Page 52 of The Time of My Afterlife

We both stare at each other, and then something odd happens – we laugh. Clark and I are in hysterics. Maybe it’s the relief of being given another chance at life, or we’ve finally realised that we’re both as stubborn as each other.

After we’ve composed ourselves, he taps the pen against the whiteboard before writing ‘Florence and Clark’.

Standing back, he surveys what he’s written. ‘I’m not sure what we can change about us. I’m already amazing…’

‘We need to become a team,’ I say, interrupting him. He smiles and puts a giant circle around our names.

‘Forget our differences,’ he says, nudging me.

‘That’s a big change,’ I add, which makes him chuckle. ‘Not sure the afterlife can make that happen.’

I take a marker square off the bottom board. I give the section a heading – ‘How do we become a team?’

He scratches his head. ‘I suppose we work together. Joint tasks?’

I glance at the list of names above ours. ‘Yes, because you can help me with Jane, and I can help you with Mary’s book.’

‘You’re right but these don’t feel like quick tasks – do they?’

I shake my head. ‘No, but all we can do is make sure that every day we work together in doing something to help our friends.’

‘Without arguing?’

‘Let’s not get carried away,’ I say, which makes us both chuckle.

‘Tomorrow, we sort out Jane,’ he says, putting a tick against her name.

‘Laura is opening the café tomorrow so I can go to work a bit later.’

He nods and holds my gaze for a few seconds. ‘It’s a deal.’

20

CLARK

The second I open my eyes the next morning, I’m hit by a powerful sense of relief – we didn’t die last night. Florence and I are still alive. We have been given another chance.

I was wrong about us only getting three attempts. There is still a chance we could die tonight, but I’m not thinking about that.

Things feel different. The sky outside my window looks brighter, the coffee from my old machine tastes amazing, and when I come downstairs Mr White Socks rushes over to cuddle me.

I call in sick again and explain to my boss that I’ve been up for a second night, throwing up. He sounds genuinely concerned. At the end of the call, I thank him for being so understanding. ‘Clark, that’s good to hear.’ The rise in octave in his voice suggests he wasn’t expecting such gratitude.

Dad’s left me a WhatsApp message about the football. Feeling bold, I text back:

I’m so glad we’re talking again, Dad.

Mum has texted me about her boiler, which is on the blink. Maybe I should phone her, advise her to call the gas company and at the end casually drop in that I’m back in contact with Dad? I decide against the idea. She’s already annoyed about her boiler.

There’s a knock at my door as I’m savouring the last drop of my wonderful coffee and polishing off the best buttery toast I have ever made. It’s Florence. She smiles, and I think back to her book-themed wedding planning. I made a joke of her C in GCSE Art, but if I’m honest, I thought it was quite sweet.

‘Come in,’ I say, holding open the door. As she passes, I can’t help but notice how good she looks today in her old denim jacket, black top and wide red trousers. Her long caramel-coloured hair has been pulled up into a ponytail. ‘How are you feeling today?’

She beams at me. ‘I think what happened yesterday has made me appreciate things more.’

I give her a knowing nod. ‘Me too. Even the air smells sweeter.’

‘We could still die tonight,’ she says, her voice wavering.