My Map of You Read online

  Isabelle Broom

  * * *

  MY MAP OF YOU

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Penguin

  Isabelle Broom was born in Cambridge nine days before the 1980s began and studied Media Arts at the University of West London before starting a career first in local newspapers and then as a junior sub-editor at heat magazine. She travelled through Europe during her gap year and went to live on the Greek island of Zakynthos for an unforgettable and life-shaping six months after completing her degree. Since then, she has travelled to Canada, Sri Lanka, Sicily, New York, LA, the Canary Islands, Spain and lots more of Greece, but her wanderlust was reined in when she met Max, a fluffy little Bolognese puppy desperate for a home. When she’s not writing novels set in far-flung locations, Isabelle spends her time being the Book Reviews Editor at heat magazine and walking her beloved dog round the parks of North London.

  If you like pictures of dogs, chatter about books and very bad jokes, you can follow her on Twitter @Isabelle_Broom or find her on Facebook under Isabelle Broom Author.

  MY MAP OF YOU

  ‘Everything you want in a novel – warm, smart, moving, vivid and with so much heart to it, as well as fabulous, lovable characters. All in all, the perfect summer read’ Stella Newman, author of The Dish

  ‘A mysterious legacy, family secrets and slow-burning romance – My Map of You’s the next best thing to a one-way ticket to Zakynthos, the Greek island that makes a perfect setting’

  Fanny Blake, author and Books Editor of Woman & Home

  ‘This gorgeous story has it all: a stunning setting, a secret that will break your heart and a romance that’ll leave you weak at the knees.

  The perfect summer read’ Lucy Robinson

  ‘I’ve just finished reading My Map of You. I loved it. I’m an emotional wreck! Such an evocative book. An emotional rollercoaster of a ride with breathtaking scenery along the way. A real taste of Greece’

  Jo Thomas, author of The Oyster Catcher

  ‘That’s it – I’m moving to Zakynthos immediately! A perfect summer read of intrigue and escapism. I absolutely loved every minute’

  Lisa Dickenson, author of The Twelve Dates of Christmas

  ‘An incredible debut novel, with a beautifully woven story about loss, hope, love, and finding where you belong. It is honestly one of the best books I have read in a long, long time – everything about it was captivating’

  Cressida McLaughlin, author of the Primrose Terrace novels

  ‘A romantic and fulfilling story, beautifully told. Isabelle writes with a humorous eye, and the evocative poignancy of her writing brought Holly’s story vividly to life. I was hooked from first word until final page and was left with tears on my face and an urgent need for a holiday!’

  Katie Marsh, author of My Everything

  ‘I feel like I’ve had an amazing holiday on a Greek island with sun, sea, secrets and hot men. In real life, I’ve just read the ace My Map of You’

  Claire Frost, Books Editor of Sun on Sunday Fabulous magazine

  For Mum

  If you shut up truth and bury it under the ground, it will but grow, and gather to itself such explosive power that the day it bursts through it will blow up everything in its way.

  – Émile Zola

  Prologue

  The little girl brought her knees up to her chin and scrunched her bare toes into the damp sand. A wave scurried up the shore towards her, stopping just short of the bucket and spade that her mum and dad had bought her that morning. They were red to match her new swimming costume, which was decorated with white polka dots. Her sister had the same one, but hers was blue, which Jenny thought was silly – everyone knew that blue was a colour for boys, and boys were smelly. Red, on the other hand, was a colour worn by queens, a colour that could not be ignored. It made Jenny think of the post-boxes back in Kent and the phone box on the corner of their road. It was her very favourite colour.

  She stretched her legs out in front of her and giggled as the frothy edge of another determined wave tickled the soles of her feet. She could see her sister in the distance, her own yellow bucket clasped in one hand as she used the other to collect shells. It was a bit pointless, Jenny thought, because Mummy would never let those stinky things come back to England with them.

  Thinking about home made Jenny feel a little sad. She didn’t want to go back to where it rained every day and cows escaped from the back field and did big flat poos in the street – she wanted to stay here, on this island, where the sun sparkled like fairy dust on the surface of the sea and it was hot enough to eat ice cream for breakfast if you wanted to. As she stared across the ocean into the distance, Jenny realised that one of the islands rising up out of the water looked just like a turtle. A turtle island!

  ‘Sandy!’ she shouted, getting to her feet with excitement. ‘Look over there!’ By the time she reached her sister, Sandra had seen the island too, and was full of plans to get Mummy and Daddy to hire a boat and take them over there.

  ‘I think this might be the best place in the whole world,’ she told Jenny, who immediately gave her the very best strict face she could muster.

  ‘Don’t be so stupid,’ she scolded.

  A light breeze lifted all the strands of hair that had escaped Sandy’s plait and blew them right across her face – Jenny laughed then, because her sister looked completely mad.

  ‘This definitely is the best place in the world,’ she told her, being sure to make her tone stern, like Mummy did when she was cross. ‘When I grow up, I’m going to come and live here for ever.’

