It Had To Be You: Man of the Year 2016
It Had To Be You: Man of the Year 2016
Nikki Logan
Barbara Hannay
Following a nationwide hunt for a modern day hero, we are proud to reveal the winner of Mills & Boon’s Man of the Year campaign, Courtney Hayles, on the cover of this special edition Valentine’s book, It Had To Be You.With two Mills & Boon stories that treat you to two favourite heroes, in two contrasting romantic settings, this book is the ultimate package for a hit of romance this Valentine’s Day.Molly Cooper’s Dream DateMolly Cooper has travelled all the way to London to find her dream man! The trouble is, the sexy emails with hot millionaire Patrick Knight – the man she swapped houses with – are strangely addictive. But what do you do when you realise the one you really want is a world away…sleeping in your bed?Shipwrecked with Mr WrongConservationist Honor Brier loves working in her island paradise. It’s the perfect place to lick her wounds in peace…until arrogant playboy Rob Dalton is shipwrecked on its shores. Yet Rob’s passion for life is impossible to resist – and he’s infuriatingly attractive! Could Mr Wrong actually be oh-so-right?
Mills & Boon
launched a nationwide hunt to discover their Man of the Year 2016, a modern-day hero who is fun, authentic and romantic! With help from celebrity judges Denise Welch, Robin Windsor and Rosie Nixon, we are proud to reveal that special someone as the cover star of this book, Courtney Hayles.
Courtney is an actor, writer and teacher who works hard and dreams big, believing that with determination and motivation, anything is possible. Embracing life to the full, he has travelled widely and says that the only thing he fears is fear itself. ‘When I leave this earth I want to know that I really lived and had a blast with my many adventures.’ Courtney’s perfect date would be meeting for a drink, enjoying good food, dancing and a lot of laughter – ‘There’s nothing better than spending time with someone who makes you laugh and excites the socks off you. The nerves build up and the energy is electric!’
It Had to Be You
Molly Cooper’s Dream Date
Barbara Hannay
Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong
Nikki Logan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u23c62855-af2d-52d0-aaac-0b36e28fa56c)
Title Page (#u1089b723-0196-57e7-80fa-bd40d5c13b33)
Molly Cooper’s Dream Date (#u478e7e23-ccdb-5e95-8b03-c50ef74675b7)
About the Author (#u9c99dbc5-90d9-5ae2-b26a-3f6a8044d650)
CHAPTER ONE (#u9c551f77-439f-5cfe-bf37-9c125318867f)
CHAPTER TWO (#u81132c8e-891e-5c53-923b-d3430096d0d6)
CHAPTER THREE (#uac90839c-4a69-5753-a846-44679552f5bd)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u0508f7fa-b9cc-5e68-bd62-4a4b9487c25f)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ub56316f8-503e-520b-a459-a05ad3ca6d92)
CHAPTER SIX (#uedcfe879-d0ef-5f4c-9fe4-66d595ace796)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Molly Cooper’s Dream Date (#ulink_7a79af90-342b-5795-9cf6-47796d92efe7)
Barbara Hannay
BARBARA HANNAY has written over forty romance novels and has won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA
award, the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice award, as well as Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year.
A city-bred girl with a yen for country life, Barbara lives with her husband on a misty hillside in beautiful Far North Queensland where they raise pigs and chickens and enjoy an untidy but productive garden.
Special thanks to Jenny Haddon,
whose wonderful London hospitality inspired this story.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a8881357-286a-5c02-a1eb-da61c3818a44)
‘THIS is my favourite part,’ Molly whispered as the glamorous couple on her TV screen walked sadly but stoically to opposite ends of London’s Westminster Bridge. ‘He’s going to turn back to her any minute now.’
Molly was curled on her couch in a tense ball. Karli, at the other end of the couch, helped herself to more popcorn.
‘Don’t miss this, Karli. I cry every time. Look. He hears Big Ben, and he stops, and—’ Molly’s voice broke on a sob. ‘He turns.’ She hugged her knees. ‘See the look on his face?’
‘Ohhh …’ Karli let out a hushed breath. ‘You can see he really, really loves her.’
‘I know. It’s so beautiful.’ Molly reached for tissues as the gorgeous hero stood alone on the bridge, stricken-faced, shoulders squared, waiting for the woman in the long fur coat to turn back to him.
Karli grabbed a cushion and clutched it to her chest. ‘He’ll chase after her.’
‘No. It’s up to her now. If she doesn’t turn back, he knows she doesn’t love him.’
On the screen, a red double-decker London bus slowed to a stop and the movie’s heroine, in her ankle-length, glamorous coat, hurried to catch it.
‘No,’ Karli moaned as the bus took off with the woman on board, and the camera switched to another close-up of the hero’s grimly devastated face. ‘Don’t tell me it’s a sad ending.’
Molly pressed her lips together to stop herself from speaking. The camera tracked upwards to a bird’s eye view of London, showing the silvery River Thames curving below, and the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben … the solitary figure of the hero standing on Westminster Bridge … and the red bus driving away.
Karli was scowling. Molly hugged her knees tighter, gratified that her friend was hooked into the tension.
The camera climbed higher still, and the London bus was matchbox-size. The sounds of the city traffic were replaced by music—violins swelling with lush and aching beauty.
Molly had seen this movie more than a dozen times, but tears still rolled down her cheeks.
And then … at last …
At last …
The bus stopped.
The tiny figure of the heroine emerged …
The camera swooped down once more, zooming closer and closer as the lovers ran towards each other, arms outstretched, embracing at last.
The credits began to roll. Karli wrinkled her nose. ‘OK. I admit that wasn’t bad.’
‘Not bad?’ Molly sniffed. ‘I suppose that’s why you practically bit a piece out of my sofa cushion? Come on—admit it’s amazing. The look on Christian’s face when he thinks he’s lost Vanessa is the most emotional moment in cinematic history.’ She gave a dramatic sigh. ‘And London has to be the most romantic city in the world.’
Shrugging, Karli reached for more popcorn. ‘Isn’t Paris supposed to be the most romantic city?’
‘No way. Not for me. Paris is—Paris is … Oh, I don’t know.’ Molly gave a helpless flap of her hands. ‘Paris just … isn’t London.’
‘Admit it, Mozza. You have a thing for English guys. You’re convinced that London is full of perfect gentlemen.’
It was best to ignore her friend’s sarcasm. Molly wasn’t going to admit that it held a grain—OK, maybe even more than a grain—of truth. Her love affair with London was deeply personal.
Pressing the remote to turn the set off, she went to the window and looked out into the night. The moon was almost full and it silvered the tall pines on the headland and the smooth, sparkling surface of the Coral Sea.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ she said. ‘Nothing romantic like that is ever going to happen to me. Not on this island.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Our island might not have Big Ben or Westminster Bridge, but the moonlight on Picnic Bay’s not bad. I wasn’t complaining when Jimbo proposed.’
Molly smiled as she turned from the window. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t counting you and Jimbo. You guys are as romantic as it gets—best friends since kindergarten. Everyone here knew you’d end up together.’
‘Well, to be honest, it’s not exactly romantic when your husband spends half his life away on a fishing trawler.’
‘I guess.’ Molly moved to the kitchen and reached for a saucepan to make hot chocolate. ‘I shouldn’t keep watching that movie. It always makes me restless—makes me want to take off and live in London.’
‘Does it have to be London? If you want to get off the island, why don’t you try Sydney or Brisbane? Even Cairns?’
Molly rolled her eyes. As if any Australian city could live up to her vision of England’s famous capital. For as long as she could remember, she’d been entranced by London—by its history, its buildings, its pageantry, its culture.
She loved all the names—like Portobello Road, the Serpentine, Piccadilly Circus and Battersea. For her they had a thrilling, magical ring. Like poetry.
Karli shrugged. ‘If I went overseas, I’d rather go to America. Jimbo’s going to take me to Las Vegas.’
‘Wow. When?’
‘One day. Ha-ha. If either of us ever gets a job with better pay.’
‘Money’s my problem, too. The mortgage on this place uses up most of my savings. And the rent in London’s horrendous. I’ve checked on the internet.’
‘But you might be able to manage it if you rented out this place.’
Molly shuddered. Renting this cottage would mean a series of strangers living here, and it wouldn’t seem right when it had been her gran’s home for more than fifty years.
‘Or,’ said Karli, ‘what about a house swap? That way you’d get to pick who lives here, and it would only be for a short time. My cousin in Cairns swapped with a couple from Denmark, and it worked out fine.’
‘A house swap?’ A tingling sensation danced down Molly’s spine. ‘How does that work?’
Patrick Knight glared at the towering pile of paperwork on his desk, and then he glared at his watch. Past eight already, and he would be here for hours yet.
Grimacing, he picked up his mobile phone and thumbed a hasty text message. Angela was not going to like this, but it couldn’t be helped.
Ange, so sorry. Snowed under at work. Will have to bow out of tonight. Can we make a date for Friday instead? P
Snapping the phone closed, Patrick reached for the next folder in the pile. His stomach growled, and along with his hunger pangs he felt a surge of frustration.
The past years of global financial crisis had seen his job in London’s banking world morph from an interesting and challenging career into a source of constant stress.
It was like working in a war zone. Too many of his colleagues had been fired, or had resigned. Some had even suffered nervous breakdowns. At times he’d felt like the last man standing.
Yes, it was true that he had saved a couple of major accounts, but he was doing the work of three people in his department, and the shower of commendations from his boss had rather lost their shine. He’d reached the point where he had to ask why he was slogging away, working ridiculous hours and giving everything he had to his job, when his life outside the office was—
Non-existent.
Truth was, he no longer had a life away from the bank. No time to enjoy the lovely house he’d bought in Chelsea, no time to go out with his latest girlfriend. How he’d managed to meet Angela in the first place was a miracle, but almost certainly she would give up on him soon—just as her predecessors had.
As for the crazy, crazy promise he’d once made to himself that he would balance his working life with writing a novel. In his spare time. Ha-ha.
Except for Patrick it was no longer a laughing matter. This was his life, or rather his non-life, and he was wasting it. One day he’d wake up and discover he was fifty—like his boss—pale, anxious, boring and only able to talk about one thing. Work.
His mobile phone pinged. It was Angela, as expected. Tight-jawed, he clicked on her reply.
Sorry. Not Friday. Not ever. One cancellation too many. Goodbye, sweet P. Ange
Patrick cursed, but he couldn’t really blame Ange. Tomorrow he’d send her two—no, three dozen roses. But he suspected they wouldn’t do the trick. Not this time. If he was honest, he couldn’t pretend that her rejection would break his heart—but it was symptomatic of the depths to which his life had sunk.
In a burst of anger, he pushed his chair back from his desk and began to prowl.
The office felt like a prison. It was a damn prison, and he felt a mad urge to break out of it.
Actually, it wasn’t a mad urge. It was a highly reasonable and justified need. A must.
In mid-prowl, his eyes fell on the globe of the world that he’d salvaged from the old boardroom when it had been refurbished—in those giddy days before the financial world had gone belly up. Now it sat in the corner of his office, and lately he’d stared at it often, seized by a longing to be anywhere on that tiny sphere.
Anywhere except London.
Walking towards it now, Patrick spun the globe and watched the coloured shapes of the continents swirl. He touched it with his finger, feeling the friction as its pace slowed.
If I were free, I’d go anywhere. When this globe stops spinning, I’ll go wherever my finger is pointing.
The globe stopped. Patrick laughed. He’d been thinking of somewhere exotic, like Tahiti or Rio de Janeiro, but his finger was resting on the east coast of Australia. A tiny dot. An island.
He leaned closer to read the fine print. Magnetic Island.
Never heard of it.
About to dismiss it, he paused. I said I’d go anywhere—anywhere in the world. Why don’t I at least look this place up?
But why bother? It wasn’t as if it could happen. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. He was locked in here.
But what if I made it happen? Surely it’s time?
Back at his desk, Patrick tried a quick internet search for Magnetic Island, and his eyebrows lifted as the first page of links scrolled down. The island was clearly a tourist destination, with palm trees and white sand and blue tropical seas. Not so different from Tahiti, perhaps?
The usual variety of accommodations was offered. Then two words leapt out at him from the bottom of the screen: House Swap.
Intrigued, Patrick hit the link.
House Swap: Magnetic Island, Queensland, Australia
2 bedroom cottage
Location Details: Nestled among trees on a headland, this home has ocean views and is only a three-minute walk through the national park to a string of beautiful bays. Close to the Great Barrier Reef, the island provides a water wonderland for sailing, canoeing, parasailing, fishing and diving.
Preferred Swap Dates: From 1st April—flexible
Preferred Swap Length: Three to four months
Preferred Destination: London, UK
Patrick grinned. For a heady moment he could picture himself there—in a different hemisphere, in a different world.
Free, free …
Swimming with coral fishes. Lying in a hammock beneath palm trees. Checking out bikini-clad Australian girls. Writing the fabulous thriller that resided only in his head. Typing it on his laptop while looking out at the sparkling blue sea.
OK, amusement over. Nose back to the grindstone.
With great reluctance, he lifted a folder of computer printouts from the pile and flipped it open.
But his concentration was shot to pieces. His mind couldn’t settle on spreadsheets and figures. He was composing a description of his house for a similar swapping advertisement.
Home Exchange: Desirable Chelsea, London, UK
3 bedroom house with garden
Close to public transport and amenities—two-minute walk.
* Television
* Fireplaces
* Balcony/patio
* Dining/shopping nearby
* Galleries/museums
Available for three-month exchange: April/May to June/July
Destination—Coastal Queensland, Australia
Two and a half hours later Patrick had closed the last folder, and he’d also reached a decision.
He would do it. He had to. He would get away. He would make an appointment with his boss. First thing in the morning.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ed9df3bf-c2ee-5097-8c87-2eb3cabb4b56)
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: We’re off—like a rotten egg
Hi Patrick
I can’t believe I’ll actually be in England in just over twenty-four hours. At last I’m packed (suitcases groaning), and my little house is shining clean and ready for you. Brand-new sheets on the bed—I hope you like navy blue.
I also hope you’ll feel welcome here and, more importantly, comfortable. I considered leaving flowers in a vase, but I was worried they might droop and die and start to smell before you got here. I’ll leave the key under the flowerpot beside the back door.
Now, I know that probably sounds incredibly reckless to you, but don’t worry—the residents of Magnetic Island are very honest and extremely laid-back. No one locks their doors.
I don’t want you to fret, though, so I’ve also left a spare key at Reception at the Sapphire Bay resort, where I used to work until yesterday.
Used to work.
That has such a nice ring, doesn’t it? I’ve trained Jill, the owner’s niece, to take my place while I’m away, and for now, at least, I’m giddily carefree and unemployed.
Yippee!!
You have no idea how much I’ve always wanted to live in London, even if it’s only for three months. Thanks to you, Patrick, this really is my dream come true, and I’m beyond excited. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.
Have you finished up at your work? Are you having a farewell party? Mine was last night. It was pretty rowdy, and I have no idea what to do with all the gifts people gave me. I can’t fit as much as another peanut in my suitcases, so I’ll probably have to stash these things in a box under my bed (your bed now). Sorry.
By the way, please feel free to use my car. It’s not much more than a sardine can on wheels, but it gets you about. Don’t worry that it’s unregistered. Cars on the island don’t need registration unless they’re taken over to the mainland.
It was kind of you to mention that your car is garaged just around the corner from your place, but don’t worry, I won’t risk my shaky driving skills in London traffic.
Oh, and don’t be upset if the ferry is running late. The boats here run on ‘island time’.
Anyway, happy travels.
London, here I come!
Molly
PS I agree that we shouldn’t phone each other except in the direst emergency. You’re right—phone calls can be intrusive (especially with a ten-hour time difference). And they’re costly. E-mails are so handy—and I’ll try to be diplomatic. No guarantees. I can rattle on when I’m excited.
M
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: We’re off—like a rotten egg
Dear Molly
Thanks for your message. No time for a farewell party, I’m afraid. Had to work late to get my desk cleared. Rushing now to pack and get away. Cidalia (cleaning lady) will come in some time this week to explain everything about the house—how the oven works, etc.
The keys to the house are in a safety deposit box at the Chelsea branch of the bank I work for on the King’s Road. It’s a square brick building. My colleagues have instructions to hand the keys over to you—and I’ve left a map. You’ll just need to show your passport. You shouldn’t have any problems.
Have a good flight.
Best wishes
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: I’m in London!!!!!!!
Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow!
If I wasn’t so tired I’d pinch myself, but I’m horribly jet-lagged and can hardly keep my eyes open. Insanely happy, though.
Your very gentlemanly colleague at the bank handed over the keys and wished me a pleasant stay at number thirty-four Alice Grove, and then I trundled my luggage around the corner and—
Patrick, your house is—
Indescribably
Lovely.
Divine will have to suffice for now, but the truth is that your home is more than divine.
Too tired to do it justice tonight. Will have my first English cup of tea and fall into bed. Your bed. Gosh, that sounds rather intimate, doesn’t it? Will write tomorrow.
Blissfully
Molly
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Thank you
Hi Patrick
I’ve slept for ten hours in your lovely king-size bed and am feeling much better today, but my head is still buzzing with excitement! I’ve never left Australia before, so my first sight of England yesterday was the most amazing thrill. We flew in over the English Channel, and when I saw the green and misty fields, just the way I’ve always imagined them, I confess I became a tad weepy.
And then Heathrow. Oh, my God, what an experience. Now I know how cattle feel when they’re being herded into the yards. For a moment there I wanted to turn tail and run back to my sleepy little island.
I soon got over that, thank heavens, and caught a taxi to Chelsea. Terribly extravagant, I know, but I wasn’t quite ready to face the tube with all my luggage. I’m just a teensy bit scared of the London Underground.
The driver asked me what district I wanted to go to, and when I told him Chelsea, SW3, he didn’t say anything but I could see by the way he blinked that he was impressed. When I got here I was pretty darned impressed, too.
But I’m worried, Patrick.
This isn’t exactly an even house swap.
Your place is so gorgeous! Like a four-storey dolls’ house. Sorry, I hope that’s not offensive to a man. I love it all—the carpeted staircases and beautiful arched windows and marble fireplaces and the bedrooms with their own en suite bathrooms. There’s even a bidet! Blush. It took me a while to work out what it was. I’d never seen one before.
Meanwhile, you’ll be discovering the green tree frogs in my toilet. Gosh, Patrick, can you bear it?
I love the sitting room, with all your books—you’re quite a reader, aren’t you?—but I think my favourite room is the kitchen, right at the bottom of your house. I love the black and white tiles on the floor and the glass French doors opening onto a little courtyard at the back.
I had my morning cuppa out in the courtyard this morning, sitting in a little pool of pale English sunshine. And there was a tiny patch of daffodils at my feet! I’ve never seen daffodils growing before.
So many firsts!
After breakfast I went for a walk along the King’s Road, and everyone looked so pink-cheeked and glamorous, with their long, double knotted scarves and boots. I bought myself a scarf (won’t be able to afford boots). I so wanted to look like all the other girls, but I can’t manage the pink cheeks.
I swear I saw a television actor. An older man, don’t know his name, but my grandmother used to love him.
But crikey, Patrick. I look around here and I have all this—I feel like I’m living in Buckingham Palace—and then I think about you on the other side of the world in my tiny Pandanus Cottage, which is—well, you’ll have seen it for yourself by now. It’s very basic, isn’t it? Perhaps I should have warned you that I don’t even have a flatscreen TV.
Do write and tell me how you are—hopefully not struck dumb with horror.
Cheers, as you Brits say
Molly
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Are you there yet?
Sorry to sound like your mother, Patrick, but could you just drop a quick line to let me know you’ve arrived and you’re OK and the house is OK?
M
PS I’m still happy and excited, but I can’t believe how cold it is here. Isn’t it supposed to be spring?
To: Patrick Knight
From: Felicity Knight
Subject: Touching base
Hello darling
I imagine you must be in Australia by now. I do hope you had a good flight. I promise I’m not going to bother you the whole time you’re away, but I just needed to hear that you’ve arrived safely and all is well and to wish you good luck again with writing your novel.
