My Map of You

by Isabelle Broom

  Epilogue

  The little girl fanned her dress out behind her carefully before sitting down on the sand. She’d picked a spot far enough back not to be in range of the waves, but she still let out an excited scream as a particularly big one stopped just short of her bare toes.

  She’d usually be out on Granddad’s boat at this time on a Sunday. They all went to his restaurant for a big lunch and then afterwards he would take her out on a little trip. Last week he’d taken her right round into the Blue Caves, where the water glowed from underneath the surface as if a secret fairyland existed just out of sight below the rocks. She hadn’t told anyone about the fairies, of course. If you talk about fairies they stop being real, everyone knows that.

  She picked up a stick that had been washed on shore and wrote her name in the damp sand. The sun chose that moment to pop out from where he’d been hiding behind a cloud and the light streaked through the lace overlay of her dress, dropping yellow speckles across her legs and arms. Mummy had made this dress for her. She made most of her clothes, in fact, but this dress was extra special. Granddad had given Mummy some lace that had belonged to his own mother to make it, so it must be very special indeed.

  Looking out across the water, her eyes settled as they always did on her favourite place: Turtle Island. Sometimes she pretended she was the queen of that island; that it belonged to her and she got to pick who was allowed to visit. Mummy and Daddy, of course, would have to be first on her list, but she also wanted Maria to come as well, and Granny and Granddad and Auntie Clara. Auntie Aliana was also on the list, but she would have to leave behind whatever horrible man she’d brought with her. The last one who came with her had bad breath and snored even louder than Phelan. She’d probably let Kostas come, if he could get a day off from the shop, and Annie could come too – but only if she brought Lexi so that Phelan had someone to play with. Then all her friends from school, not to mention Nikos and that funny man Alix – it would end up being quite crowded, but she didn’t want to leave anyone behind.

  She could hear her mum calling her from the front steps of the taverna and reluctantly dragged her eyes away from her turtle-shaped kingdom. It would still be here tomorrow, after all, and it wasn’t every day that she got to be a bridesmaid.

  As she ran up the beach with the skirt of her dress flapping and her dark curls lifting in the light summer breeze, a wave made it right up to the tiny dent she’d left in the sand and washed over the words she’d left there. It only took a few seconds for ‘Jennifer Savannah Flynn’ to vanish, but, like so many before her who had left their mark on the island, a little piece of her would always be there.

  Acknowledgements

  Oh my gawd – I wrote a book and it got published and everything! Thank you so much for reading it, dearest reader. I really hope you enjoyed it. Please do come and chat to me about it on Twitter @Isabelle_Broom – I would love that.

  I must start by saying an absolutely huge thank you to the brilliant and beautiful Hannah Ferguson, who has been making all my dreams come true from the moment she became my agent. She and the team at Hardman & Swainson and the Marsh Agency have been so professional, supportive and legendary since Day One, and I have nothing but love and admiration for all of them.

  To Kimberley Atkins, my extraordinarily talented and utterly brilliant editor at Penguin Michael Joseph, if I could get the entire cast of Disneyland to stand in a line and sing you a huge thank you, then I would. This is a poor second, but I hope you know how much I love and respect you. Thank you for taking this book and turning it into something I can be truly proud of – you are a marvel. To the great Maxine Hitchcock, the awe-inspiring Francesca Russell, the fabulous Sarah Bance, the dazzling Emma Brown and the entire team over at Penguin Michael Joseph, you are all superstars. Thank you so much. And a big fist-pump to Jess Hart, who designed the eye-wateringly beautiful cover of this book – you are a genius of unparalleled brilliance.

  My journey into the publishing world really began to gather steam over two years ago, when I won a competition with a short story entitled ‘The Wedding Speech’. During that time I was lucky enough to get some amazing advice from Clare Hey, Sara-Jane Virtue, Lizzy Kremer and Milly Johnson, who are all so talented and so lovely. Your kind words helped me take the leap into proper novel writing, and this book would not be here without you.

