Page 4 of The Time of My Afterlife

Pearl smiles. ‘She made me promise her two things on that Wednesday afternoon.’

I sit up straighter. ‘Oh, what were they?’

‘If anything should happen to her, I had to make sure her book became a bestseller and that I was to track down my long-lost love.’

Pearl has always confided in me about her personal issues, including her love life. This surprises me. I’m a thirty-one-year-old single man who, before moving next door to Pearl, avoided emotional conversations. Pearl has pushed me out of my comfort zone, and sometimes our chats at this table in Florence’s café sound like something from Oprah.

She claims her life has been spent thinking about her true love and what happened to him after she told him she’d agreed to marry someone else. Frustratingly, she refuses to share his details, despite my suggestions to search for him online – she seems to hope he will find her. If he’s in his late seventies too, I reckon he’s probably spending time with his family or bird watching from the comfort of his armchair – not spending hours searching for a woman he’s not seen for decades. I don’t tell her this.

‘Clark, would you help…’ she asks, but I don’t hear what she’s saying as I’m distracted by the sight of Florence laughing at a customer’s joke. The young man looks like a commuter with his laptop bag slung over his shoulder. I watch Florence’s eyes light up as he tells her something funny. It fills me with irritation.

Florence has always had a ‘Don’t Mess with Me’ expression when it comes to the two of us. Her honey-coloured eyes glow with anger, and her long golden hair resembles a lion’s mane. Paired with her voice – a deep, rasping growl – she leaves me constantly on edge. She’s also the only person who pushes all my buttons and keeps going until I want to scream. Like earlier when I spilt my drink.

The man with the laptop leaves the counter with his coffee, and Florence’s eyes meet mine for a fraction of a second. They have that familiar flat, unimpressed look about them. She might be the most annoying person in the world, but she has two saving graces: her late father, Harry, a legend, and this café.

I don’t like telling her, but this is one of my favourite places, just a stone’s throw from where we live. I work from home, and coming here breaks up my day. I’m a project manager, and all I seem to do is manage chaos and stop myself from crying quietly while updating an Excel spreadsheet. Also, I have the world’s worst coffee machine at home. It’s old, temperamental and lets out a groaning sound every time it tries to make my drink.

This place is so vibrant, with its blue windows, wooden flooring, and the clever lettering on the door, which says One last chance to grab a nice coffee. You can’t help but smile as you enter. Inside the chairs are mismatched, and the air always smells of coffee and delicious toasties. It’s popular with both locals and commuters.

‘Clark, are you listening?’ Pearl asks, before sipping her tea.

As I turn back, a young lad with his hood up lunges at Pearl’s handbag. He snatches it and bolts for the door.

‘Stop, thief,’ I shout, rising from my chair.

Pearl screams as she realises her handbag’s been stolen.

I rush for the door and crash into Sam, who also lives on my cul-de-sac. He casts me a bewildered look as I race outside.

I’m giving chase when I hear footsteps behind me. I glance back and spot Florence not far behind. Frustration takes hold. I can deal with this. Does she have to get involved? ‘Go back, Florence,’ I yell, ‘I’ve got this.’

It’s then she charges up alongside me. She’s pumping her arms and rotating her legs like a professional athlete. A reminder to me that Florence was a long-distance runner in her youth and still goes to the gym regularly. ‘Go home,’ I shout.

She shakes her blonde head. ‘I’m faster than you, Clark. You go home.’

Anger bubbles inside of me. ‘Can’t you let me sort this?’

‘I’ll get Pearl’s handbag back.’

‘He might have a weapon,’ I gasp as we sprint up towards the main road.

Florence scowls. ‘I can handle him.’

Biting the inside of my cheek in frustration, I turn my attention to the thief. The gap between us is closing. He’s flailing his arms, which makes me wonder if he’s slowing down. If I press on, I could catch him.

It’s late May, and it’s warm. Perspiration is dripping from my forehead, and my legs feel like lead. To my dismay, Florence doesn’t look like she’s broken a sweat. I’m not letting her win this battle.

We come to the main road. The thief has dashed across and is now climbing over the barrier in the middle of the road. He’s waiting for a gap in the traffic in the far lane.

Florence and I head for the crossing. As we charge across the road, the lad jumps into a white van, and it speeds off. We both come to a stop in the middle of the pedestrian crossing.

I bend over and gasp for breath. ‘Oh, great, we’ve lost him.’

‘If you had left me alone, I would have caught him,’ says Florence.

Irritation is coursing through my veins. ‘I was handling it.’

‘I am faster than you, Clark.’ She puts her hands on her hips. ‘I am also in better shape than you.’