Love from the proud mother of a future world-famous, bestselling author.
xx
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Just checking
Dear Molly
Yes, I’m here, safe and sound, thank you, and everything’s fine. It was well worth the twenty-hour flight and crossing the world’s hemispheres just to get here. Don’t worry. Your house suits my needs perfectly and the setting is beautiful. Everything’s spotless, just as you promised, and the new sheets are splendid. Thank you for ironing them.
As I told you, I’m planning to write a book, so I don’t need loads of luxury and I don’t plan to watch much TV. What I need is a complete change of scenery and inspiration, and the view from your front window provides both.
I’ve already rearranged the furniture so that I can have a table at the window and take in the fabulous view across the bay to Cape Cleveland. All day long the sea keeps changing colour with the shifting patterns of the sun and the clouds. It’s utterly gorgeous.
I’m pleased you’ve settled in and that you like what you’ve found, but don’t worry about me. I’m enjoying the sunshine and I’m very happy.
Oh, and thanks also for your helpful notes about the fish in the freezer and the pot plants and the washing machine’s spin cycle and the geckos. All points duly noted.
Best wishes
Patrick
To: Felicity Knight
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Touching base
Hi Mother
Everything’s fine, thanks. I’m settled in here and all’s well. Will keep in touch. It’s paradise down here, so don’t worry about me.
Love to you and to Jonathan
Patrick x
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 10th
This feels very uncomfortable.
I’ve never kept any kind of diary, but apparently it’s helpful for serious writers to keep a journal of ‘free writing’. Any thoughts or ideas are grist for the mill, and the aim is to keep the ‘writing muscle’ exercised while waiting for divine inspiration.
I wasn’t going to bother. I’m used to figures and spreadsheets, to getting results and getting them quickly, and it feels such a waste of effort to dredge up words that might never be used. But after spending an entire day at my laptop staring at ‘Chapter One’ at the top of a blank page, I feel moved to try something.
I can blame jet-lag for the lack of productivity. I’m sure my muse will kick in after a day or two, but rather than waste the next couple of days waiting for the words to flow, I’m trying this alternative.
So … what to say?
This isn’t a test—no one else will be reading it—so I might as well start with the obvious.
It’s an interesting experience to move into someone else’s house on the other side of the world, and to be surrounded by a completely different landscape and soundtrack, even different smells.
As soon as I found notes from Molly scattered all over the house, I knew I’d arrived in an alien world. A few examples:
Note on a pot plant: Patrick, would you mind watering this twice a week? But don’t leave water lying in the saucer, or mosquitoes will breed.
On the fridge door: Help yourself to the fish in the freezer. There’s coral trout, queen fish, wahoo and nannygai. Don’t be put off by the strange names, they’re delicious. Try them on the barbecue. There’s a great barbecue recipe book on the shelf beside the stove.
On the lounge wall, beside the light switch: Don’t freak if you see small, cute lizards running on the walls. They’re geckos—harmless, and great for keeping the insects down.
Beyond the cottage, the plants and trees are nothing like trees at home. Some are much wilder and stragglier, others lusher and thicker, and all seem to grow in the barest cracks of soil between the huge boulders on this headland.
The birds not only look different but they sound totally alien. There’s a bright green parrot with a blue head and yellow throat that chatters and screeches. The kookaburra’s laugh is hilarious. Another bird lets out a blood-curdling, mournful cry in the night.
Even the light here is a surprise. So bright it takes a bit of getting used to.
God, this is pathetic. I need red wine. I’m not a writer’s toenail.
But I can’t give up on the first day. Getting this leave was a miracle. I couldn’t believe how generous old George Sims was. Such a surprise that he was worried about me ‘burning out’.
But now … my writing. I’d always imagined that writing would be relaxing. I’m sure it is once the words really start to come. I’ll plug on.
In spite of all the differences here, or perhaps because of them, Molly Cooper’s little cottage feels good to me. It’s simple, but it has loads of personality and it’s almost as if she hasn’t really left. It’s bizarre, but I feel as if I’ve actually met her simply by being here and seeing all her things, touching them, using the soap she left (sandalwood, I believe), eating from her dishes, sleeping in her bed under a white mosquito net.
There’s a photo of her stuck on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a slice of watermelon. She’s with an elderly woman and it says on the back ‘Molly and Gran’. It was taken about a year ago, and Gran looks very frail, but Molly has long, light brown curly hair, a pretty smile, friendly eyes, dimples and terrific legs.
Not that Molly’s appearance or personality is in any way relevant. I’m never going to meet her in the flesh. Our houses are our only points of connection.
So … a bit more about her house.
I must admit that I was worried that it might be too girlie, a bit too cute with pastel shades, ribbons and bows. The sort of warm and fuzzy place that could lower a man’s testosterone overnight. But it’s fine. I especially like its rugged and spectacular setting.
The house itself is small—two bedrooms, one bathroom and one big open room for the kitchen, dining and lounge. It’s all on one level and it feels strange not going upstairs to bed at night.
Lots of windows and shutters catch the breezes and the views. Loads of candles. You’d think there was no electricity, the way the candles are scattered everywhere, along with pieces of driftwood and shells, and decorative touches of blue.
I wouldn’t normally notice colours, but for fear of sounding like a total dweeb I like all Molly’s bits of blue—like echoes of the sea and the sky outside. Very restful.
When I leave the house, the island is hot and sultry, but inside it’s cool and quiet and … soothing.
After these past years of financial crisis and endless overtime, this place has exactly the kind of vibe I need. I’m glad I told everyone I was going to be out of contact for the next three months. Apart from the odd e-mail from Molly or my mother, there’ll be no phone calls. No text messages, no tweets, no business e-mails …
I think I might try the hammock in the mango tree.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Update
Hi Patrick
How are you? I do hope the island is working its magic on you and that the book is flowing brilliantly.
I’ve begun to explore London (on foot, or riding in the gorgeous red double-decker buses—takes more time, but I still can’t face the Tube), and I’m trying to do as much sightseeing as I can. Turns out most museums in the city of London don’t charge any entrance fee, which is awesome.
To make the most of my time here, I’ve made a few rules for myself.
Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies. I don’t want to spend my whole time talking about home. Just shoot me now.
Rule 2: Educate myself about the ‘real’ London—not just the tourist must-sees, like Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square.
Just as an example: yesterday I was walking the streets around here, and I stumbled upon the house where Oscar Wilde lived more than a hundred years ago. Can you imagine how amazing that is for a girl whose neighbours are wallabies and parrots?
I stood staring at Oscar’s front window, all choked up, just thinking about the brilliant plays he wrote, and about him living here all through his trial, and having to go to prison simply for being gay.
You’re not gay, are you, Patrick? I shouldn’t think so, judging by the reading matter on your bookshelves—mostly sporting biographies and finance tomes or spy novels.
Sorry, your reading tastes and sexual preferences are none of my business, but it’s hard not to be curious about you. You haven’t even left a photo lying around, but I suppose blokes don’t bother with photos.
Speaking of photos, I may go to see the Changing of the Guard, but I do not plan to have my picture taken with a man on horseback and an inverted mop on his head.
Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman. Actually, it would be helpful if you were gay, Patrick, because then I could have girly chats with you about my lack of a love-life. Now you’ve seen the island, you’ll understand it’s not exactly brimming with datable single men. Most of the bachelors are young backpackers passing through, or unambitious drifters.
My secret fantasy (here I go, telling you anyway) is to go out with a proper English gentleman. Let’s get real, here—not Prince William or Colin Firth. I can lower my sights—but not too low. Colin Firth’s little brother would be acceptable.
After a lifetime on an island where most of the young men spend their days barefoot and wearing holey T-shirts and board shorts, I hanker for a man in a smooth, sophisticated suit.
I’d love to date a nicely spoken Englishman who treats me like a lady and takes me somewhere cultured—to a concert or a play or an art gallery.
A girl can dream. By the way, I’ve done an internet search and did you know there are six hundred and seventy-three different shows on in London right now? I can’t believe it. I’m gobsmacked. Our island has one amateur musical each year.
Patrick, I warned you I might rattle on. I’ve always tended to put the jigsaw puzzle of my thoughts on paper. For now, I’ll leave you in peace.
M
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Cleaning
Cidalia came today. She’s sweet, isn’t she? And she speaks very good English. I’ve never met anyone from Brazil, so we sat at the kitchen table—I wasn’t sure how Upstairs/Downstairs you were about entertaining employees in the sitting room—and over a cosy cuppa she told me all about her family and her childhood in San Paolo. So interesting!
But, gosh, Patrick, I didn’t realise she was going to continue cleaning your house while I’m here. Apparently you’ve already paid her in advance. That’s kind and thoughtful, and I realise Cidalia wouldn’t want to lose her job here, but I haven’t arranged for anyone to come and clean my house for you. It didn’t even occur to me.
Magnetic Island must feel like a third world country to you.
If you would like a cleaner, I could contact Jodie Grimshaw in Horseshoe Bay. She’s a single mum who does casual cleaning jobs, but I’m afraid you’d have to watch her, Patrick. I do feel rather protective of you, and Jodie’s on the lookout for a rich husband. Added to that, her child is scarily prone to tantrums.
Do let me know if I can help. I could also try the Sapphire Bay resort. They could probably spare one of their cleaners for one morning a week.
Best
Molly
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Cleaning
Dear Molly
Thanks for your warning about Jodie G. It came in handy when I met her at the supermarket this morning. She was rather … shall I say, proactive? Your tip-off was helpful.
Actually, I don’t need a cleaner, thank you. I’ve worked out the intricacies of the dustpan and broom, and your house is so compact I can clean it in a jiffy. No doubt you’re surprised to hear that I can sweep, even though I’m not gay. ☺ I might even figure out how to plug in the vacuum cleaner soon.
To be honest, the lack of a cleaning woman doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the fact that I can’t go swimming. Who would have thought you can’t swim on a tropical island? Apparently there are deadly jellyfish in the water, and a rogue saltwater crocodile cruising up and down the coastline. All the beaches are closed. And it’s stinking hot!
That’s my grumble.
For your part, I’m concerned that you’re nervous about using the Tube. I can understand it might be intimidating when your main mode of transport has been the island’s ferry service, but the Tube is fast and punctual, and Sloane Square station is very close by. Do give it a try.
Regards
Patrick
PS Someone called Boof rang and invited me down to the pub to watch a cane toad race. I looked on the internet and discovered that cane toads are poisonous South American frogs that can grow as big as dinner plates and breed like rabbits. So I guess the races aren’t Ascot. Would appreciate any advice/warnings.
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 16th
This journal isn’t helping at all. I’m still staring at a blank page.
Any words I’ve put down are total rubbish. It’s so distressing. The ideas for my novel are perfect in my head. I can see the characters, the setting and the action, but when I try to put them on the page everything turns to garbage.
I’m beginning to think that Molly Cooper’s a far better writer than I am and she isn’t even trying. The words just flow from her. I’m feeling the first flutters of panic. I hate failure. How did I ever think I could write an entire novel? It’s all in my head, but that’s no use unless I can get it into a manuscript.
I’m going for a long hike. Walking is supposed to be very good for writer’s block.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Stingers, etc!
Hi Patrick
I’m sorry. I should have warned you about the marine stingers, and it’s a shame about the crocodile. The good news is the National Park people will probably catch the croc and move it up the coast to somewhere safe and remote, and the stinger season finishes at the end of April, so it won’t be long now before you’re able to swim. You could try the stinger-proof enclosure over in Horseshoe Bay, but swimming inside a big net isn’t the same, I suppose.
Just you wait—the island is paradise in late autumn and early winter. You’ll be able to swim and skin dive to your heart’s content.
I’ll draw a map of the island and post it to you, showing you where all the best diving reefs are. And do check out the cane toad races. They sound grotesque, but they’re actually fun. Listen to Boof. He catches the toads for the races, and maybe he can put you onto a sure thing to win a few dollars.
How’s the writing going?
Molly x
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Thank you!
Patrick, you darling! Sorry if that sounds too intimate, when we’ve never actually met, but it’s so, so sweet of you to send Discovering London’s Secrets. It arrived this morning. You must have organised it over the internet. How thoughtful!
Believe me—I’m deeply, deeply grateful. I’ve looked at other travel books in the shops, but they only seem to cover all the popular sights, which are fabulous, of course—there’s a reason they’re popular—but once you’ve done Piccadilly Circus and Buck Palace, the Tower and Hyde Park you’re hungry for more, aren’t you?
Now I’m so well informed I can really explore properly, just the way I’d hoped to.
This afternoon I went back to Hyde Park and found the hidden pet cemetery mentioned in this book. It was fascinating, with all those dear little mildewed headstones marking the final resting places of dogs, cats and birds, and even a monkey.
But to use the book you sent properly, I’m going to have to brave the Underground, and that still terrifies me. I hate to think that the whole of London is sitting on top of a network of tunnels and at any given moment there are thousands of people under there, whizzing back and forth in trains.
I do feel ashamed of myself for freaking out like this. I know avoidance only makes these things worse. I’m going to work at getting braver.
M x
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Thank you!
Hi Molly
Thanks for offering to send a map of the diving spots on the island. It’ll be very handy. I’ll keep an eye out for the mail van.
So glad you like the book. My pleasure. But, Molly, it does sound as if you’re getting yourself very worked up about using the Tube. Of course there are other ways to get around London, but if it’s bothering you, and you feel slightly phobic, maybe you need a helping hand?
If you like, I could ask my mother to pop around to No. 34. I know she’d be only too happy to show you the ropes. That’s not quite as alarming as it sounds. With me she’s extremely bossy, but everyone else claims that she can be very calming.
Best wishes
Chin up!
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: Thank you!
Dear Patrick
Yet again, thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer of a visit from your mother. I know it was kindly meant, but I couldn’t impose on her like that.
From the way I rabbit on, you probably think I’m very young—but I’m actually twenty-four, and quite old enough to tackle the challenge of catching a train.
I’ve never liked to play damsel in distress, and, while this fear may be unreasonable, it’s something I must conquer on my own.
Sincerely
Molly
PS You haven’t mentioned your book. You must be very modest, Patrick. Or does your English reserve prevent you from confiding such personal information to a nosy Aussie?
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_5fb00b51-cc7b-560c-bdfc-870df5591242)
Text message from Karli, April 19, 10.40 a.m.: U never told us yr house swapper is seriously hot.
To: Karli Henderson
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: House swap
Hi, Karli. Sorry—I can’t afford to reply to an international text message, so I’m resorting to e-mail. I must say your text came as a surprise. After all, the whole house swap idea came from you, and you knew I was swapping with a guy called Patrick Knight. As you also know, I only ever saw pictures of his house. I still have no idea what he looks like, so I couldn’t tell you anything about his appearance.
Actually, the lack of photos lying about here (not even an album that I can take a sneaky peek at) made me think that Patrick was shy about his appearance.
Is he seriously good-looking?
Honestly?
I’m having a ball here—not on the guy front (sigh), just exploring London. But I’m eventually going to have to get some work. The mortgage must be paid. As you know, Pandanus Cottage is my one and only asset, my key to getting ahead.
Have you spoken to Patrick? Does he have a sexy English accent? I’ve discovered that not many Londoners actually speak like Jeremy Irons or Colin Firth, which is a bit of a disappointment for me, but I suppose others wouldn’t agree. Beauty is in the ear of the receiver, after all.
How’s Jimbo?
Molly x
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: Re: House swap
Glad you’re having a great time, Mozza, but I’m not sure that I should give you too many details about your swapper’s looks. You might come racing home.
Be fair, girl. You’re over there in London with millions of Englishmen and we have just one here. Not that your Patrick has shown any signs of wanting to mix with the locals. He’s a bit aloof. Dare I say snooty? He brushed off Jodie Grimshaw. He was ever so polite, apparently, but even she got the message—and you know what that takes.
Our news is that Jimbo’s applying for a job with a boat builder in Cairns, so it could turn out that we won’t be on the island for much longer.
Have I told you lately that I’m very proud of you, Molly? I think you’re so brave to be living in a huge city on the far side of the world. All alone.
You’re my hero. Believe it.
Karli x
To: Karli Henderson
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: House swap
Karli, I’m sending positive thoughts to Jimbo for the job interview in Cairns, although I’m sure you know I’m going to really miss you guys if you leave the island. You’ve been my best friends my whole life!
But I can’t be selfish. I know how much you’d like Jimbo to have a steady job that pays well, and you’ll be able to start planning your future (including that trip to Vegas), so good luck!!
Re: Patrick Knight. I hope he’s not being too standoffish and stuck up, or the islanders will give him a hard time.
I’m sure he’s not really snooty. He and I have been swapping e-mails and he seems a bit reserved, but quite nice and helpful. Actually, he’s probably keeping to himself because he simply hasn’t time to socialise. He’s very busy writing a book, and he only has three months off, so he’ll have his head down, scribbling (or typing) madly.
Just the same, I think you’re mean not telling me more about him. He’s in my house, sleeping in my bed. Really, that’s a terribly intimate relationship, and yet I have no idea what he looks like!
Why are you holding back? What are you hiding about him? Maybe you could find time to answer a few quick questions?
Is Patrick tall? Yes? No?
Dark? Yes? No?
Young? Like under 35? Yes? No?
Is he muscular? Yes? No?
Good teeth? Yes? No?
All of the above?
None of the above?
M x
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: Re: House swap
Chillax, girlfriend.
All of the above.
K
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: FYI
Progress report on the tube assault by Ms Molly Elizabeth Cooper:
A preliminary reconnaissance of Sloane Square Tube station was made this afternoon at 2.00 p.m.
• Thirty minutes were spent in the forecourt, perusing train timetables and observing Londoners purchasing tickets and passing through turnstiles
• Names of the main stations on the yellow Circle Line between Sloane Square and King’s Cross were memorised—South Kensington, Gloucester Road, Notting Hill Gate, Paddington, Baker Street. Ms Cooper didn’t cheat. She loved learning those names and letting them roll off her tongue!
• Ms Cooper acknowledged that people emerging from the Underground did not appear traumatised. Most looked bored, tired or in a dreadful hurry. A handful of passengers almost, but not quite, smiled. One was actually laughing into a mobile phone.
• Ms Cooper purchased a day pass, which she may use some time in the near future.
Ms Cooper’s next challenge:
• To actually enter the Underground.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: FYI
Dear Molly
Congratulations! I’m very proud of you for taking such positive steps. I feared you’d miss another great London experience. In no time you’ll be dashing about on the Underground and reading racy novels to conquer your boredom instead of your fear.
Speaking of novels—you’ve expressed concern about the progress of mine, but I can assure you it is well in hand. It’s a thriller, set in the banking world. It has an intricate plot, so I want to plan every twist and turn very carefully in advance. To this end, I’ve been taking long walks on the island. I walked from Alma Bay to The Forts and back yesterday. A group of Japanese tourists pointed out a lovely fat koala asleep in the fork of a gum tree.
While I’m walking, I think every aspect of my novel through in fine detail. The plotting is almost complete, and I plan to start the actual writing very soon.
Regards
P
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: FYI
That is such a brilliant idea—to set your novel in the banking world. Don’t they always say you should write about what you know? And a thriller! Wow! I’d love to hear more.
Go, you!
M x
Private Writing Journal, April 27th.
Working hard or hardly working? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
I’m attacking the novel from a different angle (away from the window—views can be too distracting). I’ve gone about as far as I can with planning the plot, so I’m creating character charts now. A good story is all about the people in it, so once I have a firm grip on the lead characters the story will spring to life on the page.
Here goes …
Hero: Harry Shooter—nearing forty, former intelligence officer with MI5, hired by the Bank of England specifically to hunt down spies who pose as bank employees then hack into the systems and siphon off funds. Harry’s a tough guy—lean and stoic, hard-headed but immaculately dressed, with smooth, debonair manners. A modern James Bond.
Female lead: Beth Harper—mid-twenties. Innocent bank teller. Shoulder-length curly hair, lively smile, great legs, sparkling eyes … Mouthy—and nosy—yet smarts …
That’s as far as I’ve got. For the past half-hour I’ve been staring out of the frigging window again.