  It’s no myth that writing folk are the very best of people, and I’d like to send out very special love and thanks to Hannah Beckerman, Lucy Robinson, Giovanna Fletcher, Paige Toon, Ali Harris, Stella Newman, Katie Marsh, Lindsey Kelk, Cecelia Ahern, Jane Fallon, Jo Thomas, Kirsty Greenwood, Cesca Major, Harriet Evans, Cressida McLaughlin, Nikki Owen, Eleanor Moran, Adele Parks, Tasmina Perry, David Whitehouse, Jo Carnegie, Jennifer Barclay, Lisa Dickenson, Peter James, Ben Willis, Sam Eades, Nina Pottell, Georgina Moore, Fran Gough, Lizzie Masters, Elaine Egan, Sophie Ransom and Tess Henderson. Thank you for all the laughs, advice and support, you gorgeous bunch.

  To the team at heat magazine – you guys have always had my back and I love you all very much. Thanks for making me laugh every single day without fail.

  I’m very lucky to be friends with some of the most awesome people on the planet. Massive thanks to Sadie Davies, Ian Lawton, Ewan Bishop, Tom Harding, Corrie Heale, Jamie Green, Alex Holbrook, Becky Bachelor, Dominic Morgan, Vicky Zimmerman, Rosie Walsh, Tamsin Carroll, Ranjit Dhillon, Gemma Courage, Sarah Beddingfield, Chad Higgins, Colette Berry, Jim Morris, Sue Pigott, Kostas Kapsaskis and Molly Haynes for all your words of wisdom, continuing love and eagerness to drink booze with me. Thanks to John Richardson for your support and encouragement when I was writing this book, and mega-thanks to my Running Club buddies Mark Tamsett and Lindsay Perkins – you keep me sane through the madness. Hard to believe, but true. And to my Zakynthos family – you are all nutters, but I love you. I hope you agree that I’ve done our little rock proud.

  To my family, you are all nutters too – especially the dog contingent – but I wouldn’t have you any other way. Thank you for all the love and support, and for catching me every time I fall. Mum, I could list all the very best words in the world here, but they’d never be enough to tell you how amazing you are. Thank you for everything – I love you. Always.

  The snow started as night fell and with it came the silence. That magical, almost ethereal quiet that always seems to accompany the gently falling flakes, as if all the inhabitants of the world had paused just to admire their beauty.

  One person however, was not moved by the snow – nor was she watching it. Standing by the wall on the edge of the bridge, the cobbles wet beneath the soles of her shoes and her breath clearly visible in the sharp, still air, she found herself drawn instead to the dark mass of water below.

  What would it feel like to plunge straight down into it, she wondered? Would the river impale her with its icy fingers, would she cough and splutter and flail her arms above her head, or would she feel nothing but a sense of relief? The latter option was deliciously tempting. These past few days had been so exhausting, and she was weary. Weary of the confusion, weary of the uncertainty and weary of the pain.

  She heard the clock begin to strike and closed her eyes, the individual chimes rattling her insides with their unintended finality: a countdown to hopelessness, a symphony of despair. The snow was falling even harder now and it was becoming difficult to see through her tears.

  Just one step up, a leg swung over, a final gasp of air and then a single jump. It could all be over in less than a minute.

  High above the bridge and past clouds bloated with snow, the moon sat snug and proud in the sky. From up here the world was merely a coloured penny in an ocean of blackness, a bright pebble of life and love and sadness and joy. Back on the bridge, the moonlight was everywhere, illuminating the statues and making the patches of rubbed gold gleam blue in the darkness. Still the snow fell.

  The clock had chimed for the final time and with it came the realisation. She took a deep breath and steadied her h
ands against the stone wall, preparing to support herself as she climbed up. But as her foot left the ground, she heard a shout.

  It was him. He had come.

  1

  Megan screwed her jeans up into a ball and lobbed them as hard as she could across the room. They hit the wall with a disappointingly quiet thump and slid forlornly to the floor, landing on top of the three shirts and five pairs of knickers she had already thrown.

