Chapter 2
CLARK
Pearl and I sit opposite each other. Her face is shadowed, and her pale blue eyes lack the sparkle they once had. Her expression saddens me. ‘How are you?’ I ask.
She nods. ‘Much the same.’
Laura appears with Pearl’s pot of tea. She places a little teapot, a cup, and a saucer on the table. Before she leaves, she gives Pearl’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. ‘It’s on the house.’ Pearl looks up at her and smiles.
Once Laura goes away, Pearl continues. ‘Mary’s been on my mind all day.’
Pearl’s closest friend, Mary, died suddenly and unexpectedly a few weeks ago.
The day I found out, I’d popped around to see if she had any spare recycling bags.
I’d run out and couldn’t be bothered going to the shop.
She came to the door, and the sight of her tear-stained face broke my heart.
Pearl was devastated by Mary’s sudden passing.
I grabbed a bottle of red from my wine rack, and we sat in her kitchen for hours talking about her dear friend.
Pearl called Mary her ‘retirement sidekick’ and ‘the only person who made getting old and crinkly fun’.
They had both lost their husbands ten years earlier and had met at a senior ladies’ church fundraising event.
They shared a love of socialising: holidays in Spain and Greece, where they flirted with handsome waiters, and day trips to Blackpool, where they both got tipsy, sprayed their grey hair pink, and took photos of each other wearing silly hats.
Mary was lovely. A sweet lady who always baked me delicious cakes and, after a few glasses of wine, told rude jokes that made me blush.
Together, Pearl and Mary were a force to be reckoned with.
‘I never grieved when my husband died,’ Pearl says as she pours tea into her cup. ‘I never loved him. He was a mistake from the moment I agreed to marry him.’
I try to lighten her mood by acting surprised. ‘Really – you’ve never mentioned that.’
Her face softens, and I can see the ghost of a smile on her lips.
Pearl is always candid about her late husband and their marriage. I get reminded of his failings every week.
Neither my mother nor my mates can understand why I’m good friends with Pearl, my seventy-five-year-old neighbour.
We share the same sense of humour, a love of good-quality red wine, and an appreciation of Agatha Christie novels.
When we get together, the age gap disappears, and we’re like two regular friends.
Pearl also reminds me of my nan, but I have never admitted this, as she would moan about feeling old.
‘The pain of losing Mary has knocked me for six. I miss her so much.’ With a trembling hand, Pearl lifts her cup to her mouth.
‘You and Mary were very close,’ I say. ‘It’s going to take time.’
Pearl puts down her cup. ‘If only I had known that Wednesday afternoon would be the last time I’d see her alive.’
‘You weren’t to know. Even I saw Mary that day, and I didn’t think she looked unwell.’
Pearl takes another sip of her tea. ‘She announced she’d finished her book and self-published it on .’ I watch Pearl gaze into the distance. ‘I didn’t even know she was writing a book. That was Mary – always full of surprises.’
Even though I’ve heard Pearl recount this story many times since Mary’s passing, I act like I’m hearing it for the first time, as I know this is part of the grieving process. ‘I’m impressed.’
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.’
‘I lift heavier weights at the gym,’ I croak, wiping a layer of sweat from my forehead.
She scowls. ‘You were slowing down.’
‘No, I wasn’t. Why do you always have to muscle in on what I’m doing?’
It still amazes me how fast Florence and I can return to being those two bickering children who used to squabble and fight at family social events.
A car horn makes us jump, and an angry-looking man shouts, ‘Cross the bloody road!’
‘Calm down,’ yells Florence.
We both begin to stagger to the other side. I feel like I’ve just completed an insane cardio workout. Why do I pay all that money for an expensive gym membership and still struggle to run half a mile?
I try to catch my breath and rub my side as I have a stitch.
Lifting my head up, I see a silver car approaching the crossing in the opposite direction.
I don’t know why, but I’m strangely transfixed by it.
A loud bang makes me yelp. It sounds like one of the car’s tyres has blown.
For a few seconds, I watch the car lurch sideways.
The sound of screeching tyres and metal fills the air as the car’s rear end starts to sway. It gathers momentum. As it gets closer, I can see the driver’s face is etched with panic. He’s fighting to bring the car under control.
A sharp gasp is suddenly wrenched from my lungs.
It’s as if someone has flicked a switch and time has slowed to a crawl.
The car is dangerously close.
Oh, God, we’re going to get run over.
I reach for Florence.