This is hopeless. Writing down a few details hasn’t helped. I’m no closer to actually starting my novel. I can’t just dive into the fun bits, the action. What I need is to work out first what these characters would actually say to each other, how they’d think, how they’d feel! What I really need is a starting situation—something that will grab the reader.
It won’t come.
I’m still blocked.
I have a sickening feeling that this whole house swapping venture has been a huge, hideous mistake. The strangeness and newness of everything here is distracting rather than helpful. I can’t concentrate and then I procrastinate and the cycle continues.
I guess this is what happens when you’re desperate and you choose a holiday destination by spinning the globe. Normally I would have given such a venture much more thought. Thing is, apart from enjoying the beautiful scenery on this island there’s not a lot else to do. That was supposed to be a plus.
If the writing was flowing everything would be fine.
But if it’s not, what have I got? There are a few cafés and resorts, a pub or two, a gallery here and there, but no cinema. Not even a proper library.
I spend far too much of my time thinking about Molly in London, imagining the fun of showing her around, helping her to explore the hidden secrets she’s so keen to discover.
Funny, how a stranger can make you take a second look at your home town.
I feel like a fraud.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Rambling
Patrick, would you believe I actually woke up feeling homesick today? I can’t believe it. I haven’t been here long enough to be homesick, but I looked out the window at the grey skies and the sea of rooftops and streams of people and streets and traffic and fumes and I just longed for my tree-covered headland, where I can’t see another house, and to be able to breathe in fresh, unpolluted air.
I stopped myself from moping by going to Wimbledon Common. It involved a bit of jumping on and off buses, but I got there—and it was perfect. Just what I needed with its leafy glades and tangled thickets and stretches of heath. I love that it still has a wild feel and hasn’t been all tidied up—and yet it’s right in the middle of London.
The minor crisis is over. I’m back in love with your city, Patrick.
Molly x
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Your mother … long!
You win, Patrick.
Your mother came, she saw, she conquered. In the nicest possible way, of course. I have now ventured into the bowels of the Underground, I’ve travelled all the way to Paddington Station and back, and it didn’t hurt a bit.
Let me tell you how it happened.
WARNING: this will be a long read, but it’s all of your making!
It started with a phone call this morning at about ten o’clock.
‘Is that Molly?’ a woman asked in a beautiful voice.
I said, tentatively, ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t think who would know me.
‘Oh, lovely,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased to catch you at home, Molly. This is Felicity Knight. Patrick’s mother.’
I responded—can’t remember what I actually said. I was too busy hoping I didn’t sound as suddenly nervous as I felt. Your mother’s voice is so very refined and my accent is … well, very okker. (Australian!)
She said, ‘I have some errands to run this afternoon, and I’ll be just round the corner from Alice Grove, so I was hoping I could pop in to say hello.’
‘Of course,’ I said in my plummiest voice. ‘That would be lovely.’
But I could smell a rat, Patrick. Don’t think you can fool me. I knew you’d sent her to check up on me—maybe even to hold my hand on the Tube. However, I must admit that even though I told you not to speak to your mum about my little problem I am honestly very grateful that you ignored me.
‘We could have afternoon tea,’ your mother said.
I tried to picture myself presiding over a tea party. Thank heavens my grandmother taught me how to make proper loose-leaf tea in a teapot, but I’ve never been one for baking cakes. What else could we eat for afternoon tea?
I shouldn’t have worried. Your mum was ten jumps ahead of me.
‘There’s the loveliest little teashop near you,’ she said next. ‘They do scrumptious high teas.’
And you know, Patrick, I had the most gorgeous afternoon.
Your mother arrived, looking beautiful. Doesn’t she have the most enviable complexion and such elegant silver-grey hair? She was wearing a dove-grey suit, with a lavender fleck through it, and pearls. I was so pleased I’d brought a skirt with me. Somehow it would have been totally Philistine to go to high tea in Chelsea in jeans.
And, you know … normally, beautifully elegant women like your mother can make me feel self-conscious about my untidy curls. My hands and feet seem to grow to twice their usual size and I bump into and break things (like delicate, fine bone china), and I trip on steps, or the edges of carpet.
Somehow, magically, Felicity (she insisted that I mustn’t call her Mrs Knight) put me so at ease that I felt quite ladylike. At least I didn’t break or spill anything, and I didn’t trip once.
We dined in fine style. The tea was served in a silver teapot and we drank from the finest porcelain cups—duck-egg-blue with gold rims and pink roses on the insides—and the dainty food was served on a three-tiered stand.
And, no, I didn’t lift my pinkie finger when I drank my tea.
We stuffed ourselves (in the most delicate way) with cucumber sandwiches and scones with jam and clotted cream and the daintiest melt-in-your-mouth pastries.
And we talked. Oh, my, how we talked. Somehow your mother coaxed me to tell her all about myself—how my parents died when I was a baby and how I was raised on the island by my grandmother. I even confessed to my worry that living on an island has made me insular, not just geographically but in my outlook, which is why I’m so keen to travel. And that my first choice was London because my favourite childhood story was 101 Dalmatians, and I’ve watched so many movies and read so many books set in London.
And because my father was born here.
I was very surprised when that little bit of info slipped out. It’s honestly not something I dwell on. My parents died when I was eighteen months old, and I only have the teensiest memories of them … so wispy and fleeting I’m not sure they’re real. I think I can remember being at floor level, fascinated by my mother’s painted toenails. And lying in a white cot, watching a yellow curtain flutter against a blue sky. My father’s smiling face. My hand in his.
It’s not a lot to go on. My gran was the most important person in my life, but she died just under a year ago, and if I think about my missing family too much I start to feel sorry for myself.
But, talking to your mother, I learned that your father lives somewhere up in Scotland now, and you don’t see him very much. Why would any sane man divorce Felicity? I’m so glad Jonathan has arrived on the scene. Yes, her new man got a mention, too.
In the midst of our conversation it suddenly felt very important for me to find where my dad was born. I’d like to know something about him, even just one thing. So I’m adding his birthplace to my list of things I want to discover while I’m here, although I’m not quite sure where to start.
You’ll be relieved to hear that I stopped myself from telling Felicity about my dream of dating a British gent. A girl has to have some secrets.
It’s different talking to you, Patrick. I can tell you such things because we’re not face-to-face. You’re a safe twelve thousand miles away, so you get to hear everything. You’re very tolerant and non-judgemental and I love you for it.
Felicity, of course, told me loads about you, but you know that already, so I won’t repeat it. Anyway, you’d only get a swelled head. Your mother adores you—but you know that, too, don’t you? And she’s so proud that you’re writing a novel. You wrote very clever essays at school, so she knows you’ll be a huge success.
Anyway, as I was saying, we got on like the proverbial house on fire—so much so that I was shocked when I realised how late it was. Then, as we were leaving, Felicity told me she was catching the Tube home.
That was a shock, Patrick. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security and had totally forgotten the possibility that she might know about my Tube issues. Besides, your mother has such a sophisticated air I assumed she’d catch a taxi if she hadn’t brought her own car.
But she said the Tube was fast and convenient, and so I walked with her to Sloane Square Station and we chatted all the way until we were right inside. And then it seemed like the right thing to do to wait with her till her train arrived. Which meant stepping onto the escalator and heading down, down into the black hole of the Underground!
That was a seriously freaking-out moment.
Honestly, I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack, and I was sure I couldn’t breathe. But Felicity was so calm and smiling, telling me what a lovely afternoon she’d had, and suggesting that maybe we could have another afternoon together some time. She made me feel so OK I managed to start breathing again.
I must admit that once I was down there, standing on the platform, the station seemed so very big and solid and well-lit and I felt much better than I’d expected to. I actually told Felicity then that I’d been a tiny bit frightened, and she said she totally understood; she would be terrified if she was in the Australian Outback, and why didn’t I travel with her to Paddington?
She had to change trains there, but if I felt OK I could travel back on my own, and I’d soon be a Tube veteran. She even gave me her mobile phone number in case I got into trouble. She wouldn’t have reception until she was above ground again, but it didn’t matter—I was over the worst by then, and actually sitting on the train was fine.
Everything went so well I was able to text her: Thanks. This is a breeze!
So I think I’m cured.
And I know that ultimately you’re the person I should thank, Mr Patrick Knight-in-shining-armour. Because you arranged it, didn’t you?
I wish there was some way I could help you, but I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel.
Molly XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
PS Feel free to tell me to pull my head in, but I did wonder if it’s possible to over-think the planning of a book. The way I over-thought the whole business of entering the Tube. Do you ever get the urge to just leap right in and let the words flow?
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_26319df8-9d18-53a3-a4f0-a722e58033f8)
To: Patrick Knight
From: Felicity Knight
Subject: Mission accomplished
Dear Patrick
It’s a pity you’re on the other side of the world and unable to carry out your own rescue mission.
I only say this because Molly Cooper is charming, and I thoroughly enjoyed a highly entertaining afternoon with her. It seems to me that your taste in women improves considerably when you change your selection criteria. Perhaps you should try choosing your girlfriends by their houses.
Molly may not be a pint-size blonde, as most of your girlfriends are, but she can hold up her end of a conversation. She’s very smart, Patrick, and you should see the way her blue eyes sparkle. They’re breathtaking.
Darling, thank you for sending me on a very pleasant errand. I must say I was very curious about the girl you’d swapped houses with. Now that curiosity is happily satisfied.
I hope you’re having as much fun with writing your novel as Molly seems to be having here in London.
Love
Mother xx
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 30th
Note about character development: it might work quite well if I give my heroine a private fear that she must overcome.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Thank you!
Hi Molly
Your map of the island’s reefs arrived today. Thanks so much. The information will be very helpful, and your request that I don’t show the location of these reefs to too many tourists was duly noted. I’m honoured that you’re sharing some of your island’s secrets with me, a mere visitor.
I also enjoyed very much your drawings of the coral fish and the other weird and wonderful creatures that I’m likely to encounter when I finally enter the Pacific Ocean.
Your artistic efforts made me smile. Have you ever thought of a new career as a cartoonist?
I’m very keen to see a Chelmon rostratus (thank you for the helpful labels). Those fish are gorgeous, with their bright black, yellow and white stripes and their long snouts. And I’m fascinated by the anemone fish.
You were right about the crocodile. He was caught in Florence Bay—six brave fellows from the National Park manhandled him, trussed him up like a giant Christmas turkey and relocated him further north. Apparently he won’t come back this way now that we’re approaching the winter. Thank God.
So I can’t wait to start diving. You’ve certainly whetted my appetite for discovering what lies beneath. …
Molly, I’m very pleased to hear that you’ve got the Tube business sorted. I know my mother enjoyed meeting you. Well done.
It’s getting a little cooler here at last. Today it’s hard to believe it’s autumn. The temperatures are almost down to those of an English summer’s day.
If you’d like any help with looking for your father’s birthplace, do sing out.
Best
Patrick
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: PS
Molly, another thought. You might be surprised to know that you could quite possibly help me with this novel by sharing your reactions to London.
You were worried about sending me extra-long messages but I’ve enjoyed the descriptions in your e-mails … and I’ve found them helpful.
I’m still learning the ropes, so to speak, and it would be extremely useful to see my home town described through a fresh pair of eyes. In fact your reactions to life in general could be helpful, as it’s hard for a fellow to get inside the female mind. In other words, feel free to continue sharing your discoveries and insights. Positive or negative—you won’t hurt my feelings.
Just if the whim takes you.
Warmest wishes
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: My London eye
Dear Patrick
I’m more than happy to rattle on to you about my London adventures, and please feel free to use anything I say in your novel. Wow! What an honour.
I’ve been thinking that writing must be a lonely occupation, so I can imagine you’d enjoy getting e-mails at the end of a long day at the keyboard.
But if I get too carried away, flooding you with too much information, please tell me.
I had to laugh at a sign I saw today in a Tube station: A penalty fare will be charged to any passenger who fails to hide true emotions fully or makes any attempt to engage with other passengers.
That is so what it’s like. I do love the way the British poke fun at themselves.
Yesterday I spent the loveliest morning checking out the Kensington Roof Gardens. They’re gorgeous. Have you been there? It’s amazing—one and a half acres of trees and plants growing thirty metres above Kensington High Street and divided into three lovely themed gardens.
There’s an English woodland (which I think might be my favourite), with curving lawns and surprisingly large trees, a stream and little bridges, even a lake with ducks and pink flamingos. I’m so glad it’s spring, because there were also lovely flowers everywhere, but unfortunately I don’t know their names.
There’s also a Tudor garden, with a courtyard and creeper-covered walls and brick paths laid in a herringbone pattern. It’s filled with fragrant flowers—lilies, roses and lavender. And the Spanish garden is very dramatic, with its stunning white walls. Apparently it’s inspired by the Alhambra in Spain.
By the way, thanks so much for offering to help with my family history research. My grandmother kept a box of papers that belonged to my parents, including their marriage certificate. When I was younger I used to take it out often and read every word. I haven’t done that for ages, but I’m almost certain I remember that my father was born in Clapham. I used to want to call it Clapham. I know the year he was born was definitely 1956.
Molly
PS Would you like to send me a list of questions that might help you with getting inside your female character’s head?
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Questions
It’s very generous of you to offer to help with my female character. I hesitate to make these kinds of demands on your time, but authors do need to know an awful lot about what’s going on inside their characters, and I’d truly appreciate your input.
My heroine is Beth Harper and she’s a bank teller, about your age, and I’m supposed to know about her likes and dislikes—her favourite kinds of clothes and jewellery, favourite colour, music, animal, etc; her least favourite of these; her spending habits; her most prized possession; her talents (piano player, juggler, poet?); nervous habits. Any thoughts along those lines would be welcomed.
I’m hoping to create a girl who feels real and unique.
So … whenever you have time …
Gratefully
Patrick
PS If you could tell me your father’s full name, I just might have the right contacts to do a little research for you.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: Questions
Patrick, I feel like I’m always thanking you, but the very thought of finding out more about my father makes me feel quite wobbly with excitement and emotion, so thank you so much for offering to help. His name was Charles Torrington Cooper, which I think sounds rather dignified, but I’m told that in Australia he was only ever known as Charlie Cooper.
You will no doubt already know what he looked like as there’s a photo of him and my mother on my bedside table. You can see that he’s to blame for my brown curly hair, but don’t you think he has the nicest smile?
Now, about your book. I have to warn you, Patrick, that if you want your character to be unique, I may not be your woman. Truth is, I’m careful and conservative—as ordinary as oatmeal. And, whatever you do, don’t give Beth Harper my hair.
Also, my favourite clothes—a bikini and a sarong—might not ring true for a teller in a bank in London.
So last night I sat down and tried to pretend I was Beth and to answer your questions as if I was her—and I suddenly understood your dilemma. It’s really, really hard to just make someone up, isn’t it? But it’s fun, too.
So let’s see. If I was Beth, working in a bank, I think I’d be super-prim like a librarian during the day, but I’d wear sexy lingerie underneath my work clothes (to remind the reader of my wild side and because it feels so lovely against my skin). And I’d wear wild colours on my weekends—rainbow-coloured leggings or knee-high red boots with micro-mini-skirts. And I’d be the queen of scarves—silk, crocheted, long, short. For when it’s cold I’d have a coat with a big faux fur collar.
I’m getting carried away, aren’t I? But it’s so much fun to pretend to be English. I don’t get to wear any of that sort of gear on the island.
Beth’s favourite colour would change every week, and her spending habits would be a perfect balance between thriftiness and recklessness—because she wants to enjoy life, but she’s also a sensible bank teller. Unlike me. I’m always the same about money—as penny-pinching as they come. I have to be.
Beth’s most prized possession is the ridonkulously expensive little red (not black) dress that she bought for the one time she went to the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden with the man of her dreams. (My most prized possession is my house. As I’m sure yours must be for you, Patrick.)
In case you were wondering, my grandmother left Pandanus Cottage to me, but she left me a mortgage, too, because she had to refinance to keep me through the high school years. She sent me to a good private school she couldn’t really afford, the darling.
I consider myself very lucky. My house is my ticket to a safe and steady future, so I pay my mortgage rather than splashing out on trendy fashions. That’s where living on the island comes in handy. You must have noticed that it’s a budget-friendly, fashion-free zone. Anything goes.
Not so for Beth.
Now for her talents. Could she be secretly brilliant at doing arithmetic in her head? (Again, that’s the very opposite of me. The calculator on my mobile phone is my best friend.) Could Beth’s cleverness be of huge save-the-day importance at some time in your plot?
As for nervous habits … Well, I tend to mess with my hair … as if it wasn’t already messy enough. I don’t think Beth should do that. I’m positive she has very sleek, flowing hair—the kind of shiny waterfall hair you see in shampoo advertisements. The kind of hair I used to pray for when I was twelve.
Could Beth be a stutterer instead? Could she have worked hard to overcome her stutter, and now it only breaks out when she’s really, really nervous—like when your bad guy holds a gun to her head, or, to her huge embarrassment, when really, really gorgeous men speak to her?
Hmm. That’s about all I can think of for now. Not sure how helpful any of this might be, but it was fun playing at being an author. There must be times when you feel like a god.
Molly x
PS Patrick, you do know Beth must have a tattoo, don’t you? Where it is on her body and what it looks like I’ll leave to your fertile authorly imagination.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Gainfully employed
You’ve been very quiet, Patrick. Is everything OK?
I have sad news. I landed a job yesterday and I have to start soon. I’ll be serving drinks behind the bar in the Empty Bottle—which, as you know, is a newly renovated pub just around the corner. Four evenings a week. But that still leaves me with mornings free, and three full days each week for sightseeing.
I admit I’m not looking forward to working, but the coffers need bolstering, and at least this job should provide great opportunities to meet loads of new people (maybe even that dream man). I can’t complain about a few shifts behind a bar when you’re spending the whole time you’re away slaving over a hot laptop.
I hope the novel is going really well for you.
Best wishes
Molly
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Gainfully employed
Thanks for the description of your vision of Beth. I really like it. I think my hero’s going to like her, too.
I’m very sorry you have to start work. Seems a pity when there’s so much of London you want to see. I guess the extra cash will be helpful, though. Perhaps it will allow you to take a few trips out into the countryside as well? Rural England is very pretty at this time of year.
I’ve only been in the Empty Bottle on a couple of occasions (my usual is closer to work), but it seemed like a nice pub.
Please keep me informed. It could be a place frequented by the likes of Beth Harper, so keep a lookout for high-heeled red boots and micro-mini-skirts.
I’ve taken your advice and kitted my heroine out in sexy underwear and your recommended wardrobe.
I’m still giving deep thought to her (discreet) tattoo.
P.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: A bedtime story
Goldilocks Revisited
So I trudged home late last night, after a gruelling shift at the Empty Bottle. My head was aching from the pub’s loud music and all the laughter and shouting of noisy drinkers. In fact my head hurt so much I thought the top might lift right off. As you might imagine, I wasn’t in a very good mood.
My mood wasn’t improved when I dragged my weary bones into my/your bedroom and switched on the light.
Someone was sleeping in my/your bed!
Someone blonde, naked and busty. And tipsy. Quite tipsy.
You remember Angela, don’t you, Patrick?
She’d been at a party a few blocks away and she’d had too much to drink and needed somewhere to crash. She had a key to your house, and I don’t think she had to go to a bank to get it from a safety deposit box.
I slept in the spare room, but the bed wasn’t made up and I had to go hunting for sheets and blankets. I was so tired I might have slept on top of the satin quilt with only my denim jacket for warmth if satin wasn’t so slippery.
Next day, a shade before midday, Angela came downstairs, wrapped in your port wine silk dressing gown and looking somewhat the worse for wear, and she asked about breakfast as if I was a servant.
Patrick, you asked for my reactions to your world, but I suppose I may be coming across as somewhat manipulative in this situation—as if I’m trying to make you feel awkward and maybe even sorry for me. Or you might even think it’s the green-eyed monster raising its ugly head. But I’m not the type to get jealous of your former girlfriend when I haven’t even met you.
I just don’t do headaches well. That’s all.
