Chapter 19
FLORENCE
What the hell is that noise?
Someone is hammering on my door. It must be Clark.
I’m tucked up in bed with a cup of hot chocolate and my romance book.
Earlier, I messaged Chris. When I think of him now, my heart flutters. I checked his Instagram account again, and there are still no photos of him. I’m praying he’s handsome, broad-shouldered, and has strong arms to cuddle me.
I’ve decided to be brave and encourage Chris to reveal his identity.
I think you should send me a selfie – I need to see what I am working with here.
I pull on my dressing gown and head downstairs.
Through the door, I can see Clark’s shape.
He strides into my house without waiting to be invited inside. ‘I found him.’
‘Mr Beaver?’
I watch him go and stand by the mantlepiece, nibbling his thumbnail. His face looks strained, and I sense things didn’t go to plan in Pixie Cove. An uncomfortable feeling takes hold of me.
His face is chalky white, and his eyes look puffy with tiredness. ‘Are you okay, Clark?’
The guilt at my decision to not go with him comes rushing back.
He lets out a heavy sigh. ‘I’m sorry, Florence, but I don’t think we will pass.’
My heart comes to a shuddering halt, and I can feel the blood draining from face. ‘Why?’ I croak.
‘I found him,’ he says, ‘I explained about Pearl and left him my contact details.’ He gestures to the armchair. ‘Can I sit down?’
‘Yes, you must be tired after driving all that way.’
He gives me an odd look before taking a seat. ‘Mr Beaver didn’t want to discuss the subject of Pearl. I have come away with nothing. The only thing I’ve changed is that I know his identity.’
I shiver and tighten the cord on my dressing gown. ‘Thanks for going all that way.’
His left eyebrow arches in surprise. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘You’re being nice to me.’
I roll my eyes and look away.
‘What about your chat with Jane?’ he asks. ‘You said it felt weird. Tell me what she said as there could be something we’ve missed.’
‘She told me about her idea for a podcast she’s starting, and I gave her some advice.’
His eyes narrow. ‘What do you know about podcasting?’
I feel a prickle of irritation. ‘I know about marketing.’
‘You should have spoken to me. I started a podcast last year.’
‘I know, and it was dreadful.’ The words fly out of my mouth before I can stop them.
A look of horror flashes across his face. ‘It was entertaining.’
I scoff. ‘Clark, you ran out of things to say after eight minutes and were forced to read out Bread’s awful emails.’
He glares at me. ‘That’s not true. I had too much content if you must know.’
I shake my head and cross my arms for extra show. ‘Clark, it was torturous.’
His mouth falls open. ‘You were the one who posted that two-star review.’
Oh, God. Why did I use the word torturous?
I might as well come clean. ‘Yes, I left you that review.’
The air between us feels charged.
He folds his arms. ‘You’re so annoying, Florence Hill.’
‘So, are you, Clark Fielding.’ Emotion is building inside me. ‘Why are we arguing like this?’ My voice crackles. ‘This could be our last night ever.’
The room goes blurry as my eyes become filled with hot, stinging tears. ‘This is a nightmare,’ I sob. ‘I don’t want to die.’
‘Florence, don’t cry,’ he says, rising from his seat and coming to the sofa. As he sits down there’s a faint tapping on the window.
‘What’s that?’ I ask as he rises, pulls aside my curtains, and gasps.
Outside my living room window, hundreds of butterflies have gathered.
I gaze in amazement, having never witnessed such a sight.
They fly against the glass repeatedly, fluttering their tiny wings.
Clark opens the window, and suddenly, they all swarm inside.
Breath catches in my throat as I stare at the kaleidoscope of Red Admiral butterflies that swoop past my bookcases.
My living room is suddenly ablaze with colour – deep red, velvet black and spots of white.
The afterlife has put on quite a show – the closing night performance for Clark and me.
A large butterfly breaks free and approaches me, dropping a white rolled-up piece of paper into my lap. The moment the message is delivered, they all rush back out through the window.
I brace myself. All my muscles tense. With trembling hands, I pick up the tiny rolled-up scroll. My fingers are quivering. I’m so scared.
‘Open it,’ says Clark, sitting down next to me.
Nausea mingles with fear inside my tummy as I carefully open it.
