Page 37 of The Time of My Afterlife

She smiles. ‘I’m free now, and I could murder a coffee.’

Oh, God, she agreed.

I hold the door for her as she walks up my path. ‘This is very nice of you, Florence,’ she gushes.

‘I should have done this two years ago,’ I mumble, silently praying this isn’t awkward. ‘Come inside.’

Jane enters my house. She steps into my living room and points at my bookcases. ‘We have something in common. I’m also a bookworm.’

I take a step back in surprise.

‘I also have an impressive collection. My life motto is “shelf care is self-care”.’

I let out a nervous giggle. This is something I wasn’t expecting.

‘You will have to come and see my shelves sometime.’

‘It’s a deal,’ I say, feeling my shoulders soften. ‘I love your motto. When I’m feeling down, I glance at my pretty bookshelves and feel better.’

‘Me too.’ Jane beams. ‘What’s your favourite genre?’

‘It was crime and thrillers, but I’m getting back into romance. You?’

She lets out a sigh. ‘Romantasy. Anything with dragons and handsome men in head-to-toe leather with long, wavy hair.’

We both laugh, and the awkwardness washes away. She points to my candle. ‘I love the old bookshop scent too. You’ve got good taste.’

I smile. ‘I often put it on and imagine I’m lost in a beautiful old bookshop.’

Jane nods. ‘With wooden ladders that move.’

I think of Ruth. ‘My book friend has a ladder for her bookcases.’

‘Does she boast about it?’

‘She sends me selfies of her hanging off it.’

Jane mockingly rolls her eyes. ‘How rude.’

We both laugh before heading for my kitchen. On the way, we pass my whiteboard. Jane lets out a squeal. ‘This is fab. Do you use it a lot?’

I nod. ‘It’s been my saviour.’

She surveys it and nods. ‘Very retro. I need one too. Oh, look, you have a good selection of pens and cloths. Love it.’

I make us both a coffee, and we carry our mugs to my breakfast bar table.

We sit opposite each other, and for the first time in two years, I get to look properly at Jane. We must be similar in age. Like me, she wears her hair up in a messy bun, has a heavy fringe that frames her face, and favours minimal makeup. She looks like someone I would be friends with.

‘Nice coffee,’ she says after a few sips. ‘Thanks for treating me to one of your posh coffee pods.’

‘Thanks, coffee and books are my two essentials in life.’

She smiles, and we go quiet. I watch her survey my sunny yellow kitchen and blue wooden cupboards. Her eyes settle on my photo of Dad on the wall. It was taken during a family holiday to Santorini, where he’s laughing, in a blue Hawaiian shirt, pink shorts, and leather loafers, holding a glass of Ouzo and a cigar. He stands on a roof terrace with white buildings, some with blue domes, and the blue Aegean Sea in the background.

‘Is that your dad?’

‘Yes, it is. Sadly, he’s no longer with us. I miss him a lot. His photo being in here means I talk to him every day, though.’