Chapter 7
FLORENCE
My alarm saves me from a sweaty, panic-inducing dream featuring Iris, Hilda, Clark and that grotty bedsit.
We had failed the test. Hilda and Iris were handing over cleaning equipment, and Clark was reminding me he was going to be sleeping on the left side of the sofa bed.
I was about to scream when my alarm went off.
I wake gasping for air and with a thudding heart. Lying on my side, I spend a few moments staring at my beige wall and calming myself down. ‘You’re safe,’ I tell myself. ‘You can pass the test.’
Before my alarm goes off, I listen to the early-morning sounds from the cul-de-sac: Jane and her son Jack arguing about the state of his crumpled school uniform, Pearl across the road fussing over Clark’s annoying cat, and Molly slamming the front door so hard I feel the foundations of my house move.
I think back to the extraordinary events of yesterday, the handbag thief, the car accident and the afterlife.
If we hadn’t been given a chance to complete the test, I wouldn’t be here lying in this bed.
I would be dead. A shiver runs through me, and I pull my covers closer.
I think of Mum and how broken she was when Dad passed away.
Every time she set foot in the café, she would burst into tears as she expected to see him in front of his beloved coffee machine.
She didn’t want to be on her own, so I used to stay over and sleep in my old bedroom, which is now the spare room.
At night, I would hear her crying, so I would get up, creep into her room and give her a cuddle.
If I died, how would she cope? I think of her budding friendship with this chap called Steve, whom I’ve never met.
Without me here, he could take advantage of her, and there would be no one to stand in his way.
My brothers are on the other side of the world and only FaceTime Mum when they’re unwell or want some money.
Anxiety about Mum tries to engulf me, but I resist and get out of bed.
‘I can’t die,’ I say aloud. ‘I must pass this test, so I can carry on looking out for her.’
As I shower and change, I wonder who Clark decided to help. But thinking about Clark for too long always ends up putting me in a foul mood, so I decide to focus on my own plans.
Before I leave for work, I open my post and find a copy of a new romantasy book for me to review.
The striking violet cover shows a couple standing on a balcony, bathed in the soft pink light of a giant red moon with a silhouette of a sinister black dragon flying across it.
I place the book on one of my shelves, take photos, choose an image and upload it to Instagram, with a caption about ‘the beautiful new addition to my Tbr pile’, adding a few heart emojis.
I’m about to step out of the house when my phone buzzes with a new Facebook notification.
Maybe Chris has found me on there and has sent a friend request?
I open the app and groan. It’s not Chris.
Someone I went to school with has posted in the school reunion Facebook group that she’s on holiday in Devon and has bumped into our old maths teacher, Mr Beaver.
Apparently, he’s still angry, still hates everyone, and now lives there by the sea.
Her post makes me smile for a few seconds.
It soon disappears as I recall how Mr Beaver always made me and Clark sit next to each other.
In every maths lesson, I not only had to endure being taught by the worst teacher ever, but also had Clark in my ear, pointing out that all my calculations were wrong.
I recall Mr Beaver’s face and pray I never have the misfortune of bumping into that miserable old fart again.
I step outside my house and instantly feel the golden warmth of sunshine on my face.
Looking up, I see a cloudless blue sky, which gives me an instant smile.
It makes me think about how awful life would be if we failed the test and had to live in that bedsit from hell.
I would miss days like today. Yesterday’s experience was shocking and weird, but it has made me appreciate life more.
My eyes survey the cosy loop of red-brick houses that make up the cul-de-sac.
They were built in the late eighties, with tiled porches, white UPVC windows and matchbox-sized gardens at the back.
Inside, the rooms are compact, and the walls are paper-thin.
The houses curve into a broad horseshoe, with my little two-bedroomed semi-detached house at the entrance to the cul-de-sac, and Clark’s house directly opposite.
A car enters the road, turns around, and pulls up across the street. I look over to see who it is, and my heart sinks as I spot the driver of the pink Fiat. It’s Margo. Clark’s ex-girlfriend. To my horror, Clark is climbing out of her car. He spots me, and for a few moments, we stare at each other.
‘Thanks for the lift, Margo,’ he says. She flicks her long blonde hair and drives away. ‘Morning, Florence,’ he mumbles to me as my blood starts to simmer.
