The Little Pieces of You and Me

by Vanessa Greene

Genres: General Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Best friends Isla and Sophie made each other a promise a long time ago: to never let life pass them by. Years later, Isla is in love, living abroad and fulfilling her dreams. But for Sophie, things haven't turned out the way she was expecting and she hasn't achieved any of the things she and Isla talked about.

And then, in one sudden moment, life irrevocably changes for both women.

Isla and Sophie have hard decisions to make but above all else they must face up to the uncertainty that lies ahead. It's only when they realise that this is easier together, two friends standing side by side, that each woman can embrace whatever the future holds for them.

Emotional, poignant and uplifting, The Little Pieces of You and Me is a story about old friends, new beginnings and what happens when being strong is your only choice. It will take your breath away.

Release date: April 21, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 320

Sample

Tuesday, the 17th of May, was a morning that was just like all the others. If Isla had been aware that it would be a day she’d always remember, she might have worn something different, maybe not the jumper dress that had bobbled around the hem, or her scuffed biker boots. She would still have tied her wavy dark hair back with the purple scarf, the one her best friend Sophie had given her, but she would have put a brush through it first, at least. If she’d known.

But she hadn’t. She had walked down the narrow steps of her Amsterdam apartment and, oblivious, stepped out into the hazy sunshine, anticipating nothing more than the usual run of things. She was on her way to the theatre to meet with her fellow actors, to talk through the previous night’s performance. Their play, In the Hands of Strangers, a drama her friend Greta had written back in the UK and they’d all helped shape through improvisation, had been attracting good audiences. As she walked, at a fairly brisk pace, she looked up and around at the barges and the houses, taking in her surroundings. It had been a leap of faith coming out here, leaving her home in Bristol to come to Amsterdam, but she hadn’t looked back. She felt totally present, in the now, in this city that had welcomed her as one of its own.

Isla arrived at Paradiso, her regular waterside coffee shop, to find the shutters down, and looked for an alternative along the stretch of canal. A few metres away she spotted a barge with a wooden hand-painted board: The Floating Bookshop. The door was ajar, and the aroma drifting out boded well – freshly brewed coffee. She hadn’t noticed the place before, but she always enjoyed discovering somewhere new. She walked over and went inside. A striped rug covered the floor, slashing through the dim interior with bold colours, and every available patch of wall space was lined with books. A wooden table in the centre of the barge was covered with the latest bestsellers. Up at the counter, a dark-haired man in his thirties, who seemed to be running the shop, was caught up in quiet conversation with a woman a generation older.

Isla browsed the shelves until she spotted an old favourite. It was a novel by Elizabeth Bowen, The House in Paris, one that she and Sophie had both loved when they were at uni together back in Bristol. She pulled the book out and looked at it – an early edition, leather-bound with gold lettering. Paris. They’d always talked about going together. Sophie would love this, she thought, picturing her best friend opening the package back home.

The older lady walked slowly out of the shop carrying books in a bag, long white hair intricately pinned high on her head, leaving a trace of jasmine scent in the air. ‘Until next time, Rafael,’ she called back towards the counter.

‘Take care, Berenice.’

Isla looked over at the man behind the counter, and her gaze met his. He was better-looking than she’d realised at first glance – tall, with dark brown eyes. She pushed past the discomfort of shyness and feigned her usual confidence, walking over to the counter with the novel in her hand.

‘I couldn’t see a price on this one,’ she said, passing it over.

He handled the book gently, and opened the front cover to show her the price written in pencil. ‘Here you go.’

‘I see,’ she said, wondering how she’d missed it. ‘I’ll take it.’

‘Quite hard to part with this one,’ he said, with a smile. His voice, the calmness of it, the trace of an accent she couldn’t place, put her at ease.

Her hand made contact with his as she handed over the money, and a sensation akin to an electric charge ran through her. He must have felt it too, she thought. She felt certain she saw a flicker of acknowledgement in his face.

Today was one of those days, and it had arrived without warning. Tonight she would think of this man, and her plans, her sense of where she began and ended, would loosen a little.

