Jules Preston - The Map of Us - The most uplifting and unmissable feel good romance of 2018!

‘Yes?’ I said.

No shrugging.

‘He’s not happy.’ She said.

‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ I said.

Must not shrug.

‘He said that there was some problem with the new Seedy-Pea-Nut-Slices?’

‘Really?’ I said.

I could feel my shoulders tighten and lift slightly.

‘Something about squirrels,’ she said.

‘How odd,’ I said.

Shrug averted. That was close. Now I just had to stop myself from smiling. Trish had drafted a policy document about smiling in the workplace. It was stuck on the wall in the kitchenette. In her view, smiling was the sign of an idle mind. She thought it looked unprofessional and insincere. She wanted her team to remain impassive and focused. She did her very best to lead by example. Apart from the whole wasp in the ear thing.

‘I thought that Helen was helping you?’ Trish said.

‘Helen was great,’ I said, suddenly aware that I shrug when I lie as well. Too late.

‘Sort it out,’ she said.

‘I will,’ I said.

And then I was dismissed.

I was glad. Trying not to shrug had really taken it out of me. I was exhausted.

The Group Imaginative Thinking Session at Bearing Foods was not going well. Daniel Bearing’s father didn’t like the term ‘brainstorming.’ He thought it sounded outdated and silly. Group Imaginative Thinking Sessions were his idea. They happened once a week. It was part of his legacy. They also had an unfortunate acronym.

Daniel’s father had recently retired and was now living in the Outer Hebrides in a former shooting lodge that had its own stone harbour and a beach of pure white sand and nine bedrooms and views to the Isle of Skye. He had worked hard for over thirty years so that he could live peacefully among puffins and grey seals and bottle-nosed dolphins in the middle of the North Atlantic. The constant buffeting of the wind was playing havoc with his hair implants.

Daniel was in charge now. He could call the weekly sessions anything he wanted to. He didn’t really care one way or the other. Everyone just argued about the same things they always did. Mostly about cashews being too expensive and the laxative effect of eating too much coconut and whether chocolate chips really had any place in a low-fat snack bar.

Daniel Bearing wasn’t really listening. He had a lot on his mind.

Dear Matilda

Just a quick note to let you know that washing machine No.76 arrived safely earlier today. How exciting. I doubt it will last any longer than the others, but it looks very fine in its cardboard overcoat. I haven’t unpacked it yet. It’s sitting in the middle of the living room at the moment. It seems happy enough. It has no idea what we have in store for it.

Mr Southerton (Jnr) has promised to come around tomorrow to plumb it in for me. Mr Southerton (Snr) is retiring. He says that he is too old to play around with hoses and stopcocks. He says his son is very good at fixing things. Much better than he is. Was. His son is called Bailey. He went to school with Jack. Do you know him? He has a very nice voice on the phone. He has also agreed to take the remains of washing machines No.74 and No.75 to the dump so that your father can park the car in the garage for a change. He won’t. But he could.

Mr Southerton (Snr) says he will still call by and see Sidney when he is passing. I know that Sidney is very fond of his company.

Your brother is in South America somewhere. Don’t ask me where. He did say, but you know what Jack is like when he starts talking about things that are blue. He gets all artistic and lyrical. I stopped listening in the end.

I have not heard from Katherine. I fear that the ‘handbag problem’ may have flared up again. I will keep you posted.

Your father is at the Festival of Sand at Barmouth beach all week. He called and said there are seven dolphins already and he thinks there may be some mermaids arriving later. I fear another second place is on the cards.

Must dash. When are you coming to see us?

Love

Mum x

It was a patent leather top handle with a double zip and a detachable cross body strap. Katherine knew that she shouldn’t stop and look. It was already too late. She had stopped. She had looked. She was drawn in. Her face was pressed against the glass.

It was sitting on its own acrylic plinth in the window of a shop that she was not allowed to enter. She was not banned. Katherine was always welcome inside. Cash or credit card. That was not the issue. She had made a promise. She had made the same promise before and been weak. Her resolve had not held. Not for long. She had given in after a month. Maybe a little less, but a month sounded better.

She had other top handle handbags of a similar design. Thirty or so. And three hundred different styles of handbag as well. In their own room. Lined up. On glass shelves. Constantly rearranged by size and colour and designer and season. That was a lot of handbags. That was why she had promised. So many times before. No more handbags. But this was different. This was something else. It was £485. It was worth it.

She tried to walk away but found herself walking towards the door of the shop instead. She couldn’t stop herself. She went inside and was greeted like an old friend. She was weak. She knew it. She hated herself. But she bought the handbag anyway. She wanted it.

Jack was lying in a tent near a small village in the palm swamps of an isolated area on the border of two South American countries. He had no idea which side of the border they were on. It didn’t matter. He was floating a foot off the ground, and his toenails were talking to him. He had a fever. He was sweating. He was ice cold. He wasn’t drinking enough water. He couldn’t keep it down. He was hallucinating.

The nearest doctor was 80 miles away upriver. The journey would take six days. His guide assured him that the fever would break in 48 hours. He had seen it before. If it did not break in 48 hours, he would probably be dead. Either way, they weren’t getting in the boat and traveling upriver to get a second opinion.

Jack was drifting in and out of consciousness. He did not mind. He had seen a Hyacinth Macaw in the wild. It had taken almost a week to reach the palm swamps on the edge of a border that had no real edges, only endless trees and muddy rivers.

Jack had seen the lurid blue of the Indigo Bunting, the pale blue of the Blue-Gray Gnatcatcher and the elegant blue of the Purple Martin. The Hyacinth Macaw was another blue again. He was glad that he had traveled so far to see it. He would never forget.

He fell asleep. All his dreams were blue.

Not sure that the nose is right.

Doesn’t look right.

Looks wonky.

Askew.

Maybe it’s just the direction of the sun?

Getting low now.

Sunset at 8.26pm.

Low sun.

That’s all.

That’s the problem.

Yeah.

It will look fine in the morning.

Stop messing with the nose.

You’ll make it worse.

Move on.

Still got the tail to do.

Haven’t even started on the tail.

Or the wings.

Going to be tricky.

Wrong sort of sand for wings.

Should have thought of that.

Why didn’t I think of that?

Same thing last year.

Wrong sort of sand for porcupine quills.

Still got second place though.