Page 3 of The Time of My Afterlife

She giggles. ‘Sorry, Florence, it’s been a long day. Exhaustion and my daughter’s mood are making me say ridiculous things.’

We laugh, and I return my attention to Clark, who’s looking in my direction. I scowl at him, and he rolls his eyes.

A young lad enters the café. His hood is up, and his hands are stuffed deep into his jeans. He surveys the room and slides into a seat near the door. Maybe he’s waiting for someone, I think. A few of the older teenage girls in the queue spot him. They all cast him sneaky glances and then furiously tap their thoughts into their phones. The air is filled with the pinging of message notifications. My younger customers tend to communicate via their phones even when they’re standing close together.

The boy’s eyes travel across the queue, and he sends a cheeky smile to the pretty one with the golden curls tumbling over her dark school blazer. She blushes and taps at her phone screen. He’s come to my café to see her. How sweet.

I wish he’d buy a drink and pull down that hood. He probably thinks it makes him look mysterious and alluring. While I make his love interest her iced latte, I watch her glance at him over her shoulder. She wants another smile, but he’s distracted. He’s staring at Pearl, who has her back to him. The combination of the hood and the way his eyes are fixed on Pearl makes me feel uncomfortable. I’m about to go over and ask him if he wants a drink when Laura nudges me. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you. How’s Chris on Instagram?’

The mention of Chris’s name makes a goofy, happy smile spread across my face. When I’m not managing this café, I’m a book reviewer. I devour books and post my reviews, along with a pretty cover photo, on Instagram. Over time, I’ve garnered a sizeable following of fellow book addicts, and I’ve even made a few publisher marketing lists, which means I often get free copies through the post. I even have a few followers who comment on all my reviews and tell me how brilliant I am at recommending books. One of them is a guy called Chris. He always leaves me a cheeky, sometimes flirty comment. Yesterday’s message, Would this spicy romcom appeal to a thirty-something single bloke who likes reading dark spy thrillers? still makes me smile.

‘He’s very well, thanks,’ I say, as my cheeks heat up.

‘Do you think he’s legit and not a stalker?’

I beam at her. ‘Laura, even though there are no photos of him on his grid or his profile, I have a feeling he’s a handsome guy who lives locally and will one day turn out to be my happy ever after.’

As Laura serves a customer, I silently add, ‘He will also mend my broken heart.’

2

CLARK

Pearl and I sit opposite each other. Her face is shadowed, and her pale blue eyes lack the sparkle they once had. Her expression saddens me. ‘How are you?’ I ask.

She nods. ‘Much the same.’

Laura appears with Pearl’s pot of tea. She places a little teapot, a cup, and a saucer on the table. Before she leaves, she gives Pearl’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘It’s on the house.’ Pearl looks up at her and smiles.

Once Laura goes away, Pearl continues. ‘Mary’s been on my mind all day.’

Pearl’s closest friend, Mary, died suddenly and unexpectedly a few weeks ago. The day I found out, I’d popped around to see if she had any spare recycling bags. I’d run out and couldn’t be bothered going to the shop. She came to the door, and the sight of her tear-stained face broke my heart. Pearl was devastated by Mary’s sudden passing. I grabbed a bottle of red from my wine rack, and we sat in her kitchen for hours talking about her dear friend.

Pearl called Mary her ‘retirement sidekick’ and ‘the only person who made getting old and crinkly fun’. They had both lost their husbands ten years earlier and had met at a senior ladies’ church fundraising event. They shared a love of socialising: holidays in Spain and Greece, where they flirted with handsome waiters, and day trips to Blackpool, where they both got tipsy, sprayed their grey hair pink, and took photos of each other wearing silly hats. Mary was lovely. A sweet lady who always baked me delicious cakes and, after a few glasses of wine, told rude jokes that made me blush. Together, Pearl and Mary were a force to be reckoned with.

‘I never grieved when my husband died,’ Pearl says as she pours tea into her cup. ‘I never loved him. He was a mistake from the moment I agreed to marry him.’

I try to lighten her mood by acting surprised. ‘Really – you’ve never mentioned that.’

Her face softens, and I can see the ghost of a smile on her lips.

Pearl is always candid about her late husband and their marriage. I get reminded of his failings every week.

Neither my mother nor my mates can understand why I’m good friends with Pearl, my seventy-five-year-old neighbour. We share the same sense of humour, a love of good-quality red wine, and an appreciation of Agatha Christie novels. When we get together, the age gap disappears, and we’re like two regular friends.

Pearl also reminds me of my nan, but I have never admitted this, as she would moan about feeling old.

‘The pain of losing Mary has knocked me for six. I miss her so much.’ With a trembling hand, Pearl lifts her cup to her mouth.

‘You and Mary were very close,’ I say. ‘It’s going to take time.’

Pearl puts down her cup. ‘If only I had known that Wednesday afternoon would be the last time I’d see her alive.’

‘You weren’t to know. Even I saw Mary that day, and I didn’t think she looked unwell.’

Pearl takes another sip of her tea. ‘She announced she’d finished her book and self-published it on Amazon.’ I watch Pearl gaze into the distance. ‘I didn’t even know she was writing a book. That was Mary – always full of surprises.’

Even though I’ve heard Pearl recount this story many times since Mary’s passing, I act like I’m hearing it for the first time, as I know this is part of the grieving process. ‘I’m impressed.’