Chapter 29
FLORENCE
His hug was surprisingly comforting and reassuring. He held me tight until I could cry no more. Hearing him explain how he’d sat in his car in the hospital car park, praying I wouldn’t lose the baby, made my anger towards him evaporate.
It was also shocking to hear about Gail’s miscarriage. I had no idea they all went through that and I can understand why he sat and waited for news.
He’s apologised profusely for masquerading as Chris.
His words are still echoing in my ears as we resume our journey. ‘I just wanted to make sure you were okay and to get you smiling again.’
I have a nagging thought that won’t leave me alone – Clark, my childhood enemy, might have been on my side all along.
We are making lots of eye contact, and he’s made me laugh a few times.
‘Do you know what we should do?’ he suggests.
‘What?’
He fiddles with his car stereo. ‘Listen to Jane’s podcast.’
I gasp. ‘That’s a great idea.’
He hands me his phone, which is connected to the car’s speakers. ‘It’s on my Spotify. I downloaded the episode earlier.’
I find Jane’s podcast and admire her artwork. ‘I love her cover.’
‘It’s so eye-catching, isn’t it?’ He laughs. ‘Better than the artwork I made for my own podcast.’
I smirk mischievously. ‘The odd-shaped football.’
‘Careful,’ he jokes.
I press the play button and turn up the volume.
The car suddenly fills with a lonely, wistful melody. Then it blooms into something warmer and more vibrant. Clark and I share a shocked look.
‘She followed your advice,’ he says, tapping the steering wheel. ‘It’s a lot better than my funeral march piece.’
‘I’m proud of her,’ I say. ‘While we were acting like kids, she went home, changed the music and smashed it.’
Jane’s voice comes through Clark’s car speakers.
‘“Welcome to The Lonely-Hearts Podcast. In each episode, I read out anonymous letters from lonely hearts, hoping that one day they’ll find the courage to break free from their loneliness.
‘“I’m not a trained medical professional. I’m just someone who is still going through hell after my partner died. The loneliness I have experienced is unlike any I have ever felt.
‘“It has been a dark period in my life. I have felt alone and vulnerable.
‘“Creating this podcast is my escape from loneliness.
‘“My podcast is simply a listening post for those of us who feel lonely and are starting to wonder whether they will feel loved again. You will hear stories from new listeners and updates from our regulars on how they are doing in their fight against loneliness.”’
We both look at each other like two excited children.
‘This sounds amazing,’ I exclaim. ‘Oh, Jane, you sound so good.’
Clark laughs. ‘She already sounds better after twenty seconds than I did after fifteen episodes.’ I giggle, and he chuckles. ‘Sad but true, Florence.’
Jane’s voice sounds warm and intimate. Like a late-night confession on a radio show from the eighties.
‘“On this week’s show, we’re going to be hearing from listener PippaPeepToes, who has been struggling with loneliness due to being single, as all her friends are either rushing up church aisles or pushing out babies.
‘“We will also be hearing from RestlessinWigan, who hasn’t felt herself since the love of her life left for a new life in Spain.”’
We listen intently to an email from PipppPeepToes, who shares her story, noting that she’s surrounded by friends who seem to be going in different life-stages than she is.
She has no desire to have children or get married.
Then Jane moves on to a heartbreaking email from RestlessinWigan, who is missing the love of her life, who left to join the Spanish fire service because he was originally from Madrid.
Clark and I are speechless. Jane’s podcast is so engaging and captivating.
‘What a great idea for a podcast,’ he says when the episode finishes.
I want to help Jane promote the podcast, so I open my Instagram and add the podcast link to my story with the words #Mustlisten.
‘I’ve shared the link with my followers,’ I say, while Clark focuses on the road ahead.
He nods. ‘I’ll share it too. I’m so proud of her for doing that.’
The memory of her sitting in my house gathering the courage to tell me about her secret project rushes back to me.
I recall how I started lecturing her on editing software, marketing and release schedules.
She didn’t need all that. All Jane needed was someone to say ‘just start’.
And ‘you will find a way’. It makes me think of all my life plans I have made.
All the things I have wanted to do but have put off due to thinking they were too hard or not as shiny as the next new idea that pinged into my brain.
Planting those seeds wasn’t difficult and nor was watching Clark decorate the upper floor of the café.
All I needed were those words ‘just start’.
By the time we reach Pixie Cove, I feel like a different person.
Pixie Cove looks like it was plucked from a romantic comedy. It’s the perfect setting for a cosy romance in a sleepy coastal town.