She hadn’t come to Amsterdam looking for someone to share her life with. She had had her fair share of love. Her twenties had been filled with passion that burned brightly but then burned out, nights of sleep lost in the pain of letting go. Those endings that had seemed unhappy weren’t really – each one had reunited her with her freedom. She admired Sophie’s commitment to Liam and Rebecca, but she didn’t envy her family life.

But there in the bookshop, readying herself to turn and leave the stranger who no longer felt like a stranger, Isla sensed things had already changed. Her world had opened up.

 

Sophie woke early, with the daylight, and lifted the duvet gently so as not to disturb Liam. He lay with his back to her and she was tempted to drop a kiss on his shoulder, trace a trail up his neck to where his light stubble started. But he had stayed up late working on notes for one of his college lectures. She’d let him sleep a while longer.

She put on her dressing gown and walked down the stairs of their townhouse, a slice of Georgian architecture lined up against identical neighbours in the curve of Bennett Street in Bristol. It was a road they’d been lucky to afford. Ten years ago, when prices were lower, a doer-upper had come on the market, and Sophie had fallen in love with the potential of it the moment she’d walked through the door. She and Liam had put their combined energies into making it a home – it had felt good to have a project, something they could focus on together. Dropping out of medical school was the hardest thing she’d ever had to do, but when her parents said they would no longer fund her she’d had no choice. The distraction of making a home for herself and Liam was what she had needed. They’d enjoyed breaking away the plywood and revealing period fireplaces, tiles in almost perfect condition. Then there was all the time they spent picking out the small things that made it special – browsing the Clifton junk shops to find vintage clocks and coffee tables. This would be their new start, away from the whispers and judgement. Sophie and Liam were building a future.

Sophie got down the cafetière and made coffee in her white and oak open-plan kitchen. When it had brewed, she stepped out on to the patio. It was July, warm enough to be outside like this, in bare feet. A wood pigeon cooed, but aside from that the garden was quiet, just the way Sophie liked it. She looked out at the lawn and flowerbeds, the summer blooms brightening the space – her own small oasis of calm. If you didn’t look too closely it could almost be something out of a lifestyle magazine.

Ha, she thought, smiling to herself. Perfectly styled dysfunction.

She and Liam were fine, that was the good part. But that was only half the story.

Rebecca, Liam’s daughter, was sixteen now. She came for the weekends and holidays. They’d been friends once, or something close to it, but these days Bennett Street on the long stretch from Friday to Sunday had started to feel like a battleground.

Sophie missed Isla – she was the friend Sophie turned to for advice, and Sophie was sure that if she knew more about the situation with Rebecca, she’d be able to help improve things. Sophie loved to hear her friend’s updates from Amsterdam, but she also longed for the two of them to be able to go out, and talk over a glass of wine – laugh the way they used to. Isla was like that – a burst of sunshine in the life of anyone lucky enough to know her, coasting along at her own speed, on tracks she laid down as she went. She’d always been like that. Sophie remembered how, as their first year at uni drew to a close with a hazy hot summer, they were sitting on the floor of Sophie’s room in their shared student flat, biros and A4 pads in hand.

 

‘This is the summer it all starts for us,’ Isla announced. ‘A list can be a powerful thing.’ 

‘Right,’ Sophie said, chewing on the end of her black pen. ‘I’m ready. How many things?’ 

‘Ten,’ Isla said. ‘Twenty. More if you want. Imagine you’re a granny sitting in your rocking chair. Think of what it is you really, really want to have done in life.’ 

Sophie paused for a moment. There was only one thing, really. She started to write. 

Be a doctor.

The dream she’d had since she was a kid with a toy stethoscope. She was finally on her way, at medical school in Bristol. She got on well with her fellow students, and her tutor, Richard, always made time for her. His passion for the subject reminded her during every lecture why she had chosen to study medicine, and filled her with hope and excitement about qualifying in the future. He even introduced her to a few of his friends, other tutors – and that made Sophie feel as if she was really part of things. 

Isla looked over her shoulder. ‘Not just career stuff, Soph. Fun things.’ 

‘I know, I know. Give me a minute.’ 

She couldn’t really think of anything else. Isla was scribbling furiously on her own piece of paper. 

