstairs, following the smell of burning. In the kitchen stood Dad, coughing over a smoking toaster, removing charcoal-edged pages of the Observer from its slots.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Dad!” I shouted over the thin, shrill beep, flapping my hands to try to break up the smog. “What are you doing?”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHe looked at me with a jolt, as if he had snapped out of a dream. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eRibbons of smoke rose from the singed piece of folded newspaper in his hand. He gazed down at the toaster, then back up to me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“I don’t know,” he said.","brand":"Vintage","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303681872101,"sku":"NP9780593313978","price":18.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780593313978.jpg?v=1767728084","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/ghosts-isbn-9780593313978","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}