Page 40 of The Time of My Afterlife

‘Let me do some research on marketing strategy for you.’

‘It’s okay, thanks, Florence.’ She rises from her chair. I sense she wants to leave. Bless her, she must be excited.

‘If you want to brainstorm some things, let me know,’ I add.

As she hurries out of my door, I wander back to the kitchen, reflecting on whether our chat was enough to pass the test. As I clear away our coffee cups and carry them to the sink, I freeze. A worrying question has popped into my head. Would the afterlife go to all this trouble to send me back here so that I can invite Jane in for a coffee?

Yes, because I helped her, I tell myself.

My mind disagrees. It reminds me of her eagerness to leave.

It reminds me of her eagerness to leave and replays our conversation, in which I was lecturing her on what equipment she needed. She looked uncomfortable. I sounded a bit bossy. I know I can be too assertive sometimes. Worry blooms inside me. Clark’s face flashes across my mind. I can’t believe I am saying this – but I need to speak to him.

16

CLARK

Florence is at my door. I hope she’s not come to drop off any bags of cat poop. I let her in and notice how strange it feels to see her entering my living room.

‘I think I’ve helped Jane but I’m not sure,’ she announces, nibbling on her thumbnail and flicking me a nervous glance. This is a new version of Florence. Her amber-coloured eyes are no longer bold, and her voice has been stripped of its usual growl.

I watch as she surveys my living room. Is that a look of surprise at my décor? In the two years I’ve lived on the cul-de-sac, Florence has never set foot inside my house.

I am proud of my living room. In the centre is a brown leather sofa, and opposite it is a solid wood coffee table with a slightly distressed finish. My walls are cream and adorned with large abstract artworks. I have a wall of shelves containing books, a few curated objects and an array of cactus plants.

‘Wow, this is not what I was expecting.’ She wanders over to browse my bookshelves.

I scratch my head. ‘Can I ask what you thought you would see?’

‘A lot of mess,’ she mumbles. ‘This is stylish and tidy.’

I smile. ‘The ladies like it.’

She scowls and heads for my kitchen. I watch her come to a shuddering halt in front of her dad’s photo, which is hung by the door. In the picture, Harry is standing in front of the barbecue at one of his legendary family parties.

Florence shoots me a look of complete shock. ‘You have a photo of Dad?’

‘He was a legend,’ I say. ‘I miss him a lot.’

She’s blinking at me but not saying anything.

‘It took me ages to feel like myself again after he died. This photo helps. When I look at it, I always hear his voice in my head, “Get the barbecue out, Clark”.’

‘I never knew that about you,’ she mumbles.

My mind brings back the uncomfortable memory of Harry, the one that often catches me when I least expect it. I had popped over to their house to give him a belated birthday gift: a bottle of his favourite whisky. Yvonne, Florence’s mum, had greeted me at the door and told me Harry was in his garage sorting out the car. She made a joke about how his beloved Jaguar was his mistress. I went out to the garage and found him collapsed on the floor. He’d had a stroke. It was one of the worst days of my life. When I saw him, he was still drifting in and out of consciousness. As I shouted for Yvonne, I took out my phone and dialled 999. Before the ambulance came, Harry managed to say something. It was hard to make out as his speech was slurred, but I caught enough. A promise. Florence was his little princess. It was no surprise that he asked me. I blinked back tears and said that I would carry out his wish. Even though Florence and I have been locked in a great war since childhood, and some days we struggle to even talk to each other, I would keep his promise.

It’s something I’ve never told Florence.

I remember his funeral. It was a grey and miserable day. The church was packed. He was a popular guy. Several people made speeches about him, his life and the dreadful jokes he would tell when drunk.

Florence’s speech was the best. She made the congregation laugh by discussing her father’s approach to barbecues. There was the preparation stage, which included Harry buying more booze than meat. He would say everyone was wrong, and they’d all have to eat humble pie when he’d made enough food to feed the street. The cooking stage was where he spent most of his time away from the barbecue, playing mini golf or howling with laughter with his mates. He would cremate the meat but would somehow make the most delicious fried onions. The eating stage would follow. Harry would eat more than his fair share of burnt hot dogs and be heard apologising to a load of hungry family members or friends that he didn’t make enough after all.

I can feel myself getting emotional as I think back on the memories. And I can sense that Florence might be doing the same. I need to distract us both. ‘What happened with Jane?’

She glances back up at her father and then at me. ‘I think it went okay.’

‘You think? What does that mean?’