Ghostwriting by Eric Brown

liaisons had been abysmal. At that time I had not worked out that Li might be responsible for this.
    My host introduced us. Sonia – a name assumed because her real name, Pamela Watson, was that of another actress on Equity’s books – was a twenty-five year-old drama student, RADA trained, all pashmina and pearls, tall and slim and as elegant as a ballerina.
    We seemed to hit it off immediately. We chatted for an hour, and I invited her to join me for dinner at the Ivy the following night.
    The meal went well. We chatted and laughed, drank expensive wine, moved onto a club in Soho, and then took a taxi back to my place around two.
    I had done the hard work; the rest, I knew from experience, would be easy: the first kiss, the first tremulous touches, the firmer grip, the thrust of body against body, the suggestion that we should move to the bedroom...
    But she struggled, turned her head away when I tried to kiss her. She said, “I’m sorry. It’s me...”
    I said, “I’ll be through here,” indicating the door to the bedroom.
    I undressed and climbed into bed, and she appeared at the door, sheepish now, and undressed.
    Still in bra and panties, she paused, and I said, “Here, let me.”
    She rolled onto the bed, into my arms. I slipped a hand into her panties and kissed her.
    And Sonia retched, then turned away and vomited a stomachful of expensive pâté-de-foie and lamb casserole halfway across the bedroom.
      She dressed quickly, apologising all the while, and hurried from my apartment, from my life.
    Except, over the course of the next year, I caught brief, almost subliminal glimpses of her, though when I looked again she was never there. At first I thought she was stalking me, following me around London and later out of town, wherever business took me.
    Then, however, when I tried to follow her and failed, when she disappeared from sight like a wraith, I wondered if I were going mad.
    I had no reason, of course, to suspect that Li was behind this peculiar haunting.
    Why should I?

    ~

    In the morning I took a local bus north to Tak Buri. The bus was crowded with locals, and was obviously not built for tall Westerners: there was little leg room and precious little space above my head. It seemed that we stopped every other kilometre to pick up yet more passengers, and after two hours I was all for alighting and taking a taxi the rest of the way.
    At one point, I caught a glimpse of a reed-slim girl walking along by the side of the road, and my heart leapt as I thought I recognised Li Ketsuwan.
    We rushed past her, and it was not Li, and I sat back and tried to relax. Soon I would find her, demand from her an explanation.
    Soon, I hoped, my quest would be at an end.

    ~

    I returned to the Café Bar the following night, back in 1999. I was both intrigued by Li’s intuition, and beguiled by her beauty. It was an allure quite unlike that of other women I had known. There was something raw and animalistic in her manner. I fantasised that she might possess a complementary sexual power, and was determined to experience it.
    She saw only four locals that night, and I soon had an audience.
    She was more accommodating this time; she actually smiled when I complimented her. When I asked if she would like a beer, she assented. “But not here, no. At hotel, okay?”
    We moved to the down-at-heel hotel bar and drank into the early hours. I told her all about my life in London, about the films I wrote and the stars I knew. I was quite purposefully out to dazzle her, but she remained unimpressed.
    “But you,” I said, a little drunk now. “Tell me about yourself.”
    She pushed her lips into a moue like a crushed rosebud. “Oh, I am a ...” She said a word I had no hope of remembering.
    She laughed at my quizzical expression, covering her mouth with a small palm. “In English,” she said, “I am witch.”
    “You’re the most beautiful witch I have ever met,” I said.
    “And you, Mistah Grant, you most best