The Map of Us. Jules Preston

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