Page 23 of The Time of My Afterlife

‘It’s a deal.’

I head back home with a spring in my step. I’ve now got two people to help. Two ways to make a change.

9

FLORENCE

Clark and our failed test are on my mind as I walk home. His remark that I offered Molly a Saturday job to improve my profit margins made me so angry that it felt like my body had been electrically charged. I’m still vibrating with irritation now. He’s the only person in the world who makes me this cross.

I’ve been reflecting on my decision to offer Molly a job. It was partly prompted by her asking me a few weeks ago, and because Saturdays are busy, but it also stems from that persistent feeling I have about her. I remember that inner voice questioning whether a Saturday job was enough, which I dismissed at the time. Every time I see Molly at the café, she’s focused on Laura. While Laura claims Molly’s moods are just teenage hormones, I sense there’s more to it. I probably need to talk to Molly again. I feel a twinge of guilt because she wanted to talk about something else, but I was distracted by Clark – that’s a sign. The secret to understanding this situation involves Molly. I need to find out what’s really happening. I suspect it’s connected to Laura glued to her phone, and honestly, I don’t care what Clark thinks.

I turn into the cul-de-sac and see my neighbour, Jane, sitting in her car. She spots me and looks away. I catch sight of her damp cheeks. Should I go see if she’s all right? I think about Clark’s relationship with Pearl. He and Pearl are the exception, I tell myself. People are no longer close to their neighbours. We all live busy lives.

In two years, I have only ever nodded at Jane. It would be a bit odd if I knocked on her car window and asked her if she was okay.

I hurry up my path and unlock my front door.

While I wait for my microwave-ready curry to cook, I look up the photo of Dad on my kitchen wall. ‘I wish you were here,’ I say. ‘You’d know what to do with this stupid test. Can you believe I’m being forced to work with Clark?’ My microwave pings, and I take out my food. It doesn’t look appetising. An orange blob on some rubbery rice – great!

After I finish my curry I message my book-reviewer friend, Ruth, to see if she wants a video call tonight. We normally speak every week.

Like me, Ruth is passionate about books and bookcases. The difference is that I treat mine like a school design project, while she treats hers like a competitive sport. We regularly swap photos of our shelves, much as new parents share baby pictures. All my book spines are sorted into a rainbow gradient, which looks impressive as you walk in through the front door. I’ve added trailing plants and strings of twinkly fairy lights. Ruth, on the other hand, has gone full Beauty and the Beast with wall-to-wall bookcases, filled with a mix of horizontal and vertical stacks. She has also asserted dominance by installing a moving ladder. She frequently sends me selfies of herself perched halfway up, casually admiring a hardback.

She has an astonishing number of followers on her Instagram account. Before I met her, I’d thought my follower count was impressive. Since she lives in Scotland, we mainly keep in touch via FaceTime.

My phone bleeps as I’m finishing my meal. It’s Ruth.

I am free whenever.

I need to distract myself from stressful thoughts about the afterlife, a nagging worry about Jane next door and how I’m going to talk to Molly.

Once settled on my sofa, I video-call Ruth. She always makes me smile when she appears on my screen, her vast mass of unruly black hair filling the space – she says she tries to tame it with clips, but it always escapes.

‘What’s wrong with you?’ Ruth asks as she studies my face.

‘Oh, Ruth, don’t ask,’ I groan. ‘It’s a long story.’

She grins. ‘Clark Fielding annoying you?’

I laugh. ‘Something like that.’

Ruth knows all about my issues with Clark. I’ve spent hours telling her at great length about all the things he’s done. She always sighs and says something irritating, like, This sounds like a classic enemies-to-lovers plot.

She holds up a book. ‘I’m reading this. Have you seen or read it?’

I peer at the brightly coloured novel depicting two women sitting apart on a sofa. ‘No, what’s it about?’

‘The turbulent relationship between a mother and her teenage daughter.’

I let out a groan. ‘I’m dealing with that at work. The woman who works with me has a fourteen-year-old daughter. They always seem to be at war and I was going to talk⁠—’

Ruth interrupts me. ‘After reading this,’ she says, shaking the book at the screen, ‘I would stay well away from that emotional minefield. Best leave it to them to sort it out.’

‘Do you think so?’ I ask as doubt begins to crawl over me. Maybe I should find someone else to help?

‘This book has made me grateful that I don’t have teenage children.’

I think about Laura and the number of times she’s talked to me about how hard she’s found raising Molly by herself.