Chapter 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.
‘I know but that’s a long way off,’ I say reassuringly.
‘Working as a team is not going to be easy,’ she says. ‘Iris and Hilda were right – you and I have built up a lot of resentment over the years.’
We head for my kitchen. ‘I’m going to give it my best shot, Florence.’
She slides onto a stool and smiles. ‘If we’re working together, shall we discuss tactics with Jane?’
‘Yes.’ I take the stool opposite her. ‘As I’m an experienced podcaster, I think I should lead.’
Her smile is wobbling. She blinks several times as if she’s misheard me. ‘Lead what?’
‘The conversation.’
She fiddles with a strand of her hair. ‘What shall I do?’
This will be a big challenge for Florence. ‘Listen and let me do the talking.’
She opens her mouth and then closes it again. ‘If this is what we need to do to pass the test, then I will do what’s needed. I will listen,’ she says as I lose my balance – probably in shock at what I heard – and fall off my stool.
Can Florence Hill actually listen and let someone else do the talking for once?
With a red face, I pick myself up and flick my eyes to the floor, avoiding eye contact. I can hear her giggling into her hands, which I ignore.
‘Is Jane at home?’ I ask.
Florence nods. ‘Let’s go, teammate.’
We cross the road to Jane’s house. She opens her door and, for a few moments, looks a bit startled to see us both standing on her doorstep this early in the morning. ‘Hi, Jane, Florence told me you’re interested in podcasting, and I wanted to see if I could help. I launched one last year.’
Her face lights up. ‘Really?’
I nod as a burst of excitement shoots across my chest. ‘Yes, and we were wondering whether we could have a chat about it sometime today…’
‘Or now?’ Florence presses. ‘Clark and I don’t have much time.’
My irritation levels flicker. Why does Florence have to pressure poor Jane? Creative conversations need to happen naturally and not be forced into a time slot.
Hang on. Maybe she’s right? We do need to get Jane’s project moving.
Jane glances at both of us and then holds the door ajar. She’s dressed in a T-shirt and jogging bottoms. Her brown hair is damp and hangs over her shoulders.
We enter her house and as we step inside her living room, Florence gasps at her bookcases. They look like Florence’s, I note, decorated with draping plants, twinkly lights and ornaments.
‘Jane, your shelves are stunning,’ she gushes, walking over to one and running her fingers over a few spines.
Jane beams. ‘They make me happy.’ She gestures for us both to sit down.
‘Tell us about your idea for a podcast,’ I say, once we’re all settled.
She sits in her armchair. ‘Well, my partner died two years ago, and I’ve been finding the loneliness a struggle.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that.’
She nods. ‘My idea is about helping others who are lonely.’
‘I’m sure there will be listeners out there feeling the same.’
Jane explains her idea for The Lonely-Hearts Podcast. I’m impressed by her idea. ‘I just want to record and get it out there,’ she says.
‘I understand. If I had an idea like that, I would be eager to get started.’
Jane looks at Florence. ‘Thanks for yesterday. You gave me a lot of confidence in my idea.’
‘About our chat,’ says Florence, her shoulders dropping slightly. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little strong with my own ideas on how you should go about it.’
‘She can be a bit bossy with me too,’ I jokingly add, which makes Florence poke me in the ribs.
Jane smiles. ‘It’s okay. I don’t have any fancy tech or ideas on social media strategy.’
‘You don’t need those, Jane.’ I explain how I recorded mine on a phone app and edited it on GarageBand on my laptop. I made artwork in Canva and signed up to a podcast platform, which handled all the hard work of distributing it.
She smiles. ‘That’s useful. It’s good to know a podcaster lives on my street.’
‘An experienced podcaster,’ I add, puffing up my chest, which causes Florence to raise an eyebrow.
Jane takes out her laptop. ‘I’ve already created some artwork. What do you both think?’
It’s a bold cover in a striking deep plum colour. The title font makes the gold lettering look handwritten, giving it an intimate feel. In the centre is a pile of white letters, and on top is a podcast microphone.
‘Jane – that’s brilliant. So eye-catching,’ gushes Florence.
Jane’s face lights up. ‘Last night I set up my podcast on a platform. Even got brave and have done some posting on social media.’
‘Oh really?’ Florence asks, taking out her phone. ‘Does your podcast have an Instagram account? I’d love to have a look?’
Jane nods. ‘Search for The Lonely-Hearts podcast. I posted my first reel. I was surprised at the reaction I got. A lot of re-posts and likes.’
I stare at her and ignore my mind, which cruelly reminds me of when I announced my podcast on Instagram. I got one like from Bread, who left me a comment about how fit his Liverpudlian girlfriend looked in the saucy underwear he’d bought her.
Florence gasps at her phone. ‘Your reel is great, Jane. You have mastered that hook.’ I listen as Florence plays the reel. ‘If you’ve ever felt like you’re the only one awake in the middle of the night, you’re not. Each week, a new letter from a lonely heart.’
I remember when I set up my podcast’s social media and thought about asking Florence for advice, since her Instagram book posts are so engaging.
But I changed my mind. Not wanting to give in to her.
An uncomfortable feeling takes hold of me.
After a deep breath, I banish that memory to the back of my mind and decide to focus on helping Jane, remembering that I am an experienced podcaster.
Florence and Jane are still talking about social media tips. ‘Wow, Florence, that’s such a good idea,’ gushes Jane as she looks at one of Florence’s book posts.
‘I’m going to look at your Instagram in more detail tonight.’ Jane beams. ‘Those carousel posts look so easy to create.’
Florence glances at me and deploys her infamous triumphant smile. She’s been using it on me since childhood. The moment she’s got one over on me it appears. It’s smug, sparkling and deeply irritating.
Every time I see it, I think back to the time she wrote the word IDIOT across my forehead in black pen while I slept on a family camping holiday.
She made that same smile at breakfast when I realised why everyone was laughing at me.
If I’m honest, she was seeking revenge after I’d put the biggest spider I could find in her sleeping bag, but I dismiss that.
That smile is her little victory flag. I always retaliate.
Jane sighs. ‘All I need now is the confidence to record my first episode. I would do it now, but I’m out this morning. Maybe I could, though, this afternoon?’
‘This afternoon works for me,’ I say, seizing the opportunity to showcase my skills to Jane.
‘What? Do some recording?’ Jane asks. ‘That would be great.’
Florence nudges me. ‘I’ll be in the café.’
‘I’ll help Jane, don’t worry.’
Leaning closer, Florence hisses, ‘We’re supposed to be a team.’
‘Can’t Laura cover today?’
Florence shakes her head. ‘She can’t do a day on her own. I feel bad as she hasn’t taken much holiday, and she’s got the afternoon off. You and I agreed to do things together. Can’t you wait for me?’
‘We don’t have much time, Florence,’ I remind her. ‘I will sort this task myself.’
Looking directly at Jane, I say, ‘Bring Jack, and I’ll lend you my microphone, and we can record your first episode.’
‘Oh, Clark, that would be amazing. Thank you,’ Jane says. ‘I already have two emails to read out from potential listeners.’
Excitement courses through my veins. ‘Wow – I’m looking forward to listening to this.’
Florence is scowling. I return the victorious smile to her, and she swaps her scowl for an angry glare.