Marianne Cronin

An extraordinary friendship. A lifetime of stories. Their last one begins here. 'This is something special: moving, joyful and life-affirming' GOOD HOUSEKEEPING Book of the Month _______________________________________ Life is short. No-one knows that better than seventeen-year-old Lenni living on the terminal ward. But as she is about to learn, it's not only what you make of life that matters, but who you share it with. Dodging doctor's orders, she joins an art class where she bumps into fellow patient Margot, a rebel-hearted eight-three-year-old from the next ward. Their bond is instant as they realize that together they have lived an astonishing one hundred years. To celebrate their shared century, they decide to paint their life stories: of growing old and staying young, of giving joy, of receiving kindness, of losing love, of finding the person who is everything. As their extraordinary friendship deepens, it becomes vividly clear that life is not done with Lenni and Margot yet. Fiercely alive, disarmingly funny and brimming with tenderness, THE ONE HUNDRED YEARS OF LENNI AND MARGOT unwraps the extraordinary gift of life even when it is about to be taken away, and revels in our infinite capacity for friendship and love when we need them most. --------------------------------------------- 'Full of wisdom and kindness. It is just the kind of book I adore' JOANNA CANNON 'Emotional, involving, witty and sad. Everyone is going to love Lenni and Margot' JILL MANSELL 'Lenni and Margot are two of the most wonderful, warm, witty and wise heroines I've ever met. Beautiful and glorious' CLARE POOLEY, author of The Authenticity Project 'Such a delight! I fell head over heels for Lenni and Margot, their wit and vibrancy and marvellous outlooks on life. An utter joy' ABBIE GREAVES

Perfect for fans of uplifting book club fiction

The One Hundred Years of Lenni and Margot

Elad Schulman

Alyssa Rovella

Laura Wilson

“Living and dying are both complete mysteries, and you can’t know either until you have done both.”

“They say I’m going to die.” There was a moment of silence between us as Margot studied my face. She looked like she didn’t believe me. “It’s a life-limiting thing,” I said. “But you’re so—” “Young, I know.” “No, you’re so—” “Unlucky?” “No,” she said, still looking at me like she didn’t believe it. “You’re so alive.”

Numbers don’t mean a lot to me. I don’t care about long division or percentages. I don’t know my height or my weight and I can’t remember my dad’s phone number, though I know I used to know it. I prefer words. Delicious, glorious words. But there were two numbers in front of me that mattered, and would matter for the rest of my numbered days. “Between us,” I said quietly, “we’re a hundred years old.”

Somewhere, out in the world, are the people who touched us, or loved us, or ran from us. In that way we will live on.

We want for people to know us, to know our story, to know who we are and who we will be. And after we’ve gone, to know who we were.

We have practiced for death every night. Lying down in the dark and slipping into that place of nothingness between rest and dreams where we have no consciousness, no self, and anything could befall our vulnerable bodies. We have died each night. Or at least, we have laid down to die, and let go of everything in this world, hoping for dreams and morning.

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