The words sting, but I am flooded with relief.
‘Not passed. Try again.’
We’re still here.
He leans over my shoulder, and he sighs. ‘Wow – I honestly thought we were going to die tonight.’
We both go silent. I close my eyes and silently thank Iris and Hilda for letting us have another go. When I open them, I glance at Clark, who looks like he’s doing the same. ‘Are you okay?’
‘I am busy silently thanking Iris, Hilda, your dad and my nan,’ he says, with a smile.
‘Me too, although I also need to start including Dad and your nan.’
I can feel the atmosphere between us has changed. It’s softer and not as charged.
‘Seeing all those butterflies was an experience,’ he says.
‘They were so beautiful.’
He gets to his feet. ‘Come on. We need to do some thinking. I can’t believe I am saying this, but we need your whiteboard.’
Oh, no! My heart starts thrumming. He can’t see it.
But he’s already heading towards it. ‘What the hell is this?’ he exclaims.
I rush over to him. ‘My future bookish-themed wedding. Please don’t look at it.’
It’s too late. He’s seen my ideas. The board is split into sections. Under ‘Book-themed aisle music’, I have written a few bullets.
Bridgerton string quartet?
Hobbit shire music?
Game of Thrones? (Too murdery?)
Under ‘Wedding Dress’, I have added:
Bronte-heroine chic – windswept hair, dramatic cape?
Fantasy warrior queen – armoured corset and sword?
There are other sections, but the most embarrassing is probably my badly drawn bride wearing a giant dress adorned with books, hearts and stars.
He glances at me. ‘I can see why you only got a C in GCSE Art.’
My cheeks are red hot, and I wish the ground would open and swallow me whole. It’s like I’ve shown him a piece of my soul.
I playfully swipe his arm. ‘You’ll be pleased to know that I have taken a screenshot of it, so if you want, you can wipe it away.’
With a wry smile, he picks up a cloth. ‘Are you sure you want to get rid of this… wedding planning masterpiece?’
‘Yes,’ I squeak, hoping he forgets about this.
‘Wow – this is kind of relaxing,’ he gushes as he cleans my board.
‘I told you. This brings me so much joy.’
He does such a good job that my whiteboard is spotless.
I hand over my pens. ‘Do you want the full experience and be a scribe?’
With a smile, he grabs them. At the top, he writes ‘Change Something’.
Underneath, he puts a sub-heading: ‘Help Others’.
He turns to me. ‘Any ideas?’
‘Let’s start with what we know,’ I propose. ‘Jane next door wants to start a podcast.’
‘You should have told me about Jane’s podcast project.’
‘You would have taken over, and I don’t like asking for your help.’
I watch as he taps the top of the marker against his chin. ‘Correct. If you had not been so stubborn, Florence, I could have got us a pass.’
My irritation levels spike. How dare he accuse me of being stubborn?
I take a deep breath and remind myself that we’re still alive.
Jane’s face appears in my mind. I recall how we shared the same interests and how easy she was to talk to before I ruined it with my bossiness. ‘I need to put things right with her.’
He gives me a disapproving look before writing ‘Jane and her podcast’ on the board.
‘Pearl and Mr Beaver,’ I say. ‘They need to be reunited.’
He nods and writes their names. ‘I’ve no idea how we do that, but we will just think as we go.’
I feel a prickle of irritation. ‘That’s something I can’t do, Clark. I am a planner.’
‘Florence, we don’t have time for that. You need to be more like me.’
He glances back at me and grins. I roll my eyes. ‘The day I become like you pigs will fly. What about Mary’s book?’
With a groan, he nods and adds her to the list. ‘I still haven’t finished reading it.’
‘Wasn’t her last wish for it to be a bestseller?’
‘Yes.’ He chews on the lid of my marker, which makes every part of me tense. I’m about to say something, but I let it go. We’re alive. That’s the important thing. I can buy a new marker.
‘You should have asked me. I can help with Mary’s book.’
He looks at me. ‘You would have taken over,’ he says, mimicking my words, ‘and I don’t like asking for your help.’
‘Correct,’ I say, in my best patronising-sounding voice. ‘If you had not been so stubborn, Clark, I could have got us a pass.’
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.’