  ‘Me too,’ Sandy said, taking her hand. ‘We can live here together.’

  1

  The letter arrived on a Wednesday.

  It was May, and London was struggling to shrug off the stubborn remnants of a particularly wet April. Grey clouds lay scattered across the sky like shorn sheep’s wool and tourists were forced to buy overpriced plastic ponchos from the gift shops littering the banks of the Thames. Everything pointed to it being an unremarkable day; one that would slip past unnoticed, like a blank page amidst an otherwise full notebook.

  The letter, however, meant that this day was destined to stand triumphant right at the very top of the remarkable heap.

  Holly waited while her eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. She knew it was late, because the sound of the traffic on the road outside had lessened, with only the occasional bus or lorry causing the coat hangers in her wardrobe to tremble as it passed. Some would call this the witching hour – that time between 3 a.m. and 5 a.m., when the pure and unapologetic darkness swallowed its way across the cities, towns and villages, oozing into gaps and underneath doors.

  But this was London, and the darkness was never total. As Holly lay silently against her pillows,
she could see the dim light from the streetlamps snaking its pale fingers through the gap in the curtains and stretching across the duvet towards her. Rupert shifted next to her, causing the yellow pattern to bend and distort. He had turned his head towards her and she could see the outline of his full lips and the dark pattern of his hair where it was stuck haphazardly to his forehead.

  He hadn’t shown up at her flat until well past midnight, leaning on the buzzer and singing nonsense into the intercom. He’d been out drinking with his mates from the office again, but Holly didn’t mind. In fact, she had been glad of the distraction as he staggered up the stairs and planted a clumsy wet kiss in the vicinity of her mouth. She had known since she got home from work that sleep was not something she was going to be able to do tonight.

  Holly had suffered from insomnia on and off for years, ever since her late teens, and she’d come to think of it as a creature, a troll-like form that sat hunched over and cross-legged on her chest, dripping its icy fingers through her skin and gripping her heart. It was anxiety that caused the insomnia, and the insomnia that fed the anxiety – a seemingly never-ending pattern of misery. Throwing it off had been tough the first time around, and now the creature was well and truly back. Holly could feel herself stiffening with frustration, and the duvet suddenly felt heavy and suffocating against her skin.

  Rupert had started to drool slightly and a bubble of spit was inflating and deflating in the corner of his open mouth. Holly could smell the telltale metallic scent of stale alcohol on his breath, and she turned to face away from him, to where her bag sat on the floor; the bag that contained the letter.

  The metaphorical weight of that letter and what it contained was so great that Holly half expected it to crack the floorboards beneath the rug, creating a sinkhole in the middle of Hackney and dragging her and Rupert down into the sewers below. She could see the corner of the envelope poking out, a dull grey in the dark bedroom, and thought how innocuous it had looked when she had first come across it, nestled between a gas bill and a flyer advertising cheap pizzas. It was one of those envelopes with a clear plastic window in the front, the sort used by banks and hospitals, and her name and address had been clearly typed on the letter inside. She hadn’t noticed the foreign postmark until after she’d opened it.

  After reading the two letters and examining the photo inside, Holly had simply sat for a long time, staring at a hole that had started to form on the throw covering the old sofa. She’d knitted it herself a few years ago, but it had been a long time since she’d picked up her needles, or indeed any of her sewing equipment. But in that moment, she was struck with a sudden urge to find it all. Chucking the contents of the envelope down on the coffee table, she’d rooted through the boxes under her bed until she found the tools she needed to mend the hole.

  ‘Just concentrate on this,’ she told herself. ‘Deal with the letter later.’

  And it had worked, for a time. Holly was nothing if not resourceful when it came to distracting herself from the thoughts in her head. She’d managed to fill her entire evening with odd jobs, and had only just run out of ideas when Rupert arrived at the door. Relishing the idea of another few hours of blissful procrastination, Holly had welcomed him in a far more energetic manner than usual and a thrilled Rupert had been more than happy to comply – albeit with less finesse than usual – with her advances. Alas, her drunken and spent boyfriend was never going to stay awake very long, so now Holly found herself in bed, unable to sleep and positively itching with anxiety.

  Taking a deep breath, she closed her eyes and tried to focus her thoughts on something else – anything else – but the letter immediately swam into view.

  Dear Holly,

  You won’t remember me, but I think about you every day. I was there the day you were born …

  ‘No,’ she said aloud, the sound making her jump in the silent room. Rupert muttered something unintelligible, popping his bubble of drool as he stirred on the pillow. Holly held her breath, willing him not to wake up. He would want to know why she was awake, why her cheeks were wet with tears, and she wasn’t ready to have any answers for him.

