Liz was not most people’s idea of a ghost hunter. The rest of her family, for it was a family business, had the milk-white skin and the intense black hair that gave customers the secure feeling they were genuine.

Liz was blonde, with a sun-kissed complexion and curves that meant men had to concentrate to look her in the eyes – baby blue of course. She had the cute, round face typical of her starsign, and the deceptive sweetness that hides the sexy, intuitive, Cancer mind.

When the ghost trade was slow, she did glamour modelling and appeared on a naughty Italian game show. That didn’t help her complicated love life. There was Paul, a footballer, who wore her on his arm when they went clubbing, 
Danny, the TV executive, who made love to her in strange, beautiful ways, and others.

But she was 29 now, and her Cancer yearning to nurture, to be a mother, to have her own home, was impossible to ignore. As she sat in the master bedroom of a pop star’s mansion, waiting for the ghost who disturbed the owner’s sleep to appear, she reviewed the men in her life. Midnight chimed.

The moonlight arrowed into the room, marking its centre. There appeared the ghost of a young man holding a book. He had died in that spot, his heart ripped by regret for not marrying the girl he loved.

They communicated, the ghost was soothed. And Liz was given the answer to her love question. In the morning, Liz advised the pop star to move her bed from the centre of the room.

Then, following the ghost’s advice, Liz began to woo the real owner of the mansion, a descendant of the ghost. It was when they had been married for some years, that Liz found the book of old drawings, each featuring a face she knew so well – her own.