Girls like Isla hadn’t existed at her boarding school, Sophie thought, and, even if they had, she was pretty sure they wouldn’t have talked to her. Isla’s hair was dyed bright red, with a blunt-cut fringe, and a solitary peacock-feather earring dangled from one ear. When they’d met for the first time, in the kitchen of their shared student flat, Sophie had struggled to think of what to say. Isla had filled the silence easily, though – and in just a few weeks they had become close friends. She turned back to her paper. 

Read Anna Karenina.

Find a lost dog and reunite it with its owner.

‘You’re dreaming big, right?’ Isla said, without looking up from her own list.

Sophie paused. No – not big exactly. She looked up at the posters on her wall. Roman Holiday, her favourite Audrey Hepburn film. Learn Italian, she added. And, Make pasta from scratch.

Complete a triathlon.

See the Northern Lights.

‘Really big?’ Isla prompted her. 

Sophie bit her lip, then made herself write it. 

Fall in love with someone who loves me for me.

‘Done,’ Isla said, a moment later, laying down her biro with a look of pride. 

Sophie felt embarrassed about her own list, and instead looked over at Isla’s. ‘What did you write?’ 

‘Number one you may already know, seeing as I talk about it almost every day,’ Isla smiled. ‘Perform on Broadway.’ 

‘You’ll do that,’ Sophie said. Distant a dream as it might sound, Sophie felt sure that Isla could do it. She was a natural actress, and her amateur student plays had already got glowing reviews. ‘What else?’ 

‘Two – Live abroad. Three – Make chocolate in Paris.’ 

‘Now that I like the sound of,’ Sophie said. 

‘I always fancied the idea of doing a chocolate-making course there. Truffles, bonbons, macaroons… then a stroll down the Champs-Elysées, sitting down at some gorgeous little pavement café and ordering a citron pressé. There’s room for two in that dream, obviously.’

‘Pleased to hear it. I’m in. What else is on your list?’ 

‘Four – Learn to fly on a trapeze.’

‘You’re kidding.’ 

‘Not remotely. My grandma Sadie was in a circus. Did I ever tell you that? So I figure it’s in my blood, somewhere. The half of my blood that I know about, that is.’ 

‘Maybe your gran could join you for that one,’ Sophie said. ‘I’ve got a really bad head for heights, as you know. Swinging upside-down from a flimsy little swing is absolutely not my idea of fun.’ 

‘Fine. Each to their own, then. Five – Learn to tango in Buenos Aires.’ 

‘That sounds so romantic,’ Sophie said. 

‘Doesn’t it?’ 

Isla got to her feet and danced with an imaginary partner on the worn carpet, her eyes closed. Sophie got up and joined her, and they danced together, until they tripped over one another’s feet and collapsed in giggles. 

Isla resumed reading her list. ‘These ones you’ll probably like. They’re fairly easy. Six – Wild swimming. A lake, a waterfall, wherever, just somewhere out in the open, where I can, you know, commune with nature.’ She smiled. 

‘Doable. The next one?’ 

‘See sunset and sunrise the same night. And this – this you’ll like,’ Isla said. ‘Make a patchwork quilt.’ 

‘That’s a nice one.’ 

‘My gran’s got a lot of beautiful material in her house – it’d be a nice way to tell our family story. Something to pass down to future generations and whatnot.’ 

‘Lovely. Have you ever sewn anything?’ 

‘Badges. For Brownies,’ Isla said. 

‘Fine – a walk in the park then.’ 

‘Let’s see yours,’ Isla said. 

 

Thinking back, Sophie sighed. Her list was in a drawer somewhere. She hadn’t seen it for years. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about travelling, or learning Italian – and she’d even got as far as training for a triathlon a couple of years ago – but those ambitions didn’t fit with her life as it was any more. Her priorities had changed after she and Liam had got together properly and Rebecca, her stepdaughter, had come into her life.

Back at uni, when the storm had hit and the truth came out about Sophie and Liam, Isla had weathered it with her. Sophie’s father’s job as a top MP meant the tabloids were all over the scandal – a married university tutor having an affair with a young student.

Isla had taken her out clubbing and told her in that dizzy drunken fog that, whatever Sophie’s parents said – and they hadn’t taken the news well – she was still a good person.

