Читать книгу: «The Map of Us»
A division of HarperCollinsPublishers
www.harpercollins.co.uk
HarperImpulse
an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2018
Copyright © Jules Preston 2018
Cover images © Shutterstock.com
Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers 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: 2019-06-25
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
the beginning
2 years ago
5 things about me
2 years ago (too)
2 years ago (still)
the marriage report
clarity
wasps
something about squirrels
G.I.T.S.
handbags
blue
sand
N
boots
oversight
name
kissed
distance of paper
more sofa
half
dreams
sorry
rainbow
tortoise
view
64.726%
same
5 things about washing machines
free coffee
agreement
more sand
NE
date night
special friend
title
volume one
praise for Galbraith’s Boot
drawn
5 things about the garden
music question
Lazy Mo
blueberry
reminder
coincidence
5 things about Jack
yes
new arrivals
trumps
start
party
tired
date night again
5 things about Grace
7 letters to Grace
E
37 words
sandwich
roses
royalty
28 minutes
finished
calibrating
brushstrokes
late
promises
5 things about Matt’s mother
hard to tell
impulsive
top bunk
where Matt was
spoilage
a ‘friend’
in-flight
south and a little west
strangers
SE
path
closer
closer still
gift
doors
tablecloth
true
output
68%
ex
couch surfing
5 things about Katherine
list
cluck
olives
3rd
layers
silence
S
walls
map
home
petunias
lucky
snoring
company
wonderful
5 things about my father
old flame
art school
bijou
view
colour
overlap
pie
blip
perspective
transformation
twit
SW
extortion
4lb 11oz
Juniper
5 things about the Norths
£1,000
important
rivers
unexpected
matches
cook
paintbrush
turning
more twit
lobster
W
witch
5 things about Abigail North
falling
awry
can’t
defined
5 things about Owen
the proposal
Ruth Pennywheal’s reply
drawer
5 things about my mother
October
tide
blub
swim
him
deep end
reservations
whisk
decision
glass
NW
cake
found
lost again
wish
broken
truth
when
eventually
mistake
soon
score
delirious
toast
not Katherine
perfect
tick tick tick
5 things about Daniel’s father
sore feet
seal
more cake
family
gloves
resilient
always
5 things that changed
tie
the Matilda Eastleigh Compatibility Index
maybe ten
merit
dark road
nice
imagine
jazz
waiting
tap water
extra
next?
lawnmower
opening
fault
errands
undone
wanted
the Matilda Eastleigh Compatibility Index
folly
ice cream
couldn’t
sketches
wheelbarrow
‘Rooks Wood to Coldbank Ruins’
3 miles
full circle
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About HarperImpulse
About the Publisher
Numbers are a poor measure of love.
Millicent Fenwick
Mathematician 1970-
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
‘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
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. Then I drive it until the wheels fall off. Literally. Or sand gets into something important and the engine seizes up. Whichever comes first, really.
I like numbers, but numbers have not always been my friend. Not always. We had a disagreement. Early on. We got over it. It may have taken a reversing caravan to resolve the problem, but I cannot be sure. Numbers are beautiful and complex and do not always tell the truth even though you think they should. Numbers are not as straightforward as they seem. They have the capacity to lie and deceive and betray and confuse. That’s why I work in statistics. I like numbers. We get on okay now. Most of the time anyway.
At the time, I was working for a company called Compass Applied Analytics. Their offices were on the first floor of a recently redeveloped building that once housed an industrial-scale launderette. They were called Super Efficient Laundry Services. You could still see where their name had been painted over on the wall outside. They had a logo, too. It was hard to make out, but I always thought that it looked like a pair of sprinting underpants.
My job was to compile sophisticated market research data for product evaluation and assessment. I specialised in low-fat snack bars for the health-conscious sector. I didn’t eat them myself. I am health-conscious though. Not always. Sometimes. I prefer chocolate.
