Page 34 of The Time of My Afterlife

She giggles. ‘The lightbulb in my bedroom doesn’t work. I think it needs changing. I have a spare bulb, and it’s on my dressing table upstairs waiting for you.’

‘Do you want me to do it now?’

She smiles. ‘I’ll pop the kettle on, and you can sort out my lightbulb. Perfect.’

Stepping inside her room is like going back in time to my parents’ bedroom when I was little. She has the same taste in wallpaper as my mum, a heavy floral print in different shades of pink. Like Mum, Pearl is also a fan of matching curtains. Her bed is neatly made, and on top is a pink crocheted throw. The air is scented with lavender, and the same Nivea face cream my mum has used for years.

Using a chair, I quickly swap the bulbs and check the switch. Her light is working again. I’m about to leave when I notice a framed black-and-white photo on her dressing table. I take a closer look. It shows a young man and a woman ballroom dancing. I recognise Pearl in her younger days. Her expression is poised and luminous. Wow – she looks amazing. Her dress has flared into a perfect swirl. I look at her dance partner, dressed in a sharp tuxedo and holding her in classic ballroom form with confident posture. The lighting is soft and grainy, giving it unmistakable charm.

My eyes fall to the lace runner spread across her dressing table. On it lie a silver hairbrush and a delicate necklace with a musical-note charm. The charm reminds me of something. I flick my attention back to the photo and to her dancing partner, with his slicked-back black hair and piercing dark eyes. A wave of familiarity washes over me. I know he’s not her husband, as she once showed me a photo of him, the one who she hated. He had fair hair and blue eyes.

Where have I seen those dark eyes before?

I’m about to leave when I notice the light bouncing off the tiny musical charm, making it wink at me. Strange – I’m sure I’ve seen something similar before. Taking out my phone, I snap a picture of the photo and the charm.

After leaving Pearl’s room, I head downstairs for that cup of tea she promised.

‘Did you fix it?’ she asks as I enter the kitchen.

‘All done. You now have light.’

‘Super,’ she says, before lifting her teapot and filling up two cups. ‘Thank you, Clark. Shall we drink our tea in the living room? I polished in there yesterday.’

I smile as she adds a drop of milk and stirs them. ‘Thank goodness you’ve dusted because I would have refused if you hadn’t,’ I say, jokingly.

She gestures for me to grab the cups and to follow her. Pearl’s living room has a similar décor style to upstairs, with pink floral wallpaper, matching curtains with tiebacks, and more signs that a prolific crocheter has been at work. There are crocheted cushion covers, a selection of crocheted sofa throws, and all the little tables contain crocheted mats. We normally sit in her kitchen when I come over, so this is a treat.

Once she sits down on a pink velvet wing-backed chair and I take the sofa, I decide to broach the subject of her mysterious true love. My mind keeps replaying the image of the male dancer in the photo.

‘While fixing your light,’ I say, ‘I saw the photo of you from your ballroom-dancing era.’

I watch her face light up, and her crinkly blue eyes twinkle. ‘Oh, they were happy days!’

‘You looked fabulous.’

She casts me a coy look. ‘I don’t like to boast, but I think I was the best-dressed female dancer.’

‘Who was your partner?’

Something flickers across her face. She clasps her hands together and presses them against her chest. ‘That was the man I should have married.’

Bingo – this is what I want to hear. If Florence were here with me, I would be boasting a triumphant grin.

‘I know you’re guarded about revealing his identity, but don’t you want to find out what happened to him?’

Her hands are still pressed against her chest. I can see she’s squeezing them so tightly her knuckles are going white. ‘I’m scared, if you must know.’

‘Scared?’

‘That he found someone he truly loved and never thought of me again.’ Her voice crackles. She fishes out a hankie from her cardigan sleeve and dabs at her eyes.

‘But what if he still thinks of you? What if he’s been waiting for you to find him?’

She remains silent.

‘You would regret not knowing.’

Releasing her hands, she touches one of her silvery curls. ‘I don’t think he’d want to see me in my old age.’