It has narrow cobbled lanes, white cottages that lean into one another like good friends and a strip of golden sand.
‘Wow,’ I exclaim, watching the boats bob lazily on the water. ‘What a fabulous place. I can see why Pearl and Mr Beaver fell in love with it.’
Clark comes to stand by me. ‘It’s a shame Pearl will never get to see Pixie Cove again.’
I look up at the slate-grey cliffs hemming in the little coastal town and the swooping seagulls in the peacock-blue sky. ‘Why not? She must see this place again, Clark.’
He nods. ‘You’re right. She needs to return to Pixie Cove.’
‘Where does Mr Beaver live then?’
He points up to the top of a cliff where a lonely cottage sits.
‘Wow – he must have amazing views.’
‘First,’ says Clark, ‘I want to show you something.’
‘What?’
He leads the way until we come to Pixie Cove’s bookshop. ‘I know you love books. You should have a quick look in here. It’s also where I…’ He pauses. ‘Bought you that notebook.’
I smile. ‘You have good notebook taste.’
The bookshop feels like something out of one of my dreams – when I am not being terrorised by the afterlife.
It has creaking floorboards, overstuffed shelves, a reading nook which looks out over the beach and the wonderful smell of old paper and vanilla. We both wander around for far too long with goofy smiles on our faces. ‘It’s so lovely,’ I whisper as we meet at the back in the history section.
He is staring at me. His jade eyes have a new intensity. ‘Florence,’ he whispers, reaching out to take my hand, ‘I’m sorry about what happened with Chris.’
I step closer to him. ‘You were looking out for me.’
With his thumb, he rubs the back of my hand. ‘Always.’
My heart feels like it’s about to burst out of my chest. He leans towards me and I can’t believe what is going through my head right now – I hope Clark kisses me.
Deep inside me a little voice asks, Isn’t that what you have spent a lifetime hoping for?
‘Do you need any help?’ The bookshop owner appears, making us both jolt and step back. Blushing, I hide my face with my hair and listen to Clark tell her that we’re just browsing.
He grabs my hand, and we race out of the shop and into the sunshine.
We get back into the car and all I can think about is what that voice inside me asked. Have I really been waiting a lifetime for his kiss? Surely not.
‘Are you ready to see Mr Beaver again?’ Clark asks.
I take in a breath of salty sea air. ‘As ready as I ever will be.’
As the car follows the winding road up to the top of the cliffs, I check my phone and see that a few of my book friends have re-shared my story about Jane’s podcast.
We park up outside a cottage painted duck-egg blue. It looks sad, stuck out here on its own, with peeling paint in places and one of its shutters hanging on by only a few screws.
The white door is weather-beaten, and the brass knocker with the angry face makes me smile.
We knock, and there’s no reply. I’m about to suggest to Clark that we go for a coffee and come back later when I hear noises inside. The familiar sound of Mr Beaver moaning drifts through the wood.
He opens the door and gasps.
‘Mr Beaver,’ I say, with a bright smile. ‘What a lovely surprise.’
Goodness me, he still looks the same from our school days. His grey hair looks like a giant pile of cobwebs, his jumper looks like it’s being held together by a few loose bits of wool and his slippers look like they should be in a museum.
‘Florence Hill,’ he snaps, ‘I hoped I would never see you again after your dreadful attempts at algebra.’
‘Likewise,’ I say, with a big smile.
He tries to shut the door on us, but I jam my foot inside so he can’t close it. ‘We would love a tea, Mr Beaver.’
‘I have already told Clark that I don’t want visitors.’
‘Mr Beaver, I know you’re waiting here for Pearl. I know you told her once you’d wait for her in Pixie Cove.’
Mr Beaver stares at me and his face looks like he’s been frozen in time.
‘Can we come inside?’
His expression flickers back to life. We then embark on a glaring match – me versus Mr Beaver.
It’s like I’ve been transported back in time to my school days, and he’s handed me my results with the words ‘THE WORST MATHS TEST I HAVE EVER MARKED’.
I was a defiant and plucky twelve-year-old who refused to show fear in front of him.
I used to think he would love to see me cry over my results, so I refused to give him what he wanted.
To my amazement he backs down first. His face flickers and with a sigh he opens the door wider.
I feel Clark’s warm hand on my shoulder. I glance back and he smiles. ‘You are amazing, Florence Hill,’ he whispers. ‘Annoying at times but amazing.’