How simple things had seemed back when she and Isla had written those lists. That wasn’t real life. The people you committed to, and the lives you were responsible for, were what would really guide your decisions in life, not the sun-chasing desires you had as a teenager. She enjoyed watching Isla meet her goals, but her own life was different now.

Sophie could hear Liam’s footsteps on the stairs, and, out of habit, she got to her feet to make his coffee. Their life was made up of these small courtesies and routines, reminding them that they were together, a team, through it all, and after everything. When Rebecca slammed her door, or dinner was an interminable stretch of hostile silence, Sophie could look over at Liam, and there’d be an understanding there, a sense of solidarity they built up in small ways every day. And sometimes, he’d smile, and his eyes would crinkle at the corners. It wasn’t perfect, their life, but it was full of love.

Love that hadn’t been convenient, but love that was strong, and true, and meaningful. Love that had been worth the cost.

‘What’s this?’ Rafael asked, looking at a piece of paper pinned to Isla’s fridge.

Isla looked over towards the kitchen, where Rafael was standing.

‘That’s the list,’ Isla said. ‘I’ve told you about that, right?’

‘Not yet.’

It had been two months since Isla’s first visit to the bookshop, the day she’d set eyes on Rafael for the first time. She’d found a reason to return the next day – to enquire about a novel by a prize-winning French writer. It was actually one that she already had sitting on her bedside table in the apartment, unread, next to a copy of Grazia (read) that Sophie had sent her. Rafael had found her a copy, and she bought it – they’d chatted for a little while. They were both foreigners making a home in the city – he’d moved over from Mexico, she had left behind a comfortable life in Bristol. He’d stayed on her mind all week – his easy humour, and kind smile. She went back at the weekend, and he told her a local reading group was going to discuss the literary novel she’d bought. He wondered if she might like to join them.

Caught unawares, she hadn’t had time to formulate a response that was anything other than the truth. Instead, she’d smiled. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t have much to say,’ she said. ‘I’ve got two copies now, and I haven’t read either. So, before I bankrupt myself —’ she drew on all her courage ‘— I wonder if you’d like to go for a drink with me?’

He had laughed, and agreed, without hesitating. They’d gone out – and found they couldn’t stop talking. At the end of their first date, he’d kissed her. The city changed for her then. Each road led to or away from Rafael – his home, his work – and every café and bar became a landmark imprinted on her mind, a place where they’d talked about their pasts, or future, or just kissed until she felt dizzy. The past two months had been a whirl, of long cycle rides in the countryside when the shop’s opening hours and her rehearsal schedule allowed it, and of Sunday mornings spent barely leaving his apartment.

Now, she went over to him in her kitchen and put her arms around him from behind. Little by little he was starting to feel like hers.

‘Well – let me introduce you,’ she said, pulling the piece of paper from the fridge door and moving to his side. ‘This list is a very good friend of mine, and you should meet her too.’

‘I’m intrigued.’

‘Sophie and I wrote these, years back. When we had no doubt I would be a famous actress and she’d be saving lives.’ She smiled. ‘It may not have happened yet, but I’m going to do them all.’

‘Live abroad – that one’s done.’

‘Yes – and that turned out to be quite a good decision.’ She kissed him on the cheek and he continued to read over her shoulder.

‘The trapeze? Amazing.’

‘One day,’ Isla said, with a smile. ‘No time limit on these things. Well, aside from the obvious. I just want to be a happy little old lady looking back and knowing I did everything I wanted to.’

‘You’re a born adventurer.’ He smiled.

‘I guess. Anyway, this list certainly kept me going when I was working at the biscuit factory back home, trying to scrape together enough money to bring the play out here.’

‘And you did it.’

‘Yes. Together with Greta and Alec, who were on my uni course with me, I founded the group in the UK and got us all out here. But you must have had a plan, too, coming here all the way across that big blue sea. You couldn’t get much further from home.’

‘A sketchy one,’ he said, shrugging.

Isla pressed him – he was such a good listener that they’d barely talked about his life at all. ‘I’m guessing you didn’t speak Dutch when you arrived?’