I can see the face of my ex, Ben, in my mind.
Ben is a local electrician. We met when he rewired my parents’ house.
I had been admiring him from the kitchen table as he sorted the wiring.
On the last day of the job, he asked me out on a date.
He was tall, blond, and full of cheesy yet funny chat-up lines like, ‘I think you tripped something. Oh… wait, it was my heart.’
When my father overheard us planning to go for a drink he warned me not to go.
He claimed Ben was not to be trusted as he had a ‘shifty look’ about him, the work he had done was shoddy, and he’d made too many bad jokes about Mum’s tea-making abilities.
I’d laughed at Dad and reminded him that I was in my late twenties and perfectly capable of making my own dating decisions.
I also pointed out that Mum’s tea was like drinking a cup of hot milk, and all Ben had done was ask whether she had scared the tea away.
Ben was the only person my dad ever warned me about, and I regret not listening. With retrospect, I should have trusted my father’s judgement, but back then, I believed I knew better. Ben and I dated for three years, and I thought it was love.
That was until he rewired a flat belonging to someone from the pub. He never told me who, but it was a lengthy job, and afterwards he became quiet and distant.
Hot on the heels of this is the memory which refuses to leave my mind.
That heart-stopping moment when I stood in the doorway of his bedroom after coming to surprise him. Ben, my boyfriend of three years, who was supposed to be off work with a stomach bug, was in bed kissing a woman who looked familiar.
My mouth fell wide open, and I started screaming.
He had been cheating on me with Margo, Clark’s girlfriend at the time. It was her flat he had rewired, and she’d also been taken in by his cheesy chat-up lines.
After everything that happened, I didn’t expect to ever see Clark getting back with her.
Clark must sense I’m angry. ‘It’s not what you think,’ he says.
Tears prick my eyes. ‘I don’t care what you get up to in your spare time.’
‘I slept at Bread’s house, and she drove past me at the bus stop. I’m late logging on for work.’ He runs a hand through his messy brown hair. ‘Why am I explaining myself to you, Florence?’
I lock my door and storm off up my path.
‘We have to meet up later, Florence – remember?’
I recall what Iris and Hilda said and groan. Clark and I must be together each evening for the message from the afterlife to appear. I briefly wonder whether we were supposed to meet last night, but I dismiss the thought.
He casts me a confident look. ‘Well, I think I might have passed the test.’
‘What, after a date with your two-timing ex-girlfriend?’
He crosses the road and comes towards me. ‘I’ve told you, she gave me a lift.’
He looks dishevelled. There’s a fresh lining of stubble on his chin, and he’s still wearing yesterday’s T-shirt. They’ve probably spent the night together. The thought makes anger bubble inside of me.
‘Come to the café at closing time,’ I say, through gritted teeth.
‘See you later.’
I storm off up the street, cursing Clark, Margo and Ben.
To take my mind off Clark, I take out my phone, open Instagram and see that Chris was the first to like my new post. I feel a little rush of excitement as I open the café.
‘Look at the queue,’ I exclaim, while processing a card payment and spotting the long line of customers snaking out of the café. ‘Normally we’re quiet after the commuter coffee rush.’
‘Signal fault,’ sighs a customer, shaking her head with disapproval. ‘They’ve promised buses, but no timescales given.’
‘We could be here awhile,’ groans another customer, staring up at our menu board. ‘I’m starving, and your toasties are calling out to me.’
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch Laura quickly glancing at her phone screen.
The corners of her mouth are curving into a smile, and her eyes have widened.
At first, I feel the prickle of irritation as we’re busy, but then it changes into a little twinge of envy.
I wish someone would message me all the time.
Maybe once Chris and I meet each other and fall in love, I’ll be the one in the café deluged by romantic texts?
My mind reminds me that I must pass the afterlife’s test before I can get carried away with Chris and our idyllic future together.
An uncomfortable feeling passes through me, so I return to making my customer’s order and block out the image of Clark’s annoying face.
Laura has been checking her phone all morning. It’s lunchtime, and my temper is starting to fray. ‘Can you put your phone away? We’re busy, and I need your support.’
She apologises profusely and goes into the kitchen to slide her phone into her bag.