The Love of My Afterlife(7)

“Dead,” I repeat gently. “I’m so sorry.”

“Fuck. I had so many plans this August. What a gutter to miss London during the summer. It really is something magical.” He bites his objectively juicy-looking bottom lip. “The best city on earth.”

I immediately think of how the piles of bin bags on the street start to stink in the heat of the summer sun. How the rats become bold enough to emerge in the daylight and look you right in the eye. How the onslaught of tourists arriving into Paddington train station wheel their gigantic suitcases down my road at midnight, waking me up. I think of the chewy smog that feels unbearable when it’s warmed up in rush hour. Like pollution stew.

“Definitely.” I nod. “Magical.”

I glance down at the man’s tanned hands on my arms. It feels quite lovely, his skin on my skin. Usually when people touch me I get sweaty and anxious, the urge to either run away or kick them in the shin intensifying with each second of contact. But this? It feels…pleasing. Steady and soft and sensual all at the same time. Like a warm bubble bath on a brittle February day.

The man sees me staring at his hands on my arms and quickly removes them, shoving them into the pockets of his blue jeans.

“Yikes. Sorry. I didn’t realise I was totally grabbing you. Bit weird. Promise I’m not a perv.”

“It’s okay.” I tuck my hair behind my ears and giggle. I don’t think I’ve giggled since 2011.

“This is strange.” His eyes narrow. “And it probably sounds totally like a line, but…I…feel like I’ve met you before. Like I know you…Does that sound nuts? It does, right?”

I nod quickly because I realise I feel the exact same way. I mean, I know I’ve never met this man before. I know that. But, right now, I’m experiencing a sort of peaceful sensation that I haven’t felt around anyone else, ever. It’s like this man knows me. Like he already knows all my foibles and bad habits and stressy thoughts, and he couldn’t give a hoot. Like he likes me despite, well, me. Like I’ve been missing him my whole life. It’s a strange feeling. A good feeling. I scan his face. His teeth, his strong straight nose, and the exact cornflower blue of his eyes remind me an awful lot of Mr. Taylor, which is odd because I was just talking about him. The man’s gaze runs over my face and lingers on my lips for a moment. My whole body starts to tingle and fizz in response, like I’m a glittery snow globe that’s just been shaken. Everything surrounding me fades in comparison to the brightness of his presence. Who the hell is this man?

He laughs self-consciously and runs a hand across his jaw. “So, er, do you come here often?” He leans against the wall and does a silly over-the-top face. I grin, once more forgetting where I am or that I am, in fact, dead. This beautiful stranger is looking at me like no-one has ever looked at me in my entire life. Like I’m fascinating and pretty and not in any way a loser.

“You’re so young.” He frowns. “Too young to die.”

“You too.”

“Sucks.”

“Blows.”

“At least we’ll always be hot, I guess? Preserved.”

He said it. He thinks I’m hot. With my hair one day past acceptably unwashed and my weird nightdress. My cheeks flame. What is happening right now?

“Preserved,” I murmur. “Like lemon curd.”

He laughs out loud. “Lemon curd?” He takes a step closer to me, his voice suddenly low and intimate. “Tell me your name.”

I notice that his pupils are almost fully dilated. I…I think this is chemistry! This must be what it feels like to have instant chemistry with someone. Wow.

“My name is Delphie. Delphie Bookham.”

“It’s good to meet you, Delphie Bookham.” He holds out his hand and I take it. But we don’t shake. We just hold hands. If this were a film, there’d be sweeping orchestral music playing, a camera circling us as we stare at each other, maybe a cacophony of fireworks popping off overhead.

“What’s your name?” I return.

“I’m Jonah. Jonah T—”

I don’t get to hear the rest of his name because the door to Merritt’s office slams open and she runs in, goggling at Jonah and me. We jump apart, and Merritt, who appears to be holding a piece of fax paper, strides over, blond curls bouncing with each step.

“Hi!” she says through a gritted sort of smile, wide eyes blinking rapidly. “Jonah, right?”

“Um, yeah?” His voice breaks a little with shock at the interruption. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes. That’s me.”

“Hello, Jonah! Sooooo, I’m afraid there’s been a tiny little mix-up—it sometimes happens, but nothing to worry about.”

“What is it?” Jonah asks. He is no longer relaxed. His face has turned a ghostly white.

“Yeah.” Merritt blows the air out from her cheeks. “So good news, as it turns out! You are not actually dead, Jonah. Thing is, you’re just what we term an ‘unconscious visitor.’ Our systems can get a bit screwy and deliver us people who are not ready to be here.” Her eyes snag on the fax in her hand. “Not for a very long time, as it happens. So…”

And then, before Jonah or I can say or do anything, Merritt steps forward and presses her thumb right into the middle of his forehead. I scream as his whole body starts to shimmer before sort of bursting like a wet blowing bubble that’s just been popped.