  Packing was something she’d always been good at, a fact she was quite smug about. Those neatly rolled clothes, socks stuffed into shoes, toiletries decanted into miniature bottles and a careful amount of space left over for any purchases made while away.

  This time, however, she was having a hell of a job.

  Just what did you pack for a trip you’re taking with your friend who is a man, but definitely not your significant other? A man you kissed once when drunk ages ago, but who you don’t want to kiss again. A man who has invited you along on a trip to Prague on a purely platonic basis, but who is most definitely single. A man who you will have to spend some serious one-on-one time with over the next five days. A man who you will even have to share a bed with.

  It was a bit weird.

  Megan had refused to listen when her friends told her it would all end in tears. Hell, even her own mother had issued a word of warning.

  ‘I don’t want the poor boy getting hurt,’ she’d said. Typical Mum.

  Megan had waved aside their concerns, telling them that it was fine. Ollie knew that the stupid kiss had been a oneoff, and that they were just good friends.

  But still – weird.

  Should Megan pack her black dress with the great cleavage? It looked nice on her and she liked wearing it, but would Ollie think it was a sign that she wanted him to notice her? Would she lead him on without even meaning to? And what about pyjamas? If she brought the new satin set with the lace trim, would he take them as a green light and assume she fancied a friendly fumble under the covers? But her only other alternative was the grotty T-shirt and shorts combo that had been festering away in her chest of drawers since university. She didn’t want Ollie to think she was a gross old tramp either. It was a problem.

  Vest tops that had once been so innocuous now reeked of suggestion, jeans that had fitted well across the bum had all of a sudden become slutty and as for her underwear selection …she didn’t even know where to start with that heap of provocative red flags to a sex-mad bull. It was no good, she was going to have to go to the most boring clothes shop in London and buy a sample wardrobe of the plainest and least offensive garments they had. Great.

  Megan’s phone vibrated in her pocket. A message from Ollie: ‘Hope you’re all packed. Looking forward to tomorrow. Pints at the airport at 6am, right? You’re buying x.’

  Oh God, he’d added a kiss. It had started already.

  She chewed her lip as she mulled over her reply, finally settling for: ‘Packed hours ago, you div. And YOU’RE buying.’

  No kiss for him, oh no.

  Sighing, Megan abandoned the sheer hopelessness that was her packing and picked up her camera instead. Immediately she felt calmer. She loved feeling the weight of it in her hands, the texture of the casing beneath her practiced fingers, the gentle click as she shifted the lens into position, and the surge of pleasure as she finally pressed the shutter down and captured her image. A snapshot of a moment, a memory saved forever, the view of the world as she saw it. Nothing made Megan happier than taking photos, and she knew photography would always be her first love. Not a man, not her friends, not even – her brain frowned momentarily – her family could compete. This camera was as much a part of Megan as her limbs, skin, hair and soul, and just holding it now, in the midst of a pile of rejected clothes, she felt comforted.

  When Ollie had revealed that he’d be teaching his class of eight-year-olds about Prague next term, he had asked Megan if she’d accompany him on a fact-finding trip during a teacher training week. As his non-official photographer, Megan had done extensive research on the place before making her decision – and it looked absolutely magical. All those cobbled streets and statues, not to mention the beautiful Vltava River, which ran right through the heart of the city. Prague was also packed with architectural treats, some dating back to before the 13th century, and Megan felt the hairs stand up on her arms with anticipation whenever she thought about it.

  She was so sure that the trip was going to inspire her that Megan had finally chewed up her nerves, spat them out, and booked herself a May exhibition space along the South Bank here in London. It was to be her first big showcase in the capital and, with Christmas only a few weeks away now, she was cutting it quite fine, time-wise – but that’s how she preferred to work. Setting deadlines, writing lists, nagging herself to get up and get out, do something with her day, achieve something, anything – that was Megan all over.

  Her phone was vibrating again.

  ‘Just thought – should we just travel to the airport together? Taxi from mine? x’

  Megan put her camera down and groaned. She only had herself to blame for agreeing to flights that departed at such an ungodly hour, but she didn’t want to add to her sleep deprivation by trekking all the way over to Ollie’s at 5am. And he’d added another kiss.