Anyway, I was determined to be generous, so I cooked up an enormous hangover breakfast for Angela and she wolfed it down. Bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with toast and expensive marmalade, plus several cups of strong coffee. It all disappeared with the speed of light. The colour came back into her face. She even managed to smile.
I do admit that Angela is exceptionally pretty when she smiles—a beautiful, delicate, silky blonde. I tried to dislike her, but once she understood my reasons for taking up residence in your house—that it was a fair swap and very temporary—she thawed a trillion degrees.
So then we poured ourselves another mug of coffee each and settled down to a lovely gossipy chat. About you.
I promise I didn’t ask Angela to talk about you, Patrick, but your lovely kitchen is very chat-friendly, and she was the first English girl of my age that I’d had a chance to gossip with. I’d like to think of it more as a cross-cultural, deep and meaningful exchange.
Angela even flipped through the photos on her mobile phone to see if she still had one of you, but you’ve been deleted, I’m afraid. She told me that she’s just one in a string of your neglected girlfriends, and that your work has always, always come first.
Case in point—the time you missed her birthday because you had to fly to Zurich (on a weekend). And there were apparently a lot of broken dates and times when you sent last-minute apologies via text messages because you had to work late, when she’d already spent a fortune on having her hair and nails done, and having her legs, and possibly other bits, waxed.
It’s not for me to judge, of course.
Maybe Angela (and those other girls who preceded her) should have been more understanding and patient. Maybe you have a very ambitious and driven personality and you can’t help working hard. After all, you’re using your holidays to write a novel when most people lie on the beach and read novels that other people have written.
Or maybe, just maybe, you could be a teensy bit more thoughtful and considerate and take more care to nurture your personal relationships.
OK, that’s more than enough from me. I’m ducking for cover now.
Cheerio!
Molly x
PS Angela was thoughtful enough to return your key.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: A bedtime story
Dear Molly
I confess I’d completely overlooked the possibility that Angela Carstairs might still have a door key. I’m sorry you were inconvenienced by her unexpected visit, and thanks so much for going above and beyond. You’re a good sport, Molly, and I’m very grateful. I’m sure Angela is too.
I suppose I should also thank you for your feedback and your advice regarding my previous and possible future relationships. As I said before, it’s always helpful to receive a fresh perspective.
On the subject of unexpected visitors and questionable relationships, however, you’ve had a visitor, too. A young man called in here yesterday. A Hell’s Angel look-alike with a long red beard and big beefy arms covered in tattoos. He asked ever so politely about some ladies’ lingerie which you, apparently, are holding here for him.
I would have been happy to oblige your boyfriend. I might have asked a few pertinent questions. But he seemed very secretive, almost furtive, and I got the distinct impression that he would not welcome my curiosity. As you might imagine I was somewhat at a loss. I had no idea where I could lay my hands on lingerie in his size. I suggested he call back in a few days. Do you have any suggestions or instructions, Molly?
Kindest regards
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: A bedtime story
Wipe that smirk off your face right now, Patrick Knight. I know what you’re thinking, and stop it. That visitor was not my boyfriend, and he’s certainly not a crossdresser.
His name is David Howard and he’s a butcher in Horseshoe Bay, married to a doting wife with three kids and as straight as a Roman road. But he also has a fabulous singing voice, and he’s landed a major role in the local production of The Rocky Horror Show. It’s all very top secret (and believe me, keeping a secret on Magnetic Island is a big call.) I organised his costume before I left, but I was so busy getting the house ready for you that I forgot to drop it off with the Amateur Players.
I’m sorry David had to disturb you. It’s entirely my fault. I left the costume in a black plastic bag on the table next to my sewing machine in the back bedroom, so I’d be very grateful if you could pass it on to him, with my apologies.
Can you imagine the impact and the surprise when big David, covered in tattoos, steps onto the stage?
Thanks!
Molly
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: One parcel of lingerie duly delivered.
Curiosity drove me to take a peek at the lingerie before I handed it over to David, and I must say you sew a very fine seam. The lace on the suspender belts is very fetching.
But while you wriggled off that hook quite neatly, Molly, I can’t let you get away completely. You’ve had another visitor (dare I say admirer?) who turned up here late yesterday afternoon, expecting a massage. Probably the fittest looking character I’ve seen in a long while. He seemed very upset when I told him your services would not be available till the end of June.
Explain away that one, Miss Molly.
And while I’m on the subject of the men in your life, the strapping young ranger who supervised the crocodile capture last week was very keen to know when you’d be back.
Rest assured, I don’t plan to sit down with these fellows for a ‘cosy chat’, so I won’t be passing on any advice to you re: your previous or future relationships.
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: One parcel of lingerie duly delivered
Patrick, I’m sorry. My friends do seem to be interrupting you lately. The guy who turned up for a massage was Josh. But honestly, it’s not that kind of massage. He’s a footballer—he plays for the local rugby league team and he has a problem with his shoulders. Like a lot of islanders he bucks the system and has no medical insurance, so he balks at handing over money for a professional massage from a physio.
That’s why he comes to me.
I massage his shoulders. Only. He keeps me supplied with fish. Hence my well-stocked freezer. As for Max, the crocodile wrangler, I have no idea why he was asking about me. I should think that’s nothing more than idle curiosity.
Anyway, as you know, it’s not Australian men I’m interested in. I’m still on the lookout for my lovely Englishman. Any advice on where I should hang out to have the best chance of meeting my dream man would be deeply appreciated.
By the way, I’ve bought a Travelcard and I’ve done heaps of travelling on the Tube now. On my last day off I went to Piccadilly Circus, to explore the hidden courts and passages of St James’s. I found the most amazing, ancient, hidden pub in Ely Street. It’s so tiny and dark and dingy and old, and it has the stump of a cherry tree that Elizabeth I danced around!
I was rather overcome just trying to wrap my head around all the history contained in those tiny rooms.
Molly x
PS I’m such a traveller now. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I kept hearing a voice saying, ‘Mind the gap.’
To: Patrick Knight
From: Felicity Knight
Subject: Surprise news
Dearest Patrick
I have the most amazing news. Jonathan has asked me (again) to marry him, and this time I’ve said yes.
Can you believe it? Your mother is getting married and she couldn’t be happier.
As you know, it’s taken me a very long time to get over the divorce. Actually, it’s taken us both a long time, hasn’t it? I know that’s so, Patrick, even though you won’t give in and talk about it.
I honestly thought I couldn’t face another marriage after the way the last one ended, but Jonathan has been such a darling—so patient and understanding.
This time when he proposed I knew it was a case of saying yes or losing him. A man’s pride can only take so many knockbacks.
Suddenly (thank heavens) the scales fell from my eyes and I understood without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn’t bear to lose him. I simply couldn’t let him go.
Now that decision’s made such a weight has lifted from my heart. I’m giddy with happiness.
It’s all happening in a frightful hurry, though. I think poor Jonathan is terrified that I might change my mind. I won’t, of course. I know that as certainly as I know my own name.
So it’s to be a May wedding, and then a honeymoon in Tuscany. Have you ever heard of anything more romantic?
Now, darling, I’m including your invitation as an attachment, but Jonathan and I know this writing time is precious to you. You’ve worked far too hard these past couple of years, and I’m so pleased you’ve taken this break, so we’ll understand perfectly if you can’t tear yourself away from your novel. The wedding will be a very small affair. We were lucky enough to book the church after a cancellation.
Even if you can’t make it, I know you’ll be happy for me.
Oceans of love
Your proud and very happy mother xxx
Patrick KnightThe pleasure of your company isrequestedat the marriage ofFelicity KnightandJonathan Langleyon Saturday 21st Mayat St Paul’s Church, Ealingat 2.00 p.m.and afterwards at 3 Laburnum Lane,West Ealing
To: Felicity Knight
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Surprise news
Wow! What fabulous and very welcome news! I’m thrilled, and I know you and Jonathan will be blissfully happy.
You deserve so much happiness, Mother. That’s been my main concern ever since Dad left us.
I can just imagine Jonathan’s relief. I know he’s mad about you, and tying the knot will put him out of his agony.
Your plans sound wonderfully spontaneous and romantic. I’m glad you’re just getting on with it and not worrying too much about my presence. That said, I’d love to come back for a quick weekend to join the nuptial celebrations, so I’ll give it serious thought and let you know very soon.
Don’t fret about my attitude towards my father. I still can’t forgive him for what he did to you, but Jonathan’s made up for his behaviour in spades.
Love and best wishes to you both
Patrick
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, May 3rd
This isn’t about writing … but my mind’s churning and it might help to get my thoughts down.
I hate myself for hesitating to jump on a plane and hurry back for my mother’s wedding, especially as I wouldn’t have stalled if the book had been falling into place.
I’ve tried to breathe life into the damn thing. I’ve even tried Molly’s suggestion of leaping in and simply letting the writing flow. It worked for two days, then I made the mistake of re-reading what I’d written.
Utter drivel.
And now, of course, I can’t stop thinking about my father and what a fool he was to leave my mother and take off with his secretary. His actions were a comical cliché to outsiders looking on, and a truly hurtful shock for us.
I was eighteen at the time, and I’ll never forget how shattered my mother was. I wanted to help her, but I knew there was absolutely nothing I could say or do to heal her pain. I bought a plane ticket to Edinburgh, planning to go after my father and—
I never was quite sure what I’d do when I found him. Break his stupid, arrogant nose, I suppose. But Mother guessed what I’d planned and she begged me not to go. Begged me with tears streaming down her face.
So I gave up that scheme, but I was left with so many questions.
Along with everyone else who knew my parents, I could never understand why he did it—apart from the obvious mid-life crisis which had clearly fried his brains. Actually, I do know that my father worried about ageing more than most. He could never stand to waste time, and he hated the idea of his life rushing him towards its inevitable end. Perhaps it’s not so very surprising that he started chasing after much younger women.
Fool. I still don’t see how he could turn his back on Mother. Everyone loves her. Molly’s response to meeting her was the typical reaction of anyone who meets her.
Of course the one thing in this that I’ve totally understood was my mother’s reluctance to enter a second marriage. She didn’t want to be hurt again, and my father is to be entirely blamed for that.
But her heart is safe in Jonathan Langley’s hands. He’s exactly like Molly Cooper’s dream man—a charming Englishman, a gentleman to the core—and he and my mother share a deep affection that makes the rest of us envious. …
I wonder if Mother wants me to write to tell Dad. She would never ask outright.
To be honest, I don’t think I want him to know until Jonathan’s ring is safely on her finger and she’s away in Italy with him. Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but I’m not going to risk any chance that Dad might turn up and somehow spoil this for her.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Impossible dreams
I assume from your silence that you’re not going to pass on any wise advice about how I might find my dream Englishman.
Patrick, have you any idea how hard it is?
I don’t mean it’s hard to get myself asked out—that’s happened quite a few times already—but the chaps haven’t been my cup of tea. My question is—would you believe how hard it is to find the right style of man?
I’ve taken some comfort from reading that a clever academic has worked out that finding the perfect partner is only one hundred times more likely than finding an alien. I read it in the Daily Mail on the Tube. See how much progress I’ve made?
The thing is, I’m not looking for the perfect life partner—just the perfect date. One night is all I ask. But even that goal is depressingly difficult to achieve.
Some people—most people—would say I’m too picky, and of course they’d be right. My dream of dating an English gentleman is completely unrealistic. Mind you, my definition of ‘gentleman’ is elastic. He doesn’t have to be from an upper class family.
I’m mainly talking about his manners and his clothes and—well, yes, his voice. I do adore a plummy English accent.
I know it’s a lot to ask. I mean, if such a man existed why would he be interested in a very ordinary Australian girl?
I know my expectations are naive. I know I should lower my sights. This maths geek from the newspaper has worked out that of the thirty million women in the UK, only twenty-six would be suitable girlfriends for him. The odds would be even worse for me, a rank outsider.
Apparently, on any given night out in London, there is a 0.0000034 per cent chance of meeting the right person.
That’s a 1 in 285,000 chance.
You’d have better odds if you went to the cane toad races, Patrick. Of winning some money, I mean, not finding the perfect date.
But then you’re not looking for an island romance. Are you?
Molly
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_6406a61a-752a-5b6f-94c6-9af608057c3e)
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Impossible dreams
Molly, I hesitate to offer advice on how to engineer a date with the kind of man you’re looking for, because in truth I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I hate to be a wet blanket, but I’m more inclined to offer warnings. The sad fact is that a public school accent and your idea of ‘gentlemanly’ manners may not coincide.
Of course there are always exceptions. And you might be lucky. But don’t expect that any man who speaks with Received Pronunciation and wears an expensive three-piece suit will behave like a perfect gentleman. When you’re alone with him, that is.
Sorry. I know that’s a grim thing to say about my fellow countrymen, but I do feel responsible, and I’d hate you to be upset. All I can honestly say is take care!
Sincerely
Patrick
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Cane toad races
You’ve been unusually quiet lately, Molly, and I find myself worrying (like an anxious relative) that something’s happened. I’d hate to think I’ve crushed your spirit. I suspect I knocked a ruddy great hole in your dating dreams, but I hope I haven’t completely quelled your enthusiasm for adventure and romance.
I trust you’re simply quiet because you’re having a cracking good time and you’re too busy to write e-mails.
However, in an effort to cheer you up (if indeed you are feeling low), I thought I’d tell you about my experiences at the toad races the night before last. Yes, I’ve been, and you were right—I enjoyed the evening. In fact, I had a hilarious time.
As you’ve no doubt guessed, I wasn’t really looking forward to going, but I desperately needed a break from my own company and decided to give the cane toads a try.
I’d been curious about how these races were set up, and why they’ve become such a tourist draw. I’d read that the toads are considered a pest here. They were brought out to eat beetles in the sugar cane, but they completely ignored the beetles and killed all sorts of other wildlife instead. They ate anything smaller than themselves, and they poisoned the bigger creatures that tried to eat them.
I was a bit worried that if cane toads are considered a pest the races might be cruel, so I was relieved to discover that, apart from having a number stuck on their backs and being kept in a bucket until the race starts, the toads don’t suffer at all.
The mighty steeds racing last night were:
1 Irish Rover
2 Prince Charles
3 Herman the German
4 Yankee Doodle
5 Italian Stallion
6 Little Aussie Battler
By the time all the toads were safely under a bucket in the centre of the dance floor, and the race was ready to start, there was quite a noisy and very international crowd gathered. Naturally I had to put my money on Prince Charles.
A huge cheer went up when the bucket was lifted and the toads took off.
At least the Italian Stallion took off. The other toads all seemed a bit stunned, and just sat there blinking in the light. I yelled and cheered along with the noisiest punters, but I’d completely given up hope for my Prince Charlie when he suddenly started taking giant leaps.
What a roar there was then (especially from me)! You have no idea. Well, actually, you probably do have a very good idea. As you know, the first toad off the dance floor wins the race, and good old Prince Charles beat the Italian Stallion by a whisker. No, make that a wart.
There’d been heavy betting on the Australian and American toads, so I won quite a haul—a hundred dollars—and the prize money was handed over with a surprising degree of ceremony. I was expected to make a speech.
I explained that I was a banker from London and, as a gesture, I wanted to compensate for the unsatisfactory exchange rate as quickly as possible by converting my winnings into cold beer.
That announcement brought a huge cheer.
The cheering was even louder when I added that if everyone would like to come up to my place (that is, Molly Cooper’s place) there’d be a celebratory party starting very shortly.
Everyone came, Molly. I hope you don’t mind. We all squeezed in to your place and had a fabulous night. I lit every single one of your candles and Pandanus Cottage looked sensational. It did you proud.
The party went on late.
Very.
I do hope you’re having a good time, too.
Warmest wishes
Patrick x
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: Cane toad races
Dear Patrick
That’s great news about the cane toad races and the party. I was worried that, working so much by yourself, you might have given the islanders the impression you were a bit aloof. Clearly that’s not so.
I’m afraid I haven’t been up to partying in recent days. I’m laid low with a heavy cold, so I’ve been curled up at home, sipping hot lemon drinks and watching daytime television. Cidalia’s been a darling. She’s come in every day to check on me and make these lemon drinks, and a divine chicken soup which she calls canja.
She said it was her grandmother’s cure-all—which is interesting, because it’s almost the same as the soup my gran used to make for me. Seems that chicken soup is an international cure-all.
But that’s not all, Patrick. Your mother telephoned while my cold was at its thickest and croakiest, and when she heard how terrible I sounded she sent me a gift box from …
Harrods!
Can you believe it? I was so stunned. It’s a collection of gorgeous teas—Silver Moon, English Breakfast, Earl Grey—all in individual cotton (note that: cotton, not paper) teabags. Such a luxury for me, and so kind of her. But how can I ever repay her?
As you can see, I’ve been very well looked after, and I’m on the mend again now, and cheered by your account of your adventures at the toad races. I’m trying to picture you cheering madly and delivering your tongue-in-cheek speech. Fantastic.
I’m more than happy that you hosted a party at my place. The candles do make the little cottage look quite romantic, don’t they? And with all that beer, and with you as host, I’m not surprised people wanted to stay. I bet I can guess who crashed and was still there next morning.
And I’m also betting that you heard Jodie Grimshaw’s entire life story at around 2.00 a.m. Looks like you’re really settling in, Patrick. That’s great.
Oh, thanks for your advice re: English gentlemen, but don’t worry. Your warnings didn’t upset me—although they weren’t really necessary either. I might sound totally naive, but I did see the way Hugh Grant’s character behaved in Bridget Jones, and I have good antennae. I can sense a jerk at fifty paces.
Best wishes
Molly
To: Felicity Knight
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Many thanks
Dear Mother
I’m sure Molly’s already thanked you for sending a gift box when she was ill, but I want to thank you, too. As you know, Molly’s totally on her own in the world. She puts on a brave face, but she was very touched by your thoughtfulness, and so was I.
Love
P
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: Your house swapper
Hi Molly
It’s Jodie here, using Karli’s e-mail. I’m helping her to pack because she and Jimbo are heading off to Cairns. I just thought you might be interested to know that your house swapper Patrick is totally hot and throws the best parties evah. Oh, man. That party last Saturday night was totally off the chain.
Bet you wish you were here.
Jodie G
To: Karli Henderson
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Hands off, Jodie
Sorry, Jodie, I’m going to be blunt. Patrick Knight is not for you. He’s—
The messageSubject: Hands off, Jodiehas not been sent. It has been saved in your drafts folder.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, etc.
Hi Molly
I’m afraid this is going to be my last e-mail. What with the move and everything, Jimbo and I are a bit strapped for cash, so I’ve sold this computer, along with half our CDs, in a garage sale. This is my last e-mail to anyone, and I won’t be back online for some time, but I’m sure things will improve once we’re settled in our new jobs in Cairns. Will be thinking of you, girlfriend. Have a blast in London.
Love
Karli xxxxxxxxx
To: Molly Cooper
Form: Patrick Knight
Subject: An address in Clapham
Molly, my (secret) contacts at the bank have found a Charles Torrington Cooper, born in 1956, who used to live at 16 Rosewater Terrace, Clapham.
I can’t guarantee that this is your father, but Torrington is an unusual middle name, and everything else matches, so chances are we’re onto something.
If you decide to go to Clapham by tube, don’t get out at Clapham Junction. That’s actually Battersea, not Clapham, and it confuses lots of visitors. You should use the Northern Line and get out at Clapham Common.
Warmest
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: An address in Clapham
Bless you, Patrick, and bless your (secret) contacts at the bank. Please pass on my massive thanks. I’ll head out to Clapham just as soon as I can.
I hope 16 Rosewater Terrace is still there.
Molly xx
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: An address in Clapham—another long e-mail
I’ve had the most unbelievably momentous day. A true Red Letter Day that I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Until today all I’ve ever known about my father was what my grandmother told me—that he was charming and handsome and he swept my mother off her feet, and that he didn’t have a lot of money, but managed to make my mum very happy.
Oh, and she would also tell me how excited he was when I was born. How he walked the floor with me when I had colic and was so patient, etc.
I was quite content with these pictures, and because I never knew my parents I didn’t really grieve for them. I had Gran, and she was warm and loving and doted on me, so I was fine.