  She waited for his breathing to return to an even rhythm before snaking an arm out from under the covers and picking up her mobile phone from the bedside table. It was 4.45 a.m. She would wait until 5.30 a.m., then get up and go for a run. Yes, a run would chase away the Insomnia Troll and focus her mind elsewhere. Comforted slightly by her plan, Holly relaxed enough to let her eyes droop and finally, miraculously, sleep snuck in and stole her away.

  The dream always started the same way: with fear.

  She knew that she had to open the door and cross the threshold, but she also knew that if she did then her old, familiar life would be over. She would never be able to forget the scene that lay beyond that door, yet she could never stop her dream-self from venturing forward. Just as her hand was on the handle, dread piled up like butts in an ashtray in the back of her throat, the scene swirled and dappled. All at once, the ocean was in front of her, and there was a distant shape on the horizon …

  A few hours later, Holly stood at the window in her small front room and stared across to where an ominous dark cloud was creeping its way towards the centre of the city. The May sunshine was fighting a losing battle against a determinedly dreary spring, and everything looked tinged with grey. Her clammy fingers were starting to dismantle the envelope clutched in her hands. From somewhere behind her in the depths of the flat, she could hear Rupert belting out a rendition of a Springsteen song as he took a shower. Usually it would bring a smile to her face, but not this morning.

  If you’re reading this letter now, I’m sorry to say that I have passed away …

  Holly shook her head. She’d only read the letter through once, but the words had apparently plunged deep roots into her subconscious. She closed her eyes, but they were still there, blazing away as if a child had taken a sparkler to a dark November night and written the words into the blackness.

  The water stopped running in the bathroom and Holly heard Rupert blowing his nose. As if on cue, the heavens opened on the other side of the glass and rain pelted the window. She pressed her nose against it, watching in silence as her breath created a kidney-shaped crescent of condensation.

  ‘Darling?’ Rupert was standing in the hallway near the bedroom. ‘You’d better get a wriggle on – it’s almost eight.’

  Why had she been sent this letter now, when it was too bloody late?

  ‘Coming, babe,’ she trilled, trying her best to sound normal. Slipping the envelope into her bag out of sight, she padded quickly into the bedroom and gave her boyfriend the most convincing smile she could muster.

  ‘It’s raining again,’ she told him, slipping off her robe and reaching for a pencil skirt.

  ‘We should get away – go somewhere sunny,’ Rupert said, pausing as he passed to give her waist an affectionate squeeze. ‘The boys were talking about Ibiza last night – the clubs there are supposed to be amazing.’

  ‘Mmm-hmm,’ she murmured, tucking in her blouse. Privately, she could think of nothing worse than a week of clubbing in the Balearics – she was twenty-nine, not nineteen.

  ‘You look so sexy in that skirt,’ Rupert told her now. He was watching her in the mirror as he applied wax to his floppy, dark blonde hair. Holly loved the effect she had on him. Even after a year, she only had to give him a slight look and he was tugging off her clothes. Their eyes met in the mirror and she smiled at him. When he looked at her like he was now, with his eyelids drooping and his lips parted, Holly still felt nervous. It was exciting that she could have this power over him, but the thought of really letting herself go and feeling what he was clearly feeling … Well, that scared her.

  Rupert tossed his tie on the bed and strode across to her.

  ‘Sod the nine a.m. breakfast meeting,’ he grunted, burying his face in her neck. Gathering up her dark curls in one hand, he expertly undid her zip with the other. Holly stiffened for a second, t
hen turned her head to kiss him, letting out an obedient yelp of pleasure as he bent her over the end of the bed. It was all over in minutes.

  ‘Oh God, I really have to go,’ he told her, buttoning up. He looked flushed and happy, and Holly rearranged his hair for him as he did up his blazer.

  ‘See you tonight, sexy,’ he told her, and then he was gone.

  The flat rang with silence for a few minutes while Holly tried her best to gather her thoughts. Rupert’s energetic display of passion had helped, but now the letter was once again looming on the edge of her consciousness, demanding attention like a stroppy toddler.

  Slowly, reluctantly, Holly let herself be led back towards her bag and felt inside for the envelope. Ignoring the folded paper of the two letters, she took out the photograph and waited for her heart to lurch down into her stomach.

  The photo was of a house, small and square and built from cream stone, with curved terracotta tiles on the roof and a balcony surrounded by a thick wooden trellis. But it wasn’t the house that alarmed her; it was the fact that it looked exactly the same as a model that had belonged to her mother. Jenny Wright had never been a fan of holding on to stuff unless it was absolutely necessary, but she’d held on to the little model of that house right until the end. Looking at the photo of it now made Holly feel haunted, as if she’d walked through a ghost.

  She was still gazing at the photo a few minutes later when her phone beeped. It was Aliana, informing her cheerfully that she was, as usual, running late for work, and could Holly cover for her?

  As she tapped back a ‘yes’, Holly realised that she was probably going to be late herself if she didn’t get a move on. Promising herself that she’d deal with the contents of the letter at lunchtime, she scurried around collecting her stuff, then headed out and slammed the front door behind her.