The Time of My Afterlife

Chapter 1

FLORENCE

It’s one thing to hate someone from your past, but it’s a whole other level of torture to serve them coffee every day and refrain from throwing a pastry in their face.

Of all the people to become my café’s best customer, it had to be Clark Fielding – the boy I have detested since I was six, and the man who tells me on a regular basis that his coffee doesn’t taste quite right.

To make things worse, he is annoyingly attractive, with a strong jawline, thick brown hair, jade-green eyes, and a boyish smile. Looks aren’t everything, I tell myself as I drag my eyes away from his face.

‘Thanks, Florence,’ he says as I pass him his cappuccino before quickly turning to greet the next customer. The less time I spend interacting with Clark, the better.

I make the next order – a flat white to take away for a man who is about to catch a train.

He is busy telling me about the long three-hour journey ahead of him.

I act like I’m listening to how he must change twice and that he won’t get home until late evening, but really, I’m spying on Clark sitting by the window.

Clark and I have been arguing since we were six.

Our families were close, and because we are the same age, we always had to play together.

He began the conflict shortly after my sixth birthday by tossing my Barbie doll over the garden wall, which then got run over by a huge truck – an unforgivable act at that age.

Laura, who works for me at the café, comes to the counter carrying a tray of dirty cups and glasses. Once the man with the long journey ahead of him shuffles away, she smiles and nods towards Clark. ‘You look flustered. I might have known he’d arrived.’

‘I’m not flustered,’ I snap, before taking the order from an older lady with a mass of springy black curls.

The hissing espresso machine drowns out the distant rumble of an approaching train and the screech of its brakes at the station down the road.

Laura grins as she passes on her way to the kitchen.

I make the woman’s latte and take her payment. She smiles, and I find myself distracted by her dark curls, which in places are threaded with strands of silvery grey. ‘I used to come to this café all the time before I moved to London. You and your father used to run it back then.’

‘Yes, we did,’ I say as she takes her coffee cup.

She surveys the peacock-blue window frames, the terrazzo tables, the mismatched chairs and the black chalk menu board on the cream wall, filled with the dishes we serve, my heart doodles, and inspirational life quotes written in little bubbles. ‘It’s still a lovely place.’

I watch her leave as my mind becomes flooded with memories of Dad.

He would always be cracking jokes, making everyone in the queue giggle and making the bold claim that he was the world’s greatest barista.

We had a lot of fun. My heart lets out a series of aches.

‘Dad, I miss you,’ I whisper and glance at the notice board near the counter.

A photo of him takes centre stage, surrounded by leaflets promoting yoga classes at the community centre, the monthly car boot sale at the cricket ground and a local book club.

In the photo, Dad is laughing at the camera whilst standing in front of our gleaming coffee machine, proudly holding up one of his speciality coffees.

The Last Chance Café was our project after we both ditched our corporate jobs and decided to start a father-daughter business.

It is a few doors away from the railway station.

As the buildings on either side are made of sooty brickwork, our café, with its bold blue-and-white striped awning and white exterior, stands out as a burst of colour.

I like to think it’s the sort of contrast that makes tired commuters blink several times in surprise as they step out of the station.

We wanted it to be a place where stories begin over a coffee, a few minutes before a train leaves, or during a lengthy delay.

My eyes flick to the staircase which leads upstairs.

It’s currently displaying a ‘No-Entry’ sign.

I feel the familiar twinge of guilt. When Dad died three years ago, I took the café on and silently vowed to make him proud.

Dad and I often found ourselves daydreaming while making coffee and toasties about converting the unused upstairs into a cosy, inviting living area.

We always felt sorry for the tired commuters whose trains were delayed and who were far from home.

We imagined how a comfy sofa or armchair could help them relax, stretch out, and enjoy a good book.

Our dreams also included extra space for families travelling with young children.

Once decorated, the first floor would be warm and welcoming, with cosy sofas, bookcases, and a spacious table perfect for playing games and passing the time.

It would also work for our local community, as I could run parent-and-baby events and book clubs.