But ever since I’ve been in London I’ve been thinking rather a lot about Charlie Cooper. I’d look at things like Nelson’s Column or Marble Arch, or even just an ordinary shop window, and I’d wonder if my dad had ever stood there, looking at the exact same thing. I’d feel as if he was there with me, as if he was glad that I was seeing his home town.
The feeling was even stronger today when I arrived in Clapham. Every lamppost and shopfront felt significant. I found myself asking if the schoolboy Charlie had passed here on his way to school. Did he stop here to buy marbles or there to buy cream buns?
And then I found Rosewater Terrace and my heart started to pound madly.
It’s a long narrow street, and it feels rather crowded in between rows of tall brick houses with tiled roofs and chimney pots, and there are cars parked along both sides of the street, adding to the crowded-in feeling. There are no front yards or gardens. Everyone’s front door opens straight onto the footpath.
When I reached number 16 I felt very strange, as if tiny spiders were crawling inside me. I stood there on the footpath, staring at the house, at windows with sparkling glass and neat white frames, and at the panels on the front door, painted very tastefully in white and two shades of grey.
The doorknob was bright and shiny and very new, and there were fresh white lace curtains in the window and a lovely blue jug filled with pink and white lilies.
It was very inviting, and I longed to take a peek inside. I wondered what would happen if knocked on the door. If someone answered, could I tell them that my father and his family used to live there? How would they react?
I was still standing there dithering, trying to decide what to do, when the door of the next house opened and a little old lady, wearing an apron and carrying a watering can, came shuffling out in her slippers.
‘I was just watering my pot plants and I saw you standing there,’ she said. ‘Are you lost, dearie?’
She looked about a hundred years old, but she was so sweet and concerned I found myself telling her exactly why I was there. As soon as I said the words ‘Charles Cooper’, her eyes almost popped out of her head and her mouth dropped like a trap door. I thought I’d given her a heart attack.
It seemed to take ages before she got her breath back. ‘So you’re Charlie’s little Australian daughter,’ she said. ‘Well, I never. Oh, my dear, of course. You look just like him.’
Daisy—that’s her name, Daisy Groves—hugged me then, and invited me inside her house, and we had the loveliest nostalgic morning. She told me that she’d lived in Rosewater Terrace ever since she was married, almost sixty years ago, and she’d known my dad from the day he was born. Apparently he was born three days before her daughter Valerie and in the same hospital.
‘Charlie and Valerie were always such great friends,’ Daisy told me. ‘All through their school years. Actually, I always thought—’
She didn’t finish that sentence, just looked away with a wistful smile, but I’m guessing from the way she spoke that she’d had matchmaking dreams for my dad and Valerie. Except Charlie was one for adventure, and as soon as he’d saved enough he set off travelling around the world. Then he met my mum in Australia. End of story. Valerie married an electrician and now lives in Peterborough.
Daisy also told me that number 16 has exactly the same layout as her house, so she let me have a good look around her place, and I saw a little bedroom at the top with a sloping ceiling. My dad’s bedroom was exactly the same.
But there are no Coopers left in Rosewater Terrace. At least three families have lived in number 16 since my grandparents died and the house has been ‘done up’ inside several times.
The best thing was that Daisy showed me photos of Charlie when he was a boy. Admittedly they were mainly photos of Valerie, with Charlie in the background, sometimes pulling silly faces, or sticking up his fingers behind Valerie’s head to give her rabbit’s ears.
But I felt so connected, Patrick, and I felt as if there’d been a reason I’d always wanted to come to London and now I no longer have such a big blank question mark inside me when I think about my father. In fact, I feel happy and content in a whole new way. That’s a totally unexpected bonus.
So thank you, Patrick. Thank you a thousand times.
Oh, and I have to tell you the last thing Daisy said to me when I was leaving.
‘Your father was a naughty little boy, but he grew up to be such a charming gentleman.’ And she pressed her closed fist over her heart and sighed the way my friends sigh over George Clooney.
I floated on happiness all the way back to the Tube station.
Molly xx
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: An address in Clapham
Patrick, it’s only just hit me—as I pressed ‘send’ on that last e-mail to you I had the most awfully revealing, jaw-dropping, lightbulb moment.
I’m in shock.
Because now when I think about my dreams of dating a perfect English gentleman, I have to ask if it’s really some kind of deeply subconscious Freudian search for my father.
I felt quite eeeeuuuwwww when I tried to answer that. But where does my interest in gentlemen come from? I mean, it’s pretty weird. Most girls are interested in dangerous bad boys.
And this leads to another question. Has becoming acquainted with so much about my father totally cured me of my desire for that impossible, unreachable dating dream? Can I strike the English gentleman off my wish list of ‘Things to Do in London’?
I’m not sure. Right now I’m confused. It’s something I’m going to have to think about. Or sleep on.
Molly, feeling muddled …
x
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: An address in Clapham
What fantastic news about your father!
I’m so pleased we found the right address and that you’ve had such a good result. Charles Torrington Cooper sounds as if he was a great guy (a gentleman, no less). Lucky you, Molly. Cherish that image.
I say that selfishly, perhaps, because my own father has caused me huge disappointment and I haven’t forgiven him. It’s not a nice place to be.
Don’t get too hung up on trying to psychoanalyse yourself or your dating goals, Molly. I doubt we can ever understand how our attraction to the opposite sex works. And why would we want to? Wouldn’t that take all the fun out of it?
Besides, you’ve only been in love with the idea of your perfect Englishman. Until you try the real thing you won’t be able to test your true feelings.
Molly, you seem to me to be a woman with high ideals and fine instincts. Forget my warnings. I was being overly protective.
Take London by storm and have fun.
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Surrender
Thanks for your kind and very supportive words, but I’m afraid they came almost too late. I’ve caved, Patrick. In one fell swoop I’ve wiped two of my goals from the board.
Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies.
Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman.
I’ve been out with an Aussie guy.
I know what I said about not mixing with Australians, but I realise now that I was limiting myself needlessly. It makes sense that I’d get along better with a fellow countryman. And besides, Brad’s kinda cute—a really tall, sunburned Outback Aussie, a sheep farmer from New South Wales.
Brad may not take me to Ascot or to Covent Garden, but who did I think I was anyway—Eliza Doolittle?
When he came into the Empty Bottle the other night it was like something out of a movie. Heads turned to watch him, and he strode straight up to me at the bar with a big broad grin on his suntanned face.
‘G’day,’ he said, in a lazy Australian drawl and I have to say our accent had never sounded nicer. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were on my plane coming over from Sydney. We said hi. Don’t you remember?’
I hadn’t remembered him (don’t know why, because he’s very attractive), but I mumbled something positive and I smiled.
‘I sat on the other side of the aisle,’ he said. ‘I wanted to catch up with you when we landed, but I lost you in the crowds at Heathrow.’
Can you see why a girl might find that flattering, Patrick? We were on a plane together more than a month ago, and yet Brad recognised me as soon as he walked into a crowded London bar.
He doesn’t want to sit around talking about home, and that’s another reason to like him. He worked as crew on a yacht from Port Hamble to Cascais in Portugal, and then he crewed on a fishing boat back to England. You have to admire his sense of adventure.
I told him about the book of London’s secrets that you sent me, and tomorrow we’re going to go to Highgate Hill to find Dick Whittington’s stone. I used to love the story about Dick and his cat, and the bells that made him turn around. Did you know that Dick really was Lord Mayor of London (four times), and that he gave money to St Thomas’s hospital as a refuge for unmarried mothers? That’s pretty amazing for way back in the 1300s.
So at least Rule 2—educate myself about the ‘real’ London—remains intact.
Don’t feel sorry for me, Patrick. I’m happy. Brad’s a nice bloke, and he seems pretty keen on me, so he’s helped me to get over the whole silly idea of a dream date with an English gentleman.
I bet you’re highly relieved that you’ve heard the last about that!
Best
Molly
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_02efb0f8-2a1b-5843-8b4c-b901ae4f06f2)
To: Felicity Knight:
From: Patrick Knight:
Subject: I’ll be there to dance at your wedding.
Hi Mother
This is a quick note to let you know that I’m definitely flying over for the Big Day.
This morning I jumped straight onto the internet and made the bookings, so everything’s all sorted and I’m really looking forward to seeing you both. I can’t believe that I almost allowed this blasted writing project to get in the way of something so significant.
Nothing’s as important as seeing you and Jonathan tie the knot.
I’ll be there with bells on (or in this case in white tie and penguin suit).
Much love
Patrick
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Surrender
Dear Molly
It appears that you’re pleased with the latest turn of events in Chelsea (i.e. your New South Wales sheep farmer), so I suppose your change of heart must be a good thing. But I can’t help thinking it’s a damn shame that none of my fellow countrymen have stepped up to the mark.
However, I do understand the appeal of someone from home when you’re so far away, and I suppose there’s no harm in breaking your own rules. If the rules have become outmoded they’re not much use to you, are they?
From your e-mail, it sounds as if your new Australian escort is more than acceptable to you, and it sounds as if he’s also very keen on you, so of course you must be flattered.
Just the same, I feel compelled to repeat the same advice I gave you once before—take care.
Regards
Patrick
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, May 13th
Take care?
Did I really say that? Again?
If only there was a way to retract e-mails. How could I have told Molly to take care with her new Australian boyfriend? What an idiot.
It’s not as if she’s a helpless child. She’s a grown woman—only four years younger than I. And she’s on familiar ground now. She’s dating the kind of fellow she’s no doubt dated many, many times.
Who on earth do I think I am? Her big brother? Her priest?
OK, maybe she’s all alone in the world, and in a completely new environment, but that doesn’t mean I should try to stand in for her family. I have no inclination to be her father figure.
What’s my excuse? Why am I so over-protective? And why did I try to warn her off this Brad character? It’s crazy, but I find myself wishing he’d jump on another yacht and take off around Cape Horn, or go climb the North Pole—anything that would take him far away from Molly.
Anyone would think I was jealous of him, but that’s impossible. I don’t even know Molly. I’ve never met her and I have no plans to meet her.
Unless e-mails count.
I suppose e-mails are a form of meeting. They’re certainly a very clear form of communication, and all over the globe friendships and relationships are forged via the World Wide Web. But it’s not as if Molly and I are cyber-dating.
And yet, when I think about it, we are in rather unusual circumstances. We’re exchanging very regular e-mails, and we’re living in each other’s houses. And if I’m honest I must admit that I do feel as if I know Molly incredibly well, even though we’ve never really met. In many ways I actually know more about her than I’ve known about the women I’ve dated.
I know her hopes and dreams and her fears, and to my surprise I find myself caring about them. I’ve even had my mother and colleagues from work involved in helping her. I can’t ever recall doing anything like that for a girlfriend.
Each day I look out of the windows of Molly’s cottage, at the view that has been her view for her whole life, and I think of her. I think of her when I switch on her kettle and use her coffee cups, when I boil an egg in her saucepan and use one of her crazy purple and pink striped egg cups. I even think of her when I drag out her damn vacuum cleaner and give the floors a once over.
Worse, I find myself leaping out of bed in the mornings (out of Molly’s bed, as she likes to remind me) and racing to switch on the laptop, hoping that a message might have come from her during the night.
During the day, when I’m supposed to be writing, I find myself waiting to see the little envelope pop up in the bottom right-hand corner of my screen, telling me that I’ve got a message (as if she’d be writing to me in the middle of the UK night).
I’ve let myself become incredibly involved with her, and it’s like she’s become part of my life. I even find myself wishing she was here, wandering about this cottage in her bikini and a sarong.
Actually … there are a couple of beautiful isolated bays where locals tell me you can skinny-dip without being hassled. Now, that’s an arresting thought … Molly, slipping starkers into the crystal-clear waters of Rocky Bay.
I’ve gone barking mad, haven’t I? It must be this solitary lifestyle that’s messing with my head.
Clearly I need to get out of this house.
Well, I’ll achieve that when I go back to the UK for the wedding. A weekend of mixing with my family and some of my old crowd will soon clear my head.
Already, just the thought of seeing them makes me feel saner. And now I’m asking myself why I was so worried about writing two words in an e-mail. It’s not as if Molly will take any notice of my ‘take care’ warning. She’ll have the good sense to laugh at it.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Having a good time
Hi Patrick
Unfortunately I can only fit in sightseeing jaunts around my work schedule, but Brad and I have still been getting around. Yesterday we investigated Cleopatra’s Needle, which was rather impressive. It’s hard to believe it’s over three and a half thousand years old and was lying in the desert sands of Egypt until some English fellow dragged it back to London behind a steamer.
While I was at work Brad went off on his own to check out the Cabinet War Rooms Museum. They’re leftovers from WW2, and still hidden away in tunnels and offices beneath Whitehall. Brad’s interested because his grandad served over here as a fighter pilot, but I was quite pleased to miss that trip. I’m still a bit iffy about spending too much time underground.
All’s well here. Hope you’re fine, too.
Molly
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Having a good time
Molly, I’m glad you’re having such a fine time, and I’m pleased to report that I’ve made some exciting discoveries of my own. You’re not the only one who can break rules, you know. I’ve taken entire days away from the laptop to go skin-diving. Now that the stinger season is well and truly over I feel as if I need to make up for lost time, so I bought myself a snorkel, goggles and flippers and headed down to Florence Bay.
Every day this week I’ve spent hours and hours in the sea. I’m surprised I haven’t grown gills.
I’m hooked. It’s amazing. Mere metres below the surface, I enter a different and fascinating world. The water is a perfect temperature, the visibility is excellent, and as you know it’s like swimming in a huge aquarium, surrounded by millions of colourful fish.
Thanks to your fabulously helpful illustrations, I’ve been able to identify lionfish, trigger fish, blue spotted stingrays, clownfish—and of course our cheeky friend Chelmon rostratus.
I was so excited when I saw him poking his long stripy snout out from a piece of pink coral! I almost rang you just to tell you. I suppose I felt a bit the way you did the first time you spotted a film star on the King’s Road.
Honestly, I’ve dived in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, and I thought those reefs were beautiful, but I hadn’t dreamed the reefs on this island would have so much diversity.
Using your map as my guide, I’ve now dived in all the main bays—Radical, Alma, Nelly, Geoffrey—and I’ve loved them all. Especially the range of corals in Geoffrey Bay.
The locals tell me that these are only fringing reefs. If I really want to see something spectacular I should head out to the main Great Barrier Reef. So, as you can imagine, that’s on the agenda now as well.
I think I’ll catch one of the big catamarans when they’re passing through on their way to the reef. I can’t wait. I might even head north to stay on one of the other Barrier Reef islands for a while.
Sorry, if I’m sounding carried away, Molly. I think I am.
Regards
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: Having a good time
It seems we’re both reaping the rewards of our daring decisions to break our own rules. I’m so pleased you’re enjoying the island’s reefs, Patrick. I got quite homesick reading your descriptions, and I found myself wishing I was there with you, sharing the excitement of your discoveries. Shows how greedy I am, because I wouldn’t want to miss all the fun I’m having here.
Yes, I know I can’t have my cake and eat it, too.
But, still … skin-diving with you would be so cool.
I hope you enjoy your trip to the Great Barrier Reef, or to other islands further north. Don’t go if the weather’s rough, though. I’d hate you to be horribly seasick.
Cheers!
Molly
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Quiet
You’ve been very quiet, Patrick, so I’m assuming you must have gone out to the Great Barrier Reef, or perhaps you’re exploring further afield. Please don’t tell me you’ve found another island you like more than Magnetic.
Molly
Private Writing Journal, Lodon, May 23rd
I almost didn’t bring this journal back to London, but I threw it in my bag at the last minute because writing in it has become something of a habit. My thoughts (sometimes) become clearer when I put them on paper. So here I am, two days after my mother’s wedding, pleased and relieved that it was the beautiful, emotional and happy event that both she and Jonathan wanted and deserved.
My duty phone call to my father in Scotland is behind me, so now I’m considering my options.
To see or not to see Molly.
To fly straight back to the island, or stay on here in London for a bit.
The thing is, I’m desperate to call on Molly while I’m here. I’ll admit I’m utterly fascinated by her (and my mother could hardly stop talking about her), but I’m hesitating for a number of reasons.
1. The Australian boyfriend. It probably sounds churlish, but I don’t think I could enjoy Molly’s company if Brad the sheep farmer was hanging around in the wings.
2. Our house swapping agreement. I’ve handed over my house for three months in good faith, and if I suddenly turn up on Molly’s doorstep in the middle of that time she’ll be placed in a confusing situation—not sure if she’s my hostess or my house guest. I guess this hurdle is one we could work our way around, but then there’s—
3. The fantasy date with a gentleman. Here’s the thing: I have the right accent and the right clothes to meet Molly’s criteria, and if I was on my best behaviour I could probably pull off the role of an English gentleman. I could even take Molly on her dream date to the theatre. In fact, I’d love to.
But—
Maddeningly, I have a string of doubts …
• Does she still want that ‘dream’ date now that she has her Australian?
• Just how perfect does this Englishman have to be? A movie star I am not.
• What if I try to do the right thing by her, but she misinterprets my motives? Might she think I’m amusing myself at her expense? After all, she’s spilled out her heart to me. She might feel horribly embarrassed if I turned up and tried to act out her fantasy.
So where does that leave me? I suppose I could arrange to meet her on neutral ground—in a little café somewhere. Or perhaps I should just phone her for a chat. But then I wouldn’t see her, would I?
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: You’re never going to believe this, Patrick!
I don’t know whether you’re home from the reef yet, but I’m writing this at midnight because I just have to tell you. The most astonishing, amazing, incredible, miraculous thing.
He … Him … The man of my dreams has turned up on my doorstep.
The most gorgeous Englishman. In. The. World.
I hyperventilate just thinking about him, but I’ve got to calm down so I can tell you my news.
Patrick, I’ve met your colleague—Peter Kingston, who, as you know, has been working in South America for the same banking company you work for. Now he’s back in London for a short break.
OK, I know you must be asking how I can gush about a new man when I’m supposed to be going out with Brad. No doubt you’re thinking I’m the shallowest and ficklest woman in the entire universe.
First, let me explain that Brad left last Friday, heading off on another adventure, with no definite plans to come back this way. He’s now somewhere at the top of Norway in the Arctic Circle, looking for the Midnight Sun.
He wanted me to go with him, but, while I’m sure the sun at midnight is well worth seeing, I didn’t want to spend my hard-earned cash chasing off to another country when there’s still so much of England that I haven’t seen.
As you mentioned once in an e-mail, the rural parts of England are beautiful. I can’t leave without seeing at least some parts beyond London, so other countries will have to come later.
Besides, Brad was fun to go out with here in London, but he was never the kind of guy I’d follow to the ends of the earth.
So, Brad had gone, and it was a Monday night—one of my nights off—and I was having a quiet night in. Oh, you have no idea, Patrick. I was at my dreckest, with no make-up and in old jeans, an ancient sweater and slippers (slippers—can you imagine anything more octogenarian?).
Worse, I was eating my dinner on my lap in front of the telly, and when the front doorbell rang I got such a surprise I spilled spaghetti Bolognese all down my front.
I was mopping bright red sauce from my pale grey sweater as I headed for the door, and then I was stuffing tissues into my back pocket as I opened the door. And then, as they say all the time on American TV—Oh. My. God.
Patrick, let me give you a female perspective on your work colleague.
He’s tall. He’s dark. He’s handsome. The nice, unselfconscious kind of handsome that goes with chocolate-brown eyes and a heart-stoppingly attractive smile.
And when he spoke—you know where this is going, don’t you? Yes, he has a rich baritone voice, and a beautifully refined English accent, and I swear I almost swooned at his feet.
The only thing that stopped me from fainting dead away was my need to make sure he hadn’t rung the wrong doorbell by mistake.
There was no mistake, thank heavens. Number 34 was Peter’s destination. But, to be honest, our initial meeting was a teensy bit awkward. I was flustered. Of course I was. Can you blame me? And I guess my blushing confusion flustered Peter, too.
He seemed rather nervous and uncertain, and I couldn’t help wondering if you’d given him orders to call on me. If you did, were you setting yourself up as a matchmaker?
Anyway … We both tried to talk at once, and then we stopped, and then he smiled again and said, ever so politely, ‘You go first, Molly. You were saying …?’
