Publication date 1st August 2019
About the Book
A year after the kiss that brought them together in a snowy train-station doorway, Maya and James are embarking on another journey - this time around the world. The trip starts promisingly, with an opulent and romantic Indian wedding. But as their travels continue, Maya fears that ‘love at first sight’ might not survive trains, planes and tuk tuks, especially when she realises that what she really wants is a baby, and James doesn’t feel the same. Can Maya and James navigate their different hopes and dreams to stay together? Or is love at first sight just a myth after all… Perfect for fans of One Day in December, Our Stop and Marian Keyes. The Postcard continues the once-in-a-lifetime love story that readers so took to their hearts.
About the Author
Zoë Folbigg is a magazine journalist and digital editor, starting at Cosmopolitan in 2001 and since freelancing for titles including Glamour, Fabulous, Daily Mail, Healthy, LOOK, Top Santé, Mother & Baby, ELLE, Sunday Times Style and Style.com. In 2008 she had a weekly column in Fabulous magazine documenting her year-long round-the-world trip with ‘Train Man’ – a man she had met on her daily commute. She since married Train Man and lives in Hertfordshire with him and their two young sons.
Follow Zoë:
Facebook: @zoefolbiggauthor
Twitter: @zolington
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My Review
After reading ‘The Note’ I was extremely excited to read this as I really enjoyed it. Looking at the cover is is bold and really eye catching which instantly makes you want to pick it up and read it. Delving inside and every page was so exciting. I had no idea of the little twists and turns that occurred and I was shocked a few times and very gripped to find out what was going to happen. Maya and James are the perfect characters and I love their relationship they have together.. couple goals. The author has described each of the destinations so well, I found it so easy to imagine these different places and I haven’t even visited them. I really hope there is a third instalment that includes these characters and they are so loveable and I would love to know what is next for them.
Extract from the book
The Postcard- Zoë Folbigg
12
January 2016, Udaipur, India
In a dusty bus depot on the outskirts of a city, Maya and James remove their pristine backpacks and put them down on a vast expanse of dried, cracked mud. The brown ground is fleetingly tinged pink from the sunset and a wind whips up a whirl of dust and feathers. James throws his large grey-and-black bag down in a more gung-ho fashion than Maya – he thinks grime and dirt will make them look edgier, how ‘real’ travellers should look – disguising the fact they started their big round-the-world trip in Oberoi opulence.
James used to do the same thing when he was a teen with white, box-fresh trainers – he’d ask Francesca to jump up and down on his feet, to roughen them up a bit and make them look less ‘new’, to make him look less of a mummy’s boy. Francesca always obliged with more gusto than James intended, and the gentle toe taps and foot presses would inevitably graduate to stamps, painful kicks and James and Francesca coming to blows.
Maya doesn’t want to put her beloved new Macpac on the ground in case it touches one of the many globs of spit there, thick, gloopy and red from chewed-up tobacco, so she carefully heaves it on top of James’. It was an emotional moment when Maya found the backpack she wanted to buy. She and James had gone to the outdoor shops in Covent Garden to get themselves all the gear they would need for the year ahead, and she tried on different styles, as if she were wedding dress shopping.
Too big.
Too military.
Too Bear Grylls.
Too masculine.
Too feminine.
When Maya found the one that was just right – steely grey, sleek zips, and just the right proportions – she looked at herself in the mirror, the long empty backpack stuffed with bubble wrap and tissue, like a koala hugging her shoulders. Aside from it feeling deceptively light, Maya liked how she looked.
I look the part.
Sizing up her reflection, Maya imagined her departed friend Velma, young and adventurous, heading off on one of her trips to Buenos Aires, Paris, or Istanbul, to work in whichever bureau she was to report from. Full of excitement at the prospect of the sights she was about to see, the friends she would make, the food she would eat, the men who would twirl her around, at milongas or in the Moulin Rouge.
Velma would approve of this backpack.
‘That’s it. That’s the one.’
Velma would approve of James.
She took her Visa card out of her wallet and bought her backpack and one James had chosen, grateful to Velma for the inspiration to travel – and the means of paying for it.
So no, Maya won’t fling her backpack onto ground stained with spit blobs that were right in front of where people stood waiting for colourful buses to take them beyond Rajasthan’s jewels and dunes. Besides, Maya put too much effort into her capsule wardrobe to just sling all her worldly belongings onto the floor.
I might have to put my face against it and use it as a pillow.
Crowds jostle, as a brightly painted bus pulls up, bald tyres skidding in the brown dust. A loud hiss emanates from the back of the bus as Maya and James wait beside it, inhaling a cloud of steam and exhaust fumes as they let the locals get on first. James drags and Maya lifts their packs towards the door, where they politely edge up some steps, cumbersome and cluttered, onto the already crowded bus. James hands two thin white pieces of paper to the driver and gives a
hopeful smile.
The driver urges them up from his perch by the door and signals for them to move down the back of the bus.
‘Our bags?’ James asks. ‘Can you open up the side? The baggage storage?’
The driver shrugs, and ushers them on.
Maya steps up behind James and whispers in his ear. ‘I don’t think there is a baggage compartment. We’ll have to take them on with us.’
James looks irritated and pushes his glasses up his nose. ‘There isn’t room,’ he says through gritted teeth.
James surveys the bus. It’s entirely full. Eyeballs look back at him with interest, in silence. There are no wide, reclining seats waiting for James and Maya. There are no wide, reclining seats at all.
James turns back to the bus driver. ‘Erm, I think this must be the wrong bus. We’re meant to be on the night bus to Bundi. Is this it?’
The driver gives a gentle, graceful move of the head and James can’t decipher what it means.
Do we get off?
Do we stay on?
A young man with thick sideways hair and white teeth, sitting in one of the six front seats, stands up to make a declaration. ‘Dude. I love your shirt,’ he says, appreciatively as he eyes the beige cheesecloth shirt on James’ back.
‘Thanks.’
The man looks pleased with himself and sits back down.
James sees an opportunity – the passenger looks more agreeable than the driver.
James sees an opportunity – the passenger looks more agreeable than the driver.
‘Do you know where our seats are?’ James asks hopefully. He shows the passenger the thin white pieces of paper. ‘We have sleeper tickets.’
‘Ahh, sleeper tickets are up there, sir,’ the man says cheerfully.
James and Maya look to the roof of the bus. There is no upstairs.