‘I’d never heard a word,’ he laughed. ‘I couldn’t get by at all. I used the English I had – which I’d learned from the American movies I used to watch back home.’

‘And now look at you – you’ve got your own business here.’

‘I feel lucky,’ he said. ‘I got a few regular customers, like Berenice, brilliant B, who spread the word, then started running events, and things took off from there. It wasn’t a plan, not really. A lot of it just happened.’

‘Well, however you got here, I’m glad you came,’ Isla said. She couldn’t imagine being without him now – with the laughter and brightness that he brought to her days.

He put his arms around her and drew her in close to him. ‘Me too.’

 

The following morning, Rafael left to open the bookshop and Isla cycled over to the theatre. The water on the canal of Prinsengracht sparkled in the July sunshine. She smiled to herself, recollecting the sensation of Rafael’s hands on her skin.

Was there a name for it, she wondered, this feeling when you woke up and realised that this good life was your life? That the day you were starting was better than any you ever imagined yourself living? It was worthy of a name. Rafael seemed more than happy to be considered hers, and the independence she’d once valued above everything else in her life didn’t seem as essential as it once had any more.

Sophie had called her late the night before. She’d seen her friend’s name flash up on the phone but – and she never did this, not usually, not to Sophie – she’d reached over and pressed the red button. She’d see Sophie in person soon enough, and would make it up to her.

Sophie had texted last week to say she’d booked her tickets – in just a few days she’d be over here to visit, and they could catch up on everything properly then.

Isla arrived at the theatre, parked her bike and walked in through the stage door.

Greta was tidying up one of the dressing rooms, rearranging costumes and props. ‘There’s that sparkle in your eyes again,’ she said, with a smile. ‘God, it would be sickening, really, if it wasn’t making your performances even stronger than usual.’

‘Thanks,’ Isla said, wrinkling her nose. ‘I think.’

‘You’ve been the best you’ve ever been these past few weeks, we’ve all noticed it.’

A glow of pride welled up inside Isla. She knew, deep down, that it was true. The last few weeks she’d truly come alive on stage, each response from the audience, or emotional silence, spurring her on to perform better and better in the next scene. The difference wasn’t hard to figure out – Rafael was there with her, each night, sometimes in one of the unsold seats at the side of the theatre, other times just in her mind, urging her on.

‘Come and get some coffee with me,’ Greta said. ‘The others are through in Alec’s room. It’s been a busy morning.’

‘Sure,’ Isla said, dropping her rucksack and following Greta through to the other dressing room.

Alec – their temperamental male lead – was definitely sunny-side-up today. He poured Isla coffee and motioned for her to sit down, an irrepressible smile on his face.

‘Why do I get the feeling something’s going on around here that I don’t know about?’ Isla said, suspiciously.

‘Oh, it is,’ Alec said. ‘It totally is.’

‘Go on, tell me, then,’ Isla said, unable to restrain her excitement. She knew – they’d all known – that there were key local reviewers in the audience the previous night. ‘Has a new review come in?’

‘Better than that,’ Greta said.

‘We’re going to New York,’ Alec announced.

Isla furrowed her brow, unsure of what he meant.

‘The show,’ he explained. ‘Get this. We’re going to Broadway!’

New York. Broadway. The words danced in the air until she was barely sure she’d heard them right at all. Did Alec really mean them – their show? Her? Was this really happening?

‘Us? Us including me?’ Isla said, biting her lip to stop from smiling.

‘Of course including you, you doughnut. You’re the best thing we’ve got.’

‘It can’t be real. It’s too good.’

She felt as if she was lighting up like a candle, her cheeks catching the glow and warming. This was IT, the one. What she’d always dreamed of. Being an actress was about more than just the glory, a glamorous setting, of course it was – she would have enjoyed it if she’d been acting in a pub theatre. But New York? That was something most people never got near – if she got there, she had made it. It would all have been worth it – the hard graft and late nights. She would have arrived.

‘He’s being serious,’ Greta reassured her. ‘I didn’t believe him at first either.’

‘How?’ she said, a hesitant smile coming to her lips. ‘I mean – I know the run’s gone well, and we’ve had some great feedback. . .