Oh, he was the perfect gentleman. He kept his eyes averted from the sauce stains on my chest while I stumbled through my story of why you weren’t here and why I was living in your house. Then he explained who he was.
Once that was sorted, and it was clear after a few more prudent questions that we were both at a bit of a loose end, Peter asked ever so casually if I’d like to go out for a drink. I’m afraid I had to wait for my heart to slide back to its normal place in my chest before I was able to accept his invitation.
In no time Peter was comfortably settled on your sofa and watching TV, while I scurried upstairs to change.
If there was ever a wardrobe crisis moment when a girl might wish for a fairy godmother, that was it. The jeans and T-shirts I’d worn on dates with Brad were totally unsuitable to wear out for a drink with Peter. He was in a suit! (No tie, admittedly, but still, a suit’s a suit.)
I might have found it easier to think about clothes if my brain hadn’t been swirling like a Category 5 cyclone. Here I was, with a chance to go out with my dream Englishman, and I was freaking out. I was very afraid I wasn’t up to the challenge.
Panic attack!!
Thank heavens the possibility of failure snapped me out of it. How could I not go out with this man? Till the end of my days I would never forgive myself. And in a strange way I also felt I owed it to you, Patrick. You sounded rather disappointed that I’d given up on my Englishman.
So I fell on my camel suede skirt like an old friend—the same skirt I wore to afternoon tea with your mother—and the gods must have been smiling on me, for I found a clean silk shirt and tights with no ladders.
I can’t do fancy make-up, so applying lipgloss and mascara didn’t take long, and there’s not a lot a girl can do with my kind of curly hair, so Peter was pleasantly surprised when I was back downstairs inside ten minutes.
He gave me the warmest smile, as if he quite liked how I looked, and off we went. Not to the Empty Bottle, thank heavens. Peter quite understood about avoiding my workplace.
We went to a bar that I hadn’t even noticed before. It’s so discreet it just looks like someone’s house from the outside. (Another of London’s secrets?) Inside, there were people gathered in couples or small groups, and everyone was comfortably seated on barstools or in armchairs, which made a pleasant change from the noisy Empty Bottle, which is usually standing room only.
After our awkward start, I was surprised to feel quite quickly at ease. Sitting there with Peter in comfortable chairs, sipping my Sloe gin fizz and gazing into his lovely dark coffee eyes, I should have been dumbstruck with awe, but he has the same easy way that your mother has.
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Nikki Logan
Barbara Hannay
Following a nationwide hunt for a modern day hero, we are proud to reveal the winner of Mills & Boon’s Man of the Year campaign, Courtney Hayles, on the cover of this special edition Valentine’s book, It Had To Be You.With two Mills & Boon stories that treat you to two favourite heroes, in two contrasting romantic settings, this book is the ultimate package for a hit of romance this Valentine’s Day.Molly Cooper’s Dream DateMolly Cooper has travelled all the way to London to find her dream man! The trouble is, the sexy emails with hot millionaire Patrick Knight – the man she swapped houses with – are strangely addictive. But what do you do when you realise the one you really want is a world away…sleeping in your bed?Shipwrecked with Mr WrongConservationist Honor Brier loves working in her island paradise. It’s the perfect place to lick her wounds in peace…until arrogant playboy Rob Dalton is shipwrecked on its shores. Yet Rob’s passion for life is impossible to resist – and he’s infuriatingly attractive! Could Mr Wrong actually be oh-so-right?
Mills & Boon
launched a nationwide hunt to discover their Man of the Year 2016, a modern-day hero who is fun, authentic and romantic! With help from celebrity judges Denise Welch, Robin Windsor and Rosie Nixon, we are proud to reveal that special someone as the cover star of this book, Courtney Hayles.
Courtney is an actor, writer and teacher who works hard and dreams big, believing that with determination and motivation, anything is possible. Embracing life to the full, he has travelled widely and says that the only thing he fears is fear itself. ‘When I leave this earth I want to know that I really lived and had a blast with my many adventures.’ Courtney’s perfect date would be meeting for a drink, enjoying good food, dancing and a lot of laughter – ‘There’s nothing better than spending time with someone who makes you laugh and excites the socks off you. The nerves build up and the energy is electric!’
It Had to Be You
Molly Cooper’s Dream Date
Barbara Hannay
Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong
Nikki Logan
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
Table of Contents
Cover (#u23c62855-af2d-52d0-aaac-0b36e28fa56c)
Title Page (#u1089b723-0196-57e7-80fa-bd40d5c13b33)
Molly Cooper’s Dream Date (#u478e7e23-ccdb-5e95-8b03-c50ef74675b7)
About the Author (#u9c99dbc5-90d9-5ae2-b26a-3f6a8044d650)
CHAPTER ONE (#u9c551f77-439f-5cfe-bf37-9c125318867f)
CHAPTER TWO (#u81132c8e-891e-5c53-923b-d3430096d0d6)
CHAPTER THREE (#uac90839c-4a69-5753-a846-44679552f5bd)
CHAPTER FOUR (#u0508f7fa-b9cc-5e68-bd62-4a4b9487c25f)
CHAPTER FIVE (#ub56316f8-503e-520b-a459-a05ad3ca6d92)
CHAPTER SIX (#uedcfe879-d0ef-5f4c-9fe4-66d595ace796)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)
Shipwrecked with Mr Wrong (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Author (#litres_trial_promo)
Dedication (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ONE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWO (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER THIRTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Molly Cooper’s Dream Date (#ulink_7a79af90-342b-5795-9cf6-47796d92efe7)
Barbara Hannay
BARBARA HANNAY has written over forty romance novels and has won Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA
award, the Romantic Times Reviewer’s Choice award, as well as Australia’s Romantic Book of the Year.
A city-bred girl with a yen for country life, Barbara lives with her husband on a misty hillside in beautiful Far North Queensland where they raise pigs and chickens and enjoy an untidy but productive garden.
Special thanks to Jenny Haddon,
whose wonderful London hospitality inspired this story.
CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_a8881357-286a-5c02-a1eb-da61c3818a44)
‘THIS is my favourite part,’ Molly whispered as the glamorous couple on her TV screen walked sadly but stoically to opposite ends of London’s Westminster Bridge. ‘He’s going to turn back to her any minute now.’
Molly was curled on her couch in a tense ball. Karli, at the other end of the couch, helped herself to more popcorn.
‘Don’t miss this, Karli. I cry every time. Look. He hears Big Ben, and he stops, and—’ Molly’s voice broke on a sob. ‘He turns.’ She hugged her knees. ‘See the look on his face?’
‘Ohhh …’ Karli let out a hushed breath. ‘You can see he really, really loves her.’
‘I know. It’s so beautiful.’ Molly reached for tissues as the gorgeous hero stood alone on the bridge, stricken-faced, shoulders squared, waiting for the woman in the long fur coat to turn back to him.
Karli grabbed a cushion and clutched it to her chest. ‘He’ll chase after her.’
‘No. It’s up to her now. If she doesn’t turn back, he knows she doesn’t love him.’
On the screen, a red double-decker London bus slowed to a stop and the movie’s heroine, in her ankle-length, glamorous coat, hurried to catch it.
‘No,’ Karli moaned as the bus took off with the woman on board, and the camera switched to another close-up of the hero’s grimly devastated face. ‘Don’t tell me it’s a sad ending.’
Molly pressed her lips together to stop herself from speaking. The camera tracked upwards to a bird’s eye view of London, showing the silvery River Thames curving below, and the Houses of Parliament, Big Ben … the solitary figure of the hero standing on Westminster Bridge … and the red bus driving away.
Karli was scowling. Molly hugged her knees tighter, gratified that her friend was hooked into the tension.
The camera climbed higher still, and the London bus was matchbox-size. The sounds of the city traffic were replaced by music—violins swelling with lush and aching beauty.
Molly had seen this movie more than a dozen times, but tears still rolled down her cheeks.
And then … at last …
At last …
The bus stopped.
The tiny figure of the heroine emerged …
The camera swooped down once more, zooming closer and closer as the lovers ran towards each other, arms outstretched, embracing at last.
The credits began to roll. Karli wrinkled her nose. ‘OK. I admit that wasn’t bad.’
‘Not bad?’ Molly sniffed. ‘I suppose that’s why you practically bit a piece out of my sofa cushion? Come on—admit it’s amazing. The look on Christian’s face when he thinks he’s lost Vanessa is the most emotional moment in cinematic history.’ She gave a dramatic sigh. ‘And London has to be the most romantic city in the world.’
Shrugging, Karli reached for more popcorn. ‘Isn’t Paris supposed to be the most romantic city?’
‘No way. Not for me. Paris is—Paris is … Oh, I don’t know.’ Molly gave a helpless flap of her hands. ‘Paris just … isn’t London.’
‘Admit it, Mozza. You have a thing for English guys. You’re convinced that London is full of perfect gentlemen.’
It was best to ignore her friend’s sarcasm. Molly wasn’t going to admit that it held a grain—OK, maybe even more than a grain—of truth. Her love affair with London was deeply personal.
Pressing the remote to turn the set off, she went to the window and looked out into the night. The moon was almost full and it silvered the tall pines on the headland and the smooth, sparkling surface of the Coral Sea.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ she said. ‘Nothing romantic like that is ever going to happen to me. Not on this island.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Our island might not have Big Ben or Westminster Bridge, but the moonlight on Picnic Bay’s not bad. I wasn’t complaining when Jimbo proposed.’
Molly smiled as she turned from the window. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t counting you and Jimbo. You guys are as romantic as it gets—best friends since kindergarten. Everyone here knew you’d end up together.’
‘Well, to be honest, it’s not exactly romantic when your husband spends half his life away on a fishing trawler.’
‘I guess.’ Molly moved to the kitchen and reached for a saucepan to make hot chocolate. ‘I shouldn’t keep watching that movie. It always makes me restless—makes me want to take off and live in London.’
‘Does it have to be London? If you want to get off the island, why don’t you try Sydney or Brisbane? Even Cairns?’
Molly rolled her eyes. As if any Australian city could live up to her vision of England’s famous capital. For as long as she could remember, she’d been entranced by London—by its history, its buildings, its pageantry, its culture.
She loved all the names—like Portobello Road, the Serpentine, Piccadilly Circus and Battersea. For her they had a thrilling, magical ring. Like poetry.
Karli shrugged. ‘If I went overseas, I’d rather go to America. Jimbo’s going to take me to Las Vegas.’
‘Wow. When?’
‘One day. Ha-ha. If either of us ever gets a job with better pay.’
‘Money’s my problem, too. The mortgage on this place uses up most of my savings. And the rent in London’s horrendous. I’ve checked on the internet.’
‘But you might be able to manage it if you rented out this place.’
Molly shuddered. Renting this cottage would mean a series of strangers living here, and it wouldn’t seem right when it had been her gran’s home for more than fifty years.
‘Or,’ said Karli, ‘what about a house swap? That way you’d get to pick who lives here, and it would only be for a short time. My cousin in Cairns swapped with a couple from Denmark, and it worked out fine.’
‘A house swap?’ A tingling sensation danced down Molly’s spine. ‘How does that work?’
Patrick Knight glared at the towering pile of paperwork on his desk, and then he glared at his watch. Past eight already, and he would be here for hours yet.
Grimacing, he picked up his mobile phone and thumbed a hasty text message. Angela was not going to like this, but it couldn’t be helped.
Ange, so sorry. Snowed under at work. Will have to bow out of tonight. Can we make a date for Friday instead? P
Snapping the phone closed, Patrick reached for the next folder in the pile. His stomach growled, and along with his hunger pangs he felt a surge of frustration.
The past years of global financial crisis had seen his job in London’s banking world morph from an interesting and challenging career into a source of constant stress.
It was like working in a war zone. Too many of his colleagues had been fired, or had resigned. Some had even suffered nervous breakdowns. At times he’d felt like the last man standing.
Yes, it was true that he had saved a couple of major accounts, but he was doing the work of three people in his department, and the shower of commendations from his boss had rather lost their shine. He’d reached the point where he had to ask why he was slogging away, working ridiculous hours and giving everything he had to his job, when his life outside the office was—
Non-existent.
Truth was, he no longer had a life away from the bank. No time to enjoy the lovely house he’d bought in Chelsea, no time to go out with his latest girlfriend. How he’d managed to meet Angela in the first place was a miracle, but almost certainly she would give up on him soon—just as her predecessors had.
As for the crazy, crazy promise he’d once made to himself that he would balance his working life with writing a novel. In his spare time. Ha-ha.
Except for Patrick it was no longer a laughing matter. This was his life, or rather his non-life, and he was wasting it. One day he’d wake up and discover he was fifty—like his boss—pale, anxious, boring and only able to talk about one thing. Work.
His mobile phone pinged. It was Angela, as expected. Tight-jawed, he clicked on her reply.
Sorry. Not Friday. Not ever. One cancellation too many. Goodbye, sweet P. Ange
Patrick cursed, but he couldn’t really blame Ange. Tomorrow he’d send her two—no, three dozen roses. But he suspected they wouldn’t do the trick. Not this time. If he was honest, he couldn’t pretend that her rejection would break his heart—but it was symptomatic of the depths to which his life had sunk.
In a burst of anger, he pushed his chair back from his desk and began to prowl.
The office felt like a prison. It was a damn prison, and he felt a mad urge to break out of it.
Actually, it wasn’t a mad urge. It was a highly reasonable and justified need. A must.
In mid-prowl, his eyes fell on the globe of the world that he’d salvaged from the old boardroom when it had been refurbished—in those giddy days before the financial world had gone belly up. Now it sat in the corner of his office, and lately he’d stared at it often, seized by a longing to be anywhere on that tiny sphere.
Anywhere except London.
Walking towards it now, Patrick spun the globe and watched the coloured shapes of the continents swirl. He touched it with his finger, feeling the friction as its pace slowed.
If I were free, I’d go anywhere. When this globe stops spinning, I’ll go wherever my finger is pointing.
The globe stopped. Patrick laughed. He’d been thinking of somewhere exotic, like Tahiti or Rio de Janeiro, but his finger was resting on the east coast of Australia. A tiny dot. An island.
He leaned closer to read the fine print. Magnetic Island.
Never heard of it.
About to dismiss it, he paused. I said I’d go anywhere—anywhere in the world. Why don’t I at least look this place up?
But why bother? It wasn’t as if it could happen. He wouldn’t be going anywhere. He was locked in here.
But what if I made it happen? Surely it’s time?
Back at his desk, Patrick tried a quick internet search for Magnetic Island, and his eyebrows lifted as the first page of links scrolled down. The island was clearly a tourist destination, with palm trees and white sand and blue tropical seas. Not so different from Tahiti, perhaps?
The usual variety of accommodations was offered. Then two words leapt out at him from the bottom of the screen: House Swap.
Intrigued, Patrick hit the link.
House Swap: Magnetic Island, Queensland, Australia
2 bedroom cottage
Location Details: Nestled among trees on a headland, this home has ocean views and is only a three-minute walk through the national park to a string of beautiful bays. Close to the Great Barrier Reef, the island provides a water wonderland for sailing, canoeing, parasailing, fishing and diving.
Preferred Swap Dates: From 1st April—flexible
Preferred Swap Length: Three to four months
Preferred Destination: London, UK
Patrick grinned. For a heady moment he could picture himself there—in a different hemisphere, in a different world.
Free, free …
Swimming with coral fishes. Lying in a hammock beneath palm trees. Checking out bikini-clad Australian girls. Writing the fabulous thriller that resided only in his head. Typing it on his laptop while looking out at the sparkling blue sea.
OK, amusement over. Nose back to the grindstone.
With great reluctance, he lifted a folder of computer printouts from the pile and flipped it open.
But his concentration was shot to pieces. His mind couldn’t settle on spreadsheets and figures. He was composing a description of his house for a similar swapping advertisement.
Home Exchange: Desirable Chelsea, London, UK
3 bedroom house with garden
Close to public transport and amenities—two-minute walk.
* Television
* Fireplaces
* Balcony/patio
* Dining/shopping nearby
* Galleries/museums
Available for three-month exchange: April/May to June/July
Destination—Coastal Queensland, Australia
Two and a half hours later Patrick had closed the last folder, and he’d also reached a decision.
He would do it. He had to. He would get away. He would make an appointment with his boss. First thing in the morning.
CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_ed9df3bf-c2ee-5097-8c87-2eb3cabb4b56)
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: We’re off—like a rotten egg
Hi Patrick
I can’t believe I’ll actually be in England in just over twenty-four hours. At last I’m packed (suitcases groaning), and my little house is shining clean and ready for you. Brand-new sheets on the bed—I hope you like navy blue.
I also hope you’ll feel welcome here and, more importantly, comfortable. I considered leaving flowers in a vase, but I was worried they might droop and die and start to smell before you got here. I’ll leave the key under the flowerpot beside the back door.
Now, I know that probably sounds incredibly reckless to you, but don’t worry—the residents of Magnetic Island are very honest and extremely laid-back. No one locks their doors.
I don’t want you to fret, though, so I’ve also left a spare key at Reception at the Sapphire Bay resort, where I used to work until yesterday.
Used to work.
That has such a nice ring, doesn’t it? I’ve trained Jill, the owner’s niece, to take my place while I’m away, and for now, at least, I’m giddily carefree and unemployed.
Yippee!!
You have no idea how much I’ve always wanted to live in London, even if it’s only for three months. Thanks to you, Patrick, this really is my dream come true, and I’m beyond excited. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep tonight.
Have you finished up at your work? Are you having a farewell party? Mine was last night. It was pretty rowdy, and I have no idea what to do with all the gifts people gave me. I can’t fit as much as another peanut in my suitcases, so I’ll probably have to stash these things in a box under my bed (your bed now). Sorry.
By the way, please feel free to use my car. It’s not much more than a sardine can on wheels, but it gets you about. Don’t worry that it’s unregistered. Cars on the island don’t need registration unless they’re taken over to the mainland.
It was kind of you to mention that your car is garaged just around the corner from your place, but don’t worry, I won’t risk my shaky driving skills in London traffic.
Oh, and don’t be upset if the ferry is running late. The boats here run on ‘island time’.
Anyway, happy travels.
London, here I come!
Molly
PS I agree that we shouldn’t phone each other except in the direst emergency. You’re right—phone calls can be intrusive (especially with a ten-hour time difference). And they’re costly. E-mails are so handy—and I’ll try to be diplomatic. No guarantees. I can rattle on when I’m excited.
M
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: We’re off—like a rotten egg
Dear Molly
Thanks for your message. No time for a farewell party, I’m afraid. Had to work late to get my desk cleared. Rushing now to pack and get away. Cidalia (cleaning lady) will come in some time this week to explain everything about the house—how the oven works, etc.
The keys to the house are in a safety deposit box at the Chelsea branch of the bank I work for on the King’s Road. It’s a square brick building. My colleagues have instructions to hand the keys over to you—and I’ve left a map. You’ll just need to show your passport. You shouldn’t have any problems.
Have a good flight.
Best wishes
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: I’m in London!!!!!!!
Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow! Wow!
If I wasn’t so tired I’d pinch myself, but I’m horribly jet-lagged and can hardly keep my eyes open. Insanely happy, though.
Your very gentlemanly colleague at the bank handed over the keys and wished me a pleasant stay at number thirty-four Alice Grove, and then I trundled my luggage around the corner and—
Patrick, your house is—
Indescribably
Lovely.
Divine will have to suffice for now, but the truth is that your home is more than divine.
Too tired to do it justice tonight. Will have my first English cup of tea and fall into bed. Your bed. Gosh, that sounds rather intimate, doesn’t it? Will write tomorrow.
Blissfully
Molly
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Thank you
Hi Patrick
I’ve slept for ten hours in your lovely king-size bed and am feeling much better today, but my head is still buzzing with excitement! I’ve never left Australia before, so my first sight of England yesterday was the most amazing thrill. We flew in over the English Channel, and when I saw the green and misty fields, just the way I’ve always imagined them, I confess I became a tad weepy.