  ‘Come to mine – it’s easier.’ Megan pressed send and waited, watching as the message registered as delivered. As she suspected, it didn’t take Ollie long to reply.

  ‘OK boss xx.’

  TWO KISSES?

  Megan spent the rest of her afternoon procrastinating. Having firmly decided that it was totally absurd to buy boring clothes that she’d never wear again, she packed, then repacked her case, then deliberated for twenty whole minutes over whether or not to bother shaving her legs. By the time she was cleaned, preened, packed and settling down in front of the TV with a glass of red wine in hand, it was almost ten o’clock. If Ollie was coming round at five in the morning, she had better try to get some sleep soon, although there was only half a bottle of red left. No point in leaving any dregs if she was going away for five days – that was just wasteful.

  The sound of the doorbell almost made her lose what was in her glass.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she muttered, picking up the baseball bat that she kept by the top of the stairs and wrapping her oversized cardigan tighter around her body. Megan had lived in north London for over ten years now and never in that time had she been mugged, attacked or otherwise burgled, but a girl living on her own could never be too careful.

  ‘Who’s there?’ she yelled through the door.

  She heard a low chuckle, before Ollie’s familiar voice replied:

  ‘The man of your wildest dreams.’

  Megan lowered her bat and opened the door a crack, glaring at her bespectacled friend through the gap.

  ‘You’re a bit early, don’t you think?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ollie had the grace to look momentarily confused, and Megan realised now that there was a suitcase by his feet.

  ‘I thought you were coming over in the morning.’

  ‘What, trudge all the way over here from Putney at five in the morning? As if I was ever going to do that. I thought you meant me to come over tonight.’

  He didn’t look like he was lying, and Megan opened the door a fraction further.

  ‘You’ll have to sleep on the sofa,’ she told him, trying not to care that she was wearing fluffy dog slippers and not a single scrap of make-up.

  Ollie heaved his case over the threshold and Megan let him go up the stairs first. She told him it was because she needed to lock the door properly, but really she didn’t want him staring at her bum on the way up. She’d caught him gawping at it once before, on an occasion where she had regrettably worn some very tight jeans, but she had no idea what he’d found so alluring. If she was going to pick one word to describe her bottom, it would be gargantuan.

  ‘Help yourself to the wine,’ she told him when they were upstairs, already lamenting the extra gl
ass she’d been planning to drink. Then again, she reminded herself, they could do all the drinking they liked over the next few days – Prague was famous for its beer halls.

  As if reading her mind, Ollie proposed a toast to ‘the first of many’ when he clinked his glass against her own, and she allowed herself to smile at her friend for the first time. There were plenty of things she liked about Ollie: he was tall, he had lots of thick chestnut hair that he actually remembered to wash, he had a nice job that provided lots of funny anecdotes on an almost daily basis, he still spoke to his parents regularly and not under duress, he was funny, and he was one of the best, most loyal friends she’d ever had.

  ‘Do you think this is going to be weird?’

  She hadn’t meant to say it, but she was glad she had when Ollie merely grinned at her and placed a reassuring hand on her arm.

  ‘Nah.’ He shrugged. ‘It’ll be fun.’

  He’d taken off his glasses because they’d steamed up, as they always did in her tropical front room. The radiator had broken years ago and was set permanently to super-high, but Megan, unlike any other poor soul who dared to enter her lair, had grown used to it.

  Ollie’s eyes were probably his best feature, she decided. They were a bright hazel colour and magnified most of the time by his specs. She, by contrast, had tiny eyes, and they were a rather uninspiring pavement shade of grey.

  The silence that had inexplicably reared up was becoming uncomfortable, so Megan filled it by telling him about her plans for the new exhibition. She hadn’t settled on a theme yet, she told him, but was hoping that Prague would give her all the inspiration she needed. What she didn’t do, however, was explain exactly why this exhibition meant so much to her. That could wait for another day.