If Dad is watching from heaven, I know he would want to know why I haven’t started upstairs yet.

Whenever I plan to begin the project, life throws another obstacle in my path, or when I finally go upstairs, I find something that reminds me of Dad, and my motivation fades.

Laura reappears. She’s emptied her tray and is now engrossed in her phone.

It’s probably the new man in her life. She won’t give me any details about him, saying it’s early days.

I would love to know how she met him. A few weeks ago, during one of our nights out in the cocktail bar in town, she told me she was fed up with dating apps.

They all matched her up with the same type of bloke – a lover of orange spray-tans, turkey teeth and beige rollnecks all year round (even in hot weather) and who sends her unwanted photos of their body parts as part of their introductory message.

She hasn’t had an easy time with love, which surprises me given how stunning she is.

Today, her long, wavy brown hair is pulled up into a high ponytail.

Her button-shaped dark eyes sit beneath a thick roof of lashes that don’t need mascara, and she has one of those naturally slim figures where you can eat anything and still not put on any weight.

I ordered one of those figures, but God had other plans for me.

The café door jangles, and a crowd of teenage girls from the local secondary school walks in.

I glance at the clock and let out a silent groan.

School has finished. For the next hour or so, my little café will be filled with piles of school bags, the blare of TikTok videos, and the constant tap of long nails on tiny screens as they furiously message each other.

Then most of them will leave to run for their train home, and the café will breathe a sigh of relief.

After I serve two girls, I see Molly, Laura’s fourteen-year-old daughter, at the counter. She spots her mum staring at her phone and rolls her eyes.

‘Hello, Molly,’ I say with a smile. ‘How was school?’

Her long black hair is pulled into a messy half-up style that I know took her far longer to create than she would admit.

A few long strands frame her face. She blinks a few times.

Despite being at school all day, her makeup is perfect.

Her eyeliner looks like it was applied by a professional.

I love the way she has drawn perfect, tiny wings that flare outwards at the sides of each eye.

I’ve known Molly ever since Laura bought a house in the same cul-de-sac as mine three years ago.

After Dad died, Laura came to work for me in the café, and Molly began calling in on her way home from school.

Molly has always been a bubbly and lively girl.

We always have a laugh, and she makes serving the school crowd easier.

Lately, I have noticed a change in her though.

Her sunny disposition has been replaced by a dark, sullen look.

Laura claims it’s teenage hormones and moans about how Molly has become a stroppy madam.

Molly is staring at her mum, who in turn is smiling at whatever is on her phone screen. She sighs, her shoulders dropping a bit.

‘Your usual milkshake?’ I ask, keen to distract her. ‘Nice day at school?’

She turns back and casts me a pained expression. ‘I had double science, maths, RE, and I tripped on the stairs, which made all the Year 10 lads laugh. Does that sound like a nice day to you, Florence?’

Her friends in the queue start to giggle. I wish I hadn’t asked. Laura puts her phone away and spots her daughter. ‘Hello, Molly, you okay?’

Molly scowls at her mum and turns away. I sense there’s something troubling her, and it’s not all to do with hormones.

‘Aren’t you speaking to me? Molly?’ Laura is waiting for an answer, and Molly is busy ignoring her whilst drumming her long pink nails on the counter.

This is awkward. I cast my eyes out of the window for a bit of respite and get distracted by my neighbour, Jane, and her young son, Jack, who are passing by the café window.

A memory from the other day rushes to the front of my mind.

Jane was sitting in her car when I got home from work.

Her shoulders were slightly hunched, her face was turned just enough that the light caught the shine on her cheeks, and she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue.

Her emotional state made my chest tighten.

I wanted to go and ask her if she was okay, but a little voice from deep within reminded me I hadn’t spoken to her since she’d moved in two years ago.

This was followed by a flush of embarrassment.

I’m always busy, and she and Jack never come into the café, so we’re practically strangers.

It would have been awkward, so I hurried up the path and went into my house.

‘Florence,’ Molly says, making me jolt. ‘My milkshake?’