And then Heathrow. Oh, my God, what an experience. Now I know how cattle feel when they’re being herded into the yards. For a moment there I wanted to turn tail and run back to my sleepy little island.
I soon got over that, thank heavens, and caught a taxi to Chelsea. Terribly extravagant, I know, but I wasn’t quite ready to face the tube with all my luggage. I’m just a teensy bit scared of the London Underground.
The driver asked me what district I wanted to go to, and when I told him Chelsea, SW3, he didn’t say anything but I could see by the way he blinked that he was impressed. When I got here I was pretty darned impressed, too.
But I’m worried, Patrick.
This isn’t exactly an even house swap.
Your place is so gorgeous! Like a four-storey dolls’ house. Sorry, I hope that’s not offensive to a man. I love it all—the carpeted staircases and beautiful arched windows and marble fireplaces and the bedrooms with their own en suite bathrooms. There’s even a bidet! Blush. It took me a while to work out what it was. I’d never seen one before.
Meanwhile, you’ll be discovering the green tree frogs in my toilet. Gosh, Patrick, can you bear it?
I love the sitting room, with all your books—you’re quite a reader, aren’t you?—but I think my favourite room is the kitchen, right at the bottom of your house. I love the black and white tiles on the floor and the glass French doors opening onto a little courtyard at the back.
I had my morning cuppa out in the courtyard this morning, sitting in a little pool of pale English sunshine. And there was a tiny patch of daffodils at my feet! I’ve never seen daffodils growing before.
So many firsts!
After breakfast I went for a walk along the King’s Road, and everyone looked so pink-cheeked and glamorous, with their long, double knotted scarves and boots. I bought myself a scarf (won’t be able to afford boots). I so wanted to look like all the other girls, but I can’t manage the pink cheeks.
I swear I saw a television actor. An older man, don’t know his name, but my grandmother used to love him.
But crikey, Patrick. I look around here and I have all this—I feel like I’m living in Buckingham Palace—and then I think about you on the other side of the world in my tiny Pandanus Cottage, which is—well, you’ll have seen it for yourself by now. It’s very basic, isn’t it? Perhaps I should have warned you that I don’t even have a flatscreen TV.
Do write and tell me how you are—hopefully not struck dumb with horror.
Cheers, as you Brits say
Molly
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Are you there yet?
Sorry to sound like your mother, Patrick, but could you just drop a quick line to let me know you’ve arrived and you’re OK and the house is OK?
M
PS I’m still happy and excited, but I can’t believe how cold it is here. Isn’t it supposed to be spring?
To: Patrick Knight
From: Felicity Knight
Subject: Touching base
Hello darling
I imagine you must be in Australia by now. I do hope you had a good flight. I promise I’m not going to bother you the whole time you’re away, but I just needed to hear that you’ve arrived safely and all is well and to wish you good luck again with writing your novel.
Love from the proud mother of a future world-famous, bestselling author.
xx
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Just checking
Dear Molly
Yes, I’m here, safe and sound, thank you, and everything’s fine. It was well worth the twenty-hour flight and crossing the world’s hemispheres just to get here. Don’t worry. Your house suits my needs perfectly and the setting is beautiful. Everything’s spotless, just as you promised, and the new sheets are splendid. Thank you for ironing them.
As I told you, I’m planning to write a book, so I don’t need loads of luxury and I don’t plan to watch much TV. What I need is a complete change of scenery and inspiration, and the view from your front window provides both.
I’ve already rearranged the furniture so that I can have a table at the window and take in the fabulous view across the bay to Cape Cleveland. All day long the sea keeps changing colour with the shifting patterns of the sun and the clouds. It’s utterly gorgeous.
I’m pleased you’ve settled in and that you like what you’ve found, but don’t worry about me. I’m enjoying the sunshine and I’m very happy.
Oh, and thanks also for your helpful notes about the fish in the freezer and the pot plants and the washing machine’s spin cycle and the geckos. All points duly noted.
Best wishes
Patrick
To: Felicity Knight
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Touching base
Hi Mother
Everything’s fine, thanks. I’m settled in here and all’s well. Will keep in touch. It’s paradise down here, so don’t worry about me.
Love to you and to Jonathan
Patrick x
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 10th
This feels very uncomfortable.
I’ve never kept any kind of diary, but apparently it’s helpful for serious writers to keep a journal of ‘free writing’. Any thoughts or ideas are grist for the mill, and the aim is to keep the ‘writing muscle’ exercised while waiting for divine inspiration.
I wasn’t going to bother. I’m used to figures and spreadsheets, to getting results and getting them quickly, and it feels such a waste of effort to dredge up words that might never be used. But after spending an entire day at my laptop staring at ‘Chapter One’ at the top of a blank page, I feel moved to try something.
I can blame jet-lag for the lack of productivity. I’m sure my muse will kick in after a day or two, but rather than waste the next couple of days waiting for the words to flow, I’m trying this alternative.
So … what to say?
This isn’t a test—no one else will be reading it—so I might as well start with the obvious.
It’s an interesting experience to move into someone else’s house on the other side of the world, and to be surrounded by a completely different landscape and soundtrack, even different smells.
As soon as I found notes from Molly scattered all over the house, I knew I’d arrived in an alien world. A few examples:
Note on a pot plant: Patrick, would you mind watering this twice a week? But don’t leave water lying in the saucer, or mosquitoes will breed.
On the fridge door: Help yourself to the fish in the freezer. There’s coral trout, queen fish, wahoo and nannygai. Don’t be put off by the strange names, they’re delicious. Try them on the barbecue. There’s a great barbecue recipe book on the shelf beside the stove.
On the lounge wall, beside the light switch: Don’t freak if you see small, cute lizards running on the walls. They’re geckos—harmless, and great for keeping the insects down.
Beyond the cottage, the plants and trees are nothing like trees at home. Some are much wilder and stragglier, others lusher and thicker, and all seem to grow in the barest cracks of soil between the huge boulders on this headland.
The birds not only look different but they sound totally alien. There’s a bright green parrot with a blue head and yellow throat that chatters and screeches. The kookaburra’s laugh is hilarious. Another bird lets out a blood-curdling, mournful cry in the night.
Even the light here is a surprise. So bright it takes a bit of getting used to.
God, this is pathetic. I need red wine. I’m not a writer’s toenail.
But I can’t give up on the first day. Getting this leave was a miracle. I couldn’t believe how generous old George Sims was. Such a surprise that he was worried about me ‘burning out’.
But now … my writing. I’d always imagined that writing would be relaxing. I’m sure it is once the words really start to come. I’ll plug on.
In spite of all the differences here, or perhaps because of them, Molly Cooper’s little cottage feels good to me. It’s simple, but it has loads of personality and it’s almost as if she hasn’t really left. It’s bizarre, but I feel as if I’ve actually met her simply by being here and seeing all her things, touching them, using the soap she left (sandalwood, I believe), eating from her dishes, sleeping in her bed under a white mosquito net.
There’s a photo of her stuck on the fridge with a magnet shaped like a slice of watermelon. She’s with an elderly woman and it says on the back ‘Molly and Gran’. It was taken about a year ago, and Gran looks very frail, but Molly has long, light brown curly hair, a pretty smile, friendly eyes, dimples and terrific legs.
Not that Molly’s appearance or personality is in any way relevant. I’m never going to meet her in the flesh. Our houses are our only points of connection.
So … a bit more about her house.
I must admit that I was worried that it might be too girlie, a bit too cute with pastel shades, ribbons and bows. The sort of warm and fuzzy place that could lower a man’s testosterone overnight. But it’s fine. I especially like its rugged and spectacular setting.
The house itself is small—two bedrooms, one bathroom and one big open room for the kitchen, dining and lounge. It’s all on one level and it feels strange not going upstairs to bed at night.
Lots of windows and shutters catch the breezes and the views. Loads of candles. You’d think there was no electricity, the way the candles are scattered everywhere, along with pieces of driftwood and shells, and decorative touches of blue.
I wouldn’t normally notice colours, but for fear of sounding like a total dweeb I like all Molly’s bits of blue—like echoes of the sea and the sky outside. Very restful.
When I leave the house, the island is hot and sultry, but inside it’s cool and quiet and … soothing.
After these past years of financial crisis and endless overtime, this place has exactly the kind of vibe I need. I’m glad I told everyone I was going to be out of contact for the next three months. Apart from the odd e-mail from Molly or my mother, there’ll be no phone calls. No text messages, no tweets, no business e-mails …
I think I might try the hammock in the mango tree.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Update
Hi Patrick
How are you? I do hope the island is working its magic on you and that the book is flowing brilliantly.
I’ve begun to explore London (on foot, or riding in the gorgeous red double-decker buses—takes more time, but I still can’t face the Tube), and I’m trying to do as much sightseeing as I can. Turns out most museums in the city of London don’t charge any entrance fee, which is awesome.
To make the most of my time here, I’ve made a few rules for myself.
Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies. I don’t want to spend my whole time talking about home. Just shoot me now.
Rule 2: Educate myself about the ‘real’ London—not just the tourist must-sees, like Buckingham Palace and Trafalgar Square.
Just as an example: yesterday I was walking the streets around here, and I stumbled upon the house where Oscar Wilde lived more than a hundred years ago. Can you imagine how amazing that is for a girl whose neighbours are wallabies and parrots?
I stood staring at Oscar’s front window, all choked up, just thinking about the brilliant plays he wrote, and about him living here all through his trial, and having to go to prison simply for being gay.
You’re not gay, are you, Patrick? I shouldn’t think so, judging by the reading matter on your bookshelves—mostly sporting biographies and finance tomes or spy novels.
Sorry, your reading tastes and sexual preferences are none of my business, but it’s hard not to be curious about you. You haven’t even left a photo lying around, but I suppose blokes don’t bother with photos.
Speaking of photos, I may go to see the Changing of the Guard, but I do not plan to have my picture taken with a man on horseback and an inverted mop on his head.
Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman. Actually, it would be helpful if you were gay, Patrick, because then I could have girly chats with you about my lack of a love-life. Now you’ve seen the island, you’ll understand it’s not exactly brimming with datable single men. Most of the bachelors are young backpackers passing through, or unambitious drifters.
My secret fantasy (here I go, telling you anyway) is to go out with a proper English gentleman. Let’s get real, here—not Prince William or Colin Firth. I can lower my sights—but not too low. Colin Firth’s little brother would be acceptable.
After a lifetime on an island where most of the young men spend their days barefoot and wearing holey T-shirts and board shorts, I hanker for a man in a smooth, sophisticated suit.
I’d love to date a nicely spoken Englishman who treats me like a lady and takes me somewhere cultured—to a concert or a play or an art gallery.
A girl can dream. By the way, I’ve done an internet search and did you know there are six hundred and seventy-three different shows on in London right now? I can’t believe it. I’m gobsmacked. Our island has one amateur musical each year.
Patrick, I warned you I might rattle on. I’ve always tended to put the jigsaw puzzle of my thoughts on paper. For now, I’ll leave you in peace.
M
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Cleaning
Cidalia came today. She’s sweet, isn’t she? And she speaks very good English. I’ve never met anyone from Brazil, so we sat at the kitchen table—I wasn’t sure how Upstairs/Downstairs you were about entertaining employees in the sitting room—and over a cosy cuppa she told me all about her family and her childhood in San Paolo. So interesting!
But, gosh, Patrick, I didn’t realise she was going to continue cleaning your house while I’m here. Apparently you’ve already paid her in advance. That’s kind and thoughtful, and I realise Cidalia wouldn’t want to lose her job here, but I haven’t arranged for anyone to come and clean my house for you. It didn’t even occur to me.
Magnetic Island must feel like a third world country to you.
If you would like a cleaner, I could contact Jodie Grimshaw in Horseshoe Bay. She’s a single mum who does casual cleaning jobs, but I’m afraid you’d have to watch her, Patrick. I do feel rather protective of you, and Jodie’s on the lookout for a rich husband. Added to that, her child is scarily prone to tantrums.
Do let me know if I can help. I could also try the Sapphire Bay resort. They could probably spare one of their cleaners for one morning a week.
Best
Molly
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Cleaning
Dear Molly
Thanks for your warning about Jodie G. It came in handy when I met her at the supermarket this morning. She was rather … shall I say, proactive? Your tip-off was helpful.
Actually, I don’t need a cleaner, thank you. I’ve worked out the intricacies of the dustpan and broom, and your house is so compact I can clean it in a jiffy. No doubt you’re surprised to hear that I can sweep, even though I’m not gay. ☺ I might even figure out how to plug in the vacuum cleaner soon.
To be honest, the lack of a cleaning woman doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the fact that I can’t go swimming. Who would have thought you can’t swim on a tropical island? Apparently there are deadly jellyfish in the water, and a rogue saltwater crocodile cruising up and down the coastline. All the beaches are closed. And it’s stinking hot!
That’s my grumble.
For your part, I’m concerned that you’re nervous about using the Tube. I can understand it might be intimidating when your main mode of transport has been the island’s ferry service, but the Tube is fast and punctual, and Sloane Square station is very close by. Do give it a try.
Regards
Patrick
PS Someone called Boof rang and invited me down to the pub to watch a cane toad race. I looked on the internet and discovered that cane toads are poisonous South American frogs that can grow as big as dinner plates and breed like rabbits. So I guess the races aren’t Ascot. Would appreciate any advice/warnings.
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 16th
This journal isn’t helping at all. I’m still staring at a blank page.
Any words I’ve put down are total rubbish. It’s so distressing. The ideas for my novel are perfect in my head. I can see the characters, the setting and the action, but when I try to put them on the page everything turns to garbage.
I’m beginning to think that Molly Cooper’s a far better writer than I am and she isn’t even trying. The words just flow from her. I’m feeling the first flutters of panic. I hate failure. How did I ever think I could write an entire novel? It’s all in my head, but that’s no use unless I can get it into a manuscript.
I’m going for a long hike. Walking is supposed to be very good for writer’s block.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Stingers, etc!
Hi Patrick
I’m sorry. I should have warned you about the marine stingers, and it’s a shame about the crocodile. The good news is the National Park people will probably catch the croc and move it up the coast to somewhere safe and remote, and the stinger season finishes at the end of April, so it won’t be long now before you’re able to swim. You could try the stinger-proof enclosure over in Horseshoe Bay, but swimming inside a big net isn’t the same, I suppose.
Just you wait—the island is paradise in late autumn and early winter. You’ll be able to swim and skin dive to your heart’s content.
I’ll draw a map of the island and post it to you, showing you where all the best diving reefs are. And do check out the cane toad races. They sound grotesque, but they’re actually fun. Listen to Boof. He catches the toads for the races, and maybe he can put you onto a sure thing to win a few dollars.
How’s the writing going?
Molly x
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Thank you!
Patrick, you darling! Sorry if that sounds too intimate, when we’ve never actually met, but it’s so, so sweet of you to send Discovering London’s Secrets. It arrived this morning. You must have organised it over the internet. How thoughtful!
Believe me—I’m deeply, deeply grateful. I’ve looked at other travel books in the shops, but they only seem to cover all the popular sights, which are fabulous, of course—there’s a reason they’re popular—but once you’ve done Piccadilly Circus and Buck Palace, the Tower and Hyde Park you’re hungry for more, aren’t you?
Now I’m so well informed I can really explore properly, just the way I’d hoped to.
This afternoon I went back to Hyde Park and found the hidden pet cemetery mentioned in this book. It was fascinating, with all those dear little mildewed headstones marking the final resting places of dogs, cats and birds, and even a monkey.
But to use the book you sent properly, I’m going to have to brave the Underground, and that still terrifies me. I hate to think that the whole of London is sitting on top of a network of tunnels and at any given moment there are thousands of people under there, whizzing back and forth in trains.
I do feel ashamed of myself for freaking out like this. I know avoidance only makes these things worse. I’m going to work at getting braver.
M x
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Thank you!
Hi Molly
Thanks for offering to send a map of the diving spots on the island. It’ll be very handy. I’ll keep an eye out for the mail van.
So glad you like the book. My pleasure. But, Molly, it does sound as if you’re getting yourself very worked up about using the Tube. Of course there are other ways to get around London, but if it’s bothering you, and you feel slightly phobic, maybe you need a helping hand?
If you like, I could ask my mother to pop around to No. 34. I know she’d be only too happy to show you the ropes. That’s not quite as alarming as it sounds. With me she’s extremely bossy, but everyone else claims that she can be very calming.
Best wishes
Chin up!
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: Thank you!
Dear Patrick
Yet again, thank you, but I’m afraid I can’t accept your offer of a visit from your mother. I know it was kindly meant, but I couldn’t impose on her like that.
From the way I rabbit on, you probably think I’m very young—but I’m actually twenty-four, and quite old enough to tackle the challenge of catching a train.
I’ve never liked to play damsel in distress, and, while this fear may be unreasonable, it’s something I must conquer on my own.
Sincerely
Molly
PS You haven’t mentioned your book. You must be very modest, Patrick. Or does your English reserve prevent you from confiding such personal information to a nosy Aussie?
CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_5fb00b51-cc7b-560c-bdfc-870df5591242)
Text message from Karli, April 19, 10.40 a.m.: U never told us yr house swapper is seriously hot.
To: Karli Henderson
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: House swap
Hi, Karli. Sorry—I can’t afford to reply to an international text message, so I’m resorting to e-mail. I must say your text came as a surprise. After all, the whole house swap idea came from you, and you knew I was swapping with a guy called Patrick Knight. As you also know, I only ever saw pictures of his house. I still have no idea what he looks like, so I couldn’t tell you anything about his appearance.
Actually, the lack of photos lying about here (not even an album that I can take a sneaky peek at) made me think that Patrick was shy about his appearance.
Is he seriously good-looking?
Honestly?
I’m having a ball here—not on the guy front (sigh), just exploring London. But I’m eventually going to have to get some work. The mortgage must be paid. As you know, Pandanus Cottage is my one and only asset, my key to getting ahead.
Have you spoken to Patrick? Does he have a sexy English accent? I’ve discovered that not many Londoners actually speak like Jeremy Irons or Colin Firth, which is a bit of a disappointment for me, but I suppose others wouldn’t agree. Beauty is in the ear of the receiver, after all.
How’s Jimbo?
Molly x
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: Re: House swap
Glad you’re having a great time, Mozza, but I’m not sure that I should give you too many details about your swapper’s looks. You might come racing home.
Be fair, girl. You’re over there in London with millions of Englishmen and we have just one here. Not that your Patrick has shown any signs of wanting to mix with the locals. He’s a bit aloof. Dare I say snooty? He brushed off Jodie Grimshaw. He was ever so polite, apparently, but even she got the message—and you know what that takes.
Our news is that Jimbo’s applying for a job with a boat builder in Cairns, so it could turn out that we won’t be on the island for much longer.
Have I told you lately that I’m very proud of you, Molly? I think you’re so brave to be living in a huge city on the far side of the world. All alone.
You’re my hero. Believe it.
Karli x
To: Karli Henderson
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: House swap
Karli, I’m sending positive thoughts to Jimbo for the job interview in Cairns, although I’m sure you know I’m going to really miss you guys if you leave the island. You’ve been my best friends my whole life!
But I can’t be selfish. I know how much you’d like Jimbo to have a steady job that pays well, and you’ll be able to start planning your future (including that trip to Vegas), so good luck!!
Re: Patrick Knight. I hope he’s not being too standoffish and stuck up, or the islanders will give him a hard time.
I’m sure he’s not really snooty. He and I have been swapping e-mails and he seems a bit reserved, but quite nice and helpful. Actually, he’s probably keeping to himself because he simply hasn’t time to socialise. He’s very busy writing a book, and he only has three months off, so he’ll have his head down, scribbling (or typing) madly.
Just the same, I think you’re mean not telling me more about him. He’s in my house, sleeping in my bed. Really, that’s a terribly intimate relationship, and yet I have no idea what he looks like!
Why are you holding back? What are you hiding about him? Maybe you could find time to answer a few quick questions?
Is Patrick tall? Yes? No?
Dark? Yes? No?
Young? Like under 35? Yes? No?
Is he muscular? Yes? No?
Good teeth? Yes? No?
All of the above?
None of the above?
M x
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: Re: House swap
Chillax, girlfriend.