2 years ago (too)
‘So, what do consumers think of the name?’ The Marketing Executive from Bearing Foods asked.
‘Loved the name,’ I said.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said, writing something down.
‘“Seedy-Pea-Nut-Slices” got a positive 86% approval rating from the focus group of average supermarket shoppers that we interviewed.’
‘Pretty good figures,’ Helen added, eager to be involved.
Helen doesn’t usually attend my presentations on low-fat snack bars for the health-conscious sector. She’s a strategist for new product development in the pre-packaged smoothies segment. She can’t drink anything with pineapple in it though. It makes her tongue go numb.
Our head of department thought I might need a little moral support towards the end of the report. I disagreed, but I assumed that Helen being there was a sign that the company were taking no chances. Bearing Foods was one of our biggest clients.
‘What about the packaging?’
‘Loved the packaging, too. The packaging received a solid 75% approval. Potential customers thought it was fresh, bright and informative,’ I said.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said, making another note.
‘Without being too fresh, bright and informative to scare off an older demographic,’ I added.
‘That’s a big thumbs up on the packaging,’ Helen said. I nudged her with my elbow. She scowled at me.
‘What about the ingredients?’
‘Loved the ingredients. 79% approval on the ingredients. Peas, quinoa and seaweed were generally perceived as innovative, natural and nutritious. They loved the passive product claims, too. “Wholegrain.” “Additive-free.” “High in fibre.” All had excellent penetration.’
‘Great work on the ingredients,’ Helen said, pumping the air with her fist.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said, thankfully not looking up from his notepad.
Pineapple, I thought.
I knew what was coming next.
‘Visual appeal?’
Now this was where things got tricky.
‘Not so good on the visual appeal of the product itself,’ I said.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said, looking up this time. Helen crossed her arms and looked at me too.
‘Only 29% of respondents were entirely positive about how the snack bar looked.’
‘We had a few comments, too,’ Helen said before I had a chance to stop her. ‘“Looks like squirrel poo,” mostly,’ she said.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said. The temperature in the conference room seemed to dip a few degrees. Maybe it was me. Maybe I was being overly sensitive. Helen took the awkward silence that followed as an opportunity to whisper in my ear.
‘Sorry to hear that you and Matt have split up, Tilly.’
‘Thanks, Helen,’ I whispered back.
Pineapple.
‘It must be difficult for you both,’ she said.
‘Yes. Thanks, Helen,’ I said.
Pineapple.
‘So, did your marriage last longer than the national average, or was it slightly less?’ She sneered.
Suddenly it all made sense. This was payback for a comment I may have been overheard making about Helen being married and divorced twice in 64.726% of the national average. It was a statistics joke. We like that sort of thing around here. It was funny at the time. Helen waited patiently for a response.
Pineapple, I thought.
‘Taste profile?’ The Marketing Executive said.
I was glad that we were moving things on. The results for visual appeal were always disappointing with any granola-type snack bar. They all looked like rabbit food, or worse. ‘Chewy’ in the name didn’t help. If it had ‘Chewy’ in the name, you could expect a further 6-8% drop in positive responses.
‘Loved the taste,’ I said. ‘Significant approval ratings for the taste.’
‘Uh-huh,’ he said writing something down.
‘Once they got over the fact that it looks like squirrel poo, of course,’ Helen said.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said drawing a line through the thing that he had just written down.
Pineapple.
While I tried to murder Helen with the power of my eyes, he flicked through his notes dejectedly.
‘So, what you’re saying is that we have a fantastic product that could reshape the market in low-fat snack bars for the health-conscious sector if only it didn’t look quite so much like squirrel excrement?’
‘Essentially. Yes,’ I said.
There was no getting around it.
‘In a nutshell,’ Helen said, trying not to grin.
‘Uh-huh,’ he said.
Pineapple, I thought.
‘Seedy-Pea-Nut-Slices.’ So many things to love. Just a few important things that weren’t quite right.
A bit like Matt really.
