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

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Harper Impulse

an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018

Copyright © Jules Preston 2018

Cover images © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Jules Preston asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008300975

Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008300968

Version: 2018-06-04

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page A division of HarperCollins Publishers www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright Harper Impulse an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF www.harpercollins.co.uk First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Publishers 2018 Copyright © Jules Preston 2018 Cover images © Shutterstock.com Cover design © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018 Jules Preston asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins. Source ISBN: 9780008300975 Ebook Edition © May 2018 ISBN: 9780008300968 Version: 2018-06-04

Epigraph Numbers are a poor measure of love. Millicent Fenwick Mathematician 1970-

the beginning the beginning Violet North could not walk far. She had a pleasing enough disposition and an inquiring mind, but she had lost the use of her legs as a child. Polio was the cause. She was now twenty-six years of age and not expected to marry. She had other complications from her childhood illness that meant she seldom left her home without the help of company. As she was not often seen outside, there were precious few who she could call upon for such assistance. Her family had lately abandoned her in a house with several staircases and a large garden in the hope that she would fall and die as quickly and conveniently as possible. They had told her as much when they left. She had been a burden to them for long enough. Violet could not walk far, but she was twenty-six and had her own house with a large garden and decided to be as inconvenient as possible. She did a grand job. Violet North had many interests beyond the confines of the front parlour in the summer and the study in the winter. She sent off for maps and globes of the world and invited those she knew to send her postcards from the places they had been. It did not matter where. Places that she would never see fascinated her. She read travelogues and the biographies of great explorers. For her, climbing the stairs to the third floor was an exhausting expedition, fraught with unknown dangers. A photograph of the nearest railway station, no more than three miles away, was a particular delight to her. She knew she would never see it in person. Even if she could somehow surmount all the difficulties of getting there alone, how could she buy a ticket? She had no destination. Violet knew no one she could visit by train. To occupy her inquiring mind and her passion for places that would forever be a mystery to her, she invented an explorer and a place for them to explore and wrote about their adventures on a Royal Quiet Deluxe typewriter that she borrowed from a neighbour. It was turquoise blue, and the ‘e’ often stuck. The place that she invented looked very much like love. I have seen it. Violet North was my grandmother. And yes, that is where the journey to this started. Right there.

2 years ago 2 years ago ‘Where do you think we went wrong?’ Matt said. ‘10.37am, April 22nd,’ I said. ‘Oh,’ he said. He put his glass down on the table and stared absently out of the window. A dog was barking at a paper bag somersaulting down the January street. I felt responsible. Not for the paper bag or the barking dog. I felt responsible because the absence that we both felt was my fault. Sometimes people don’t want simple answers. Most of the time, in fact. They say they do, but they don’t. Not really. My soon-to-be ex-husband didn’t. Not like that. Not right then. I could see him trying to compute the information. He was struggling. It was all too clinical. Too precise. 10.37am. The exact moment when our marriage fell apart. Or started to. Or finally shattered into a million unrecognisable pieces. He wanted something else. Something vague and meaningless. ‘I don’t know.’ Would have been good for starters. ‘What do you think?’ Would have been a fairly safe follow-up. He wanted to talk about it. I had just made sure that the conversation started without a heartbeat. I didn’t do it on purpose. ‘Oh,’ he said again, as if that would resuscitate anything. It didn’t. I said nothing. That didn’t help. What else could I say? I had already answered his question. And with a level of accuracy that I rarely manage to achieve in my day job. I couldn’t help myself. Me being me isn’t always easy on those I love. Loved. Both. I guess. It’s complicated. Read the report. It’s all in there. Read it. You’ll see.

5 things about me 5 things about me My mother always called me Matilda. Always. She was the only one that did. Everyone else calls me Tilly. It is who I am. More or less. I have an older brother called Jack and a sister that is older still called Katherine. No one has ever called her Kate or Katie. Never. They wouldn’t dare. Katherine does not respond well to familiarity. My father makes sand sculptures. He wears shorts and sandals and trails sand around wherever he goes. He drives old estate cars that are always French and don’t like to start when it’s damp. They are full of sand, too. And buckets and trowels and brushes and tarpaulins and tent pegs and half a dozen identical straw hats in different sizes to suit the prevailing wind conditions. When my father finds a slightly younger French estate car, he gives the old French estate car to me.