All of the above.
K
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: FYI
Progress report on the tube assault by Ms Molly Elizabeth Cooper:
A preliminary reconnaissance of Sloane Square Tube station was made this afternoon at 2.00 p.m.
• Thirty minutes were spent in the forecourt, perusing train timetables and observing Londoners purchasing tickets and passing through turnstiles
• Names of the main stations on the yellow Circle Line between Sloane Square and King’s Cross were memorised—South Kensington, Gloucester Road, Notting Hill Gate, Paddington, Baker Street. Ms Cooper didn’t cheat. She loved learning those names and letting them roll off her tongue!
• Ms Cooper acknowledged that people emerging from the Underground did not appear traumatised. Most looked bored, tired or in a dreadful hurry. A handful of passengers almost, but not quite, smiled. One was actually laughing into a mobile phone.
• Ms Cooper purchased a day pass, which she may use some time in the near future.
Ms Cooper’s next challenge:
• To actually enter the Underground.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: FYI
Dear Molly
Congratulations! I’m very proud of you for taking such positive steps. I feared you’d miss another great London experience. In no time you’ll be dashing about on the Underground and reading racy novels to conquer your boredom instead of your fear.
Speaking of novels—you’ve expressed concern about the progress of mine, but I can assure you it is well in hand. It’s a thriller, set in the banking world. It has an intricate plot, so I want to plan every twist and turn very carefully in advance. To this end, I’ve been taking long walks on the island. I walked from Alma Bay to The Forts and back yesterday. A group of Japanese tourists pointed out a lovely fat koala asleep in the fork of a gum tree.
While I’m walking, I think every aspect of my novel through in fine detail. The plotting is almost complete, and I plan to start the actual writing very soon.
Regards
P
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: FYI
That is such a brilliant idea—to set your novel in the banking world. Don’t they always say you should write about what you know? And a thriller! Wow! I’d love to hear more.
Go, you!
M x
Private Writing Journal, April 27th.
Working hard or hardly working? Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.
I’m attacking the novel from a different angle (away from the window—views can be too distracting). I’ve gone about as far as I can with planning the plot, so I’m creating character charts now. A good story is all about the people in it, so once I have a firm grip on the lead characters the story will spring to life on the page.
Here goes …
Hero: Harry Shooter—nearing forty, former intelligence officer with MI5, hired by the Bank of England specifically to hunt down spies who pose as bank employees then hack into the systems and siphon off funds. Harry’s a tough guy—lean and stoic, hard-headed but immaculately dressed, with smooth, debonair manners. A modern James Bond.
Female lead: Beth Harper—mid-twenties. Innocent bank teller. Shoulder-length curly hair, lively smile, great legs, sparkling eyes … Mouthy—and nosy—yet smarts …
That’s as far as I’ve got. For the past half-hour I’ve been staring out of the frigging window again.
This is hopeless. Writing down a few details hasn’t helped. I’m no closer to actually starting my novel. I can’t just dive into the fun bits, the action. What I need is to work out first what these characters would actually say to each other, how they’d think, how they’d feel! What I really need is a starting situation—something that will grab the reader.
It won’t come.
I’m still blocked.
I have a sickening feeling that this whole house swapping venture has been a huge, hideous mistake. The strangeness and newness of everything here is distracting rather than helpful. I can’t concentrate and then I procrastinate and the cycle continues.
I guess this is what happens when you’re desperate and you choose a holiday destination by spinning the globe. Normally I would have given such a venture much more thought. Thing is, apart from enjoying the beautiful scenery on this island there’s not a lot else to do. That was supposed to be a plus.
If the writing was flowing everything would be fine.
But if it’s not, what have I got? There are a few cafés and resorts, a pub or two, a gallery here and there, but no cinema. Not even a proper library.
I spend far too much of my time thinking about Molly in London, imagining the fun of showing her around, helping her to explore the hidden secrets she’s so keen to discover.
Funny, how a stranger can make you take a second look at your home town.
I feel like a fraud.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Rambling
Patrick, would you believe I actually woke up feeling homesick today? I can’t believe it. I haven’t been here long enough to be homesick, but I looked out the window at the grey skies and the sea of rooftops and streams of people and streets and traffic and fumes and I just longed for my tree-covered headland, where I can’t see another house, and to be able to breathe in fresh, unpolluted air.
I stopped myself from moping by going to Wimbledon Common. It involved a bit of jumping on and off buses, but I got there—and it was perfect. Just what I needed with its leafy glades and tangled thickets and stretches of heath. I love that it still has a wild feel and hasn’t been all tidied up—and yet it’s right in the middle of London.
The minor crisis is over. I’m back in love with your city, Patrick.
Molly x
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Your mother … long!
You win, Patrick.
Your mother came, she saw, she conquered. In the nicest possible way, of course. I have now ventured into the bowels of the Underground, I’ve travelled all the way to Paddington Station and back, and it didn’t hurt a bit.
Let me tell you how it happened.
WARNING: this will be a long read, but it’s all of your making!
It started with a phone call this morning at about ten o’clock.
‘Is that Molly?’ a woman asked in a beautiful voice.
I said, tentatively, ‘Yes.’ I couldn’t think who would know me.
‘Oh, lovely,’ she said. ‘I’m so pleased to catch you at home, Molly. This is Felicity Knight. Patrick’s mother.’
I responded—can’t remember what I actually said. I was too busy hoping I didn’t sound as suddenly nervous as I felt. Your mother’s voice is so very refined and my accent is … well, very okker. (Australian!)
She said, ‘I have some errands to run this afternoon, and I’ll be just round the corner from Alice Grove, so I was hoping I could pop in to say hello.’
‘Of course,’ I said in my plummiest voice. ‘That would be lovely.’
But I could smell a rat, Patrick. Don’t think you can fool me. I knew you’d sent her to check up on me—maybe even to hold my hand on the Tube. However, I must admit that even though I told you not to speak to your mum about my little problem I am honestly very grateful that you ignored me.
‘We could have afternoon tea,’ your mother said.
I tried to picture myself presiding over a tea party. Thank heavens my grandmother taught me how to make proper loose-leaf tea in a teapot, but I’ve never been one for baking cakes. What else could we eat for afternoon tea?
I shouldn’t have worried. Your mum was ten jumps ahead of me.
‘There’s the loveliest little teashop near you,’ she said next. ‘They do scrumptious high teas.’
And you know, Patrick, I had the most gorgeous afternoon.
Your mother arrived, looking beautiful. Doesn’t she have the most enviable complexion and such elegant silver-grey hair? She was wearing a dove-grey suit, with a lavender fleck through it, and pearls. I was so pleased I’d brought a skirt with me. Somehow it would have been totally Philistine to go to high tea in Chelsea in jeans.
And, you know … normally, beautifully elegant women like your mother can make me feel self-conscious about my untidy curls. My hands and feet seem to grow to twice their usual size and I bump into and break things (like delicate, fine bone china), and I trip on steps, or the edges of carpet.
Somehow, magically, Felicity (she insisted that I mustn’t call her Mrs Knight) put me so at ease that I felt quite ladylike. At least I didn’t break or spill anything, and I didn’t trip once.
We dined in fine style. The tea was served in a silver teapot and we drank from the finest porcelain cups—duck-egg-blue with gold rims and pink roses on the insides—and the dainty food was served on a three-tiered stand.
And, no, I didn’t lift my pinkie finger when I drank my tea.
We stuffed ourselves (in the most delicate way) with cucumber sandwiches and scones with jam and clotted cream and the daintiest melt-in-your-mouth pastries.
And we talked. Oh, my, how we talked. Somehow your mother coaxed me to tell her all about myself—how my parents died when I was a baby and how I was raised on the island by my grandmother. I even confessed to my worry that living on an island has made me insular, not just geographically but in my outlook, which is why I’m so keen to travel. And that my first choice was London because my favourite childhood story was 101 Dalmatians, and I’ve watched so many movies and read so many books set in London.
And because my father was born here.
I was very surprised when that little bit of info slipped out. It’s honestly not something I dwell on. My parents died when I was eighteen months old, and I only have the teensiest memories of them … so wispy and fleeting I’m not sure they’re real. I think I can remember being at floor level, fascinated by my mother’s painted toenails. And lying in a white cot, watching a yellow curtain flutter against a blue sky. My father’s smiling face. My hand in his.
It’s not a lot to go on. My gran was the most important person in my life, but she died just under a year ago, and if I think about my missing family too much I start to feel sorry for myself.
But, talking to your mother, I learned that your father lives somewhere up in Scotland now, and you don’t see him very much. Why would any sane man divorce Felicity? I’m so glad Jonathan has arrived on the scene. Yes, her new man got a mention, too.
In the midst of our conversation it suddenly felt very important for me to find where my dad was born. I’d like to know something about him, even just one thing. So I’m adding his birthplace to my list of things I want to discover while I’m here, although I’m not quite sure where to start.
You’ll be relieved to hear that I stopped myself from telling Felicity about my dream of dating a British gent. A girl has to have some secrets.
It’s different talking to you, Patrick. I can tell you such things because we’re not face-to-face. You’re a safe twelve thousand miles away, so you get to hear everything. You’re very tolerant and non-judgemental and I love you for it.
Felicity, of course, told me loads about you, but you know that already, so I won’t repeat it. Anyway, you’d only get a swelled head. Your mother adores you—but you know that, too, don’t you? And she’s so proud that you’re writing a novel. You wrote very clever essays at school, so she knows you’ll be a huge success.
Anyway, as I was saying, we got on like the proverbial house on fire—so much so that I was shocked when I realised how late it was. Then, as we were leaving, Felicity told me she was catching the Tube home.
That was a shock, Patrick. I’d been lulled into a false sense of security and had totally forgotten the possibility that she might know about my Tube issues. Besides, your mother has such a sophisticated air I assumed she’d catch a taxi if she hadn’t brought her own car.
But she said the Tube was fast and convenient, and so I walked with her to Sloane Square Station and we chatted all the way until we were right inside. And then it seemed like the right thing to do to wait with her till her train arrived. Which meant stepping onto the escalator and heading down, down into the black hole of the Underground!
That was a seriously freaking-out moment.
Honestly, I could feel the beginnings of a panic attack, and I was sure I couldn’t breathe. But Felicity was so calm and smiling, telling me what a lovely afternoon she’d had, and suggesting that maybe we could have another afternoon together some time. She made me feel so OK I managed to start breathing again.
I must admit that once I was down there, standing on the platform, the station seemed so very big and solid and well-lit and I felt much better than I’d expected to. I actually told Felicity then that I’d been a tiny bit frightened, and she said she totally understood; she would be terrified if she was in the Australian Outback, and why didn’t I travel with her to Paddington?
She had to change trains there, but if I felt OK I could travel back on my own, and I’d soon be a Tube veteran. She even gave me her mobile phone number in case I got into trouble. She wouldn’t have reception until she was above ground again, but it didn’t matter—I was over the worst by then, and actually sitting on the train was fine.
Everything went so well I was able to text her: Thanks. This is a breeze!
So I think I’m cured.
And I know that ultimately you’re the person I should thank, Mr Patrick Knight-in-shining-armour. Because you arranged it, didn’t you?
I wish there was some way I could help you, but I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel.
Molly XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
PS Feel free to tell me to pull my head in, but I did wonder if it’s possible to over-think the planning of a book. The way I over-thought the whole business of entering the Tube. Do you ever get the urge to just leap right in and let the words flow?
CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_26319df8-9d18-53a3-a4f0-a722e58033f8)
To: Patrick Knight
From: Felicity Knight
Subject: Mission accomplished
Dear Patrick
It’s a pity you’re on the other side of the world and unable to carry out your own rescue mission.
I only say this because Molly Cooper is charming, and I thoroughly enjoyed a highly entertaining afternoon with her. It seems to me that your taste in women improves considerably when you change your selection criteria. Perhaps you should try choosing your girlfriends by their houses.
Molly may not be a pint-size blonde, as most of your girlfriends are, but she can hold up her end of a conversation. She’s very smart, Patrick, and you should see the way her blue eyes sparkle. They’re breathtaking.
Darling, thank you for sending me on a very pleasant errand. I must say I was very curious about the girl you’d swapped houses with. Now that curiosity is happily satisfied.
I hope you’re having as much fun with writing your novel as Molly seems to be having here in London.
Love
Mother xx
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, April 30th
Note about character development: it might work quite well if I give my heroine a private fear that she must overcome.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Thank you!
Hi Molly
Your map of the island’s reefs arrived today. Thanks so much. The information will be very helpful, and your request that I don’t show the location of these reefs to too many tourists was duly noted. I’m honoured that you’re sharing some of your island’s secrets with me, a mere visitor.
I also enjoyed very much your drawings of the coral fish and the other weird and wonderful creatures that I’m likely to encounter when I finally enter the Pacific Ocean.
Your artistic efforts made me smile. Have you ever thought of a new career as a cartoonist?
I’m very keen to see a Chelmon rostratus (thank you for the helpful labels). Those fish are gorgeous, with their bright black, yellow and white stripes and their long snouts. And I’m fascinated by the anemone fish.
You were right about the crocodile. He was caught in Florence Bay—six brave fellows from the National Park manhandled him, trussed him up like a giant Christmas turkey and relocated him further north. Apparently he won’t come back this way now that we’re approaching the winter. Thank God.
So I can’t wait to start diving. You’ve certainly whetted my appetite for discovering what lies beneath. …
Molly, I’m very pleased to hear that you’ve got the Tube business sorted. I know my mother enjoyed meeting you. Well done.
It’s getting a little cooler here at last. Today it’s hard to believe it’s autumn. The temperatures are almost down to those of an English summer’s day.
If you’d like any help with looking for your father’s birthplace, do sing out.
Best
Patrick
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: PS
Molly, another thought. You might be surprised to know that you could quite possibly help me with this novel by sharing your reactions to London.
You were worried about sending me extra-long messages but I’ve enjoyed the descriptions in your e-mails … and I’ve found them helpful.
I’m still learning the ropes, so to speak, and it would be extremely useful to see my home town described through a fresh pair of eyes. In fact your reactions to life in general could be helpful, as it’s hard for a fellow to get inside the female mind. In other words, feel free to continue sharing your discoveries and insights. Positive or negative—you won’t hurt my feelings.
Just if the whim takes you.
Warmest wishes
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: My London eye
Dear Patrick
I’m more than happy to rattle on to you about my London adventures, and please feel free to use anything I say in your novel. Wow! What an honour.
I’ve been thinking that writing must be a lonely occupation, so I can imagine you’d enjoy getting e-mails at the end of a long day at the keyboard.
But if I get too carried away, flooding you with too much information, please tell me.
I had to laugh at a sign I saw today in a Tube station: A penalty fare will be charged to any passenger who fails to hide true emotions fully or makes any attempt to engage with other passengers.
That is so what it’s like. I do love the way the British poke fun at themselves.
Yesterday I spent the loveliest morning checking out the Kensington Roof Gardens. They’re gorgeous. Have you been there? It’s amazing—one and a half acres of trees and plants growing thirty metres above Kensington High Street and divided into three lovely themed gardens.
There’s an English woodland (which I think might be my favourite), with curving lawns and surprisingly large trees, a stream and little bridges, even a lake with ducks and pink flamingos. I’m so glad it’s spring, because there were also lovely flowers everywhere, but unfortunately I don’t know their names.
There’s also a Tudor garden, with a courtyard and creeper-covered walls and brick paths laid in a herringbone pattern. It’s filled with fragrant flowers—lilies, roses and lavender. And the Spanish garden is very dramatic, with its stunning white walls. Apparently it’s inspired by the Alhambra in Spain.
By the way, thanks so much for offering to help with my family history research. My grandmother kept a box of papers that belonged to my parents, including their marriage certificate. When I was younger I used to take it out often and read every word. I haven’t done that for ages, but I’m almost certain I remember that my father was born in Clapham. I used to want to call it Clapham. I know the year he was born was definitely 1956.
Molly
PS Would you like to send me a list of questions that might help you with getting inside your female character’s head?
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Questions
It’s very generous of you to offer to help with my female character. I hesitate to make these kinds of demands on your time, but authors do need to know an awful lot about what’s going on inside their characters, and I’d truly appreciate your input.
My heroine is Beth Harper and she’s a bank teller, about your age, and I’m supposed to know about her likes and dislikes—her favourite kinds of clothes and jewellery, favourite colour, music, animal, etc; her least favourite of these; her spending habits; her most prized possession; her talents (piano player, juggler, poet?); nervous habits. Any thoughts along those lines would be welcomed.
I’m hoping to create a girl who feels real and unique.
So … whenever you have time …
Gratefully
Patrick
PS If you could tell me your father’s full name, I just might have the right contacts to do a little research for you.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: Questions
Patrick, I feel like I’m always thanking you, but the very thought of finding out more about my father makes me feel quite wobbly with excitement and emotion, so thank you so much for offering to help. His name was Charles Torrington Cooper, which I think sounds rather dignified, but I’m told that in Australia he was only ever known as Charlie Cooper.
You will no doubt already know what he looked like as there’s a photo of him and my mother on my bedside table. You can see that he’s to blame for my brown curly hair, but don’t you think he has the nicest smile?
Now, about your book. I have to warn you, Patrick, that if you want your character to be unique, I may not be your woman. Truth is, I’m careful and conservative—as ordinary as oatmeal. And, whatever you do, don’t give Beth Harper my hair.
Also, my favourite clothes—a bikini and a sarong—might not ring true for a teller in a bank in London.
So last night I sat down and tried to pretend I was Beth and to answer your questions as if I was her—and I suddenly understood your dilemma. It’s really, really hard to just make someone up, isn’t it? But it’s fun, too.
So let’s see. If I was Beth, working in a bank, I think I’d be super-prim like a librarian during the day, but I’d wear sexy lingerie underneath my work clothes (to remind the reader of my wild side and because it feels so lovely against my skin). And I’d wear wild colours on my weekends—rainbow-coloured leggings or knee-high red boots with micro-mini-skirts. And I’d be the queen of scarves—silk, crocheted, long, short. For when it’s cold I’d have a coat with a big faux fur collar.
I’m getting carried away, aren’t I? But it’s so much fun to pretend to be English. I don’t get to wear any of that sort of gear on the island.
Beth’s favourite colour would change every week, and her spending habits would be a perfect balance between thriftiness and recklessness—because she wants to enjoy life, but she’s also a sensible bank teller. Unlike me. I’m always the same about money—as penny-pinching as they come. I have to be.
Beth’s most prized possession is the ridonkulously expensive little red (not black) dress that she bought for the one time she went to the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden with the man of her dreams. (My most prized possession is my house. As I’m sure yours must be for you, Patrick.)
In case you were wondering, my grandmother left Pandanus Cottage to me, but she left me a mortgage, too, because she had to refinance to keep me through the high school years. She sent me to a good private school she couldn’t really afford, the darling.
I consider myself very lucky. My house is my ticket to a safe and steady future, so I pay my mortgage rather than splashing out on trendy fashions. That’s where living on the island comes in handy. You must have noticed that it’s a budget-friendly, fashion-free zone. Anything goes.
Not so for Beth.
Now for her talents. Could she be secretly brilliant at doing arithmetic in her head? (Again, that’s the very opposite of me. The calculator on my mobile phone is my best friend.) Could Beth’s cleverness be of huge save-the-day importance at some time in your plot?
As for nervous habits … Well, I tend to mess with my hair … as if it wasn’t already messy enough. I don’t think Beth should do that. I’m positive she has very sleek, flowing hair—the kind of shiny waterfall hair you see in shampoo advertisements. The kind of hair I used to pray for when I was twelve.
Could Beth be a stutterer instead? Could she have worked hard to overcome her stutter, and now it only breaks out when she’s really, really nervous—like when your bad guy holds a gun to her head, or, to her huge embarrassment, when really, really gorgeous men speak to her?
Hmm. That’s about all I can think of for now. Not sure how helpful any of this might be, but it was fun playing at being an author. There must be times when you feel like a god.
Molly x
PS Patrick, you do know Beth must have a tattoo, don’t you? Where it is on her body and what it looks like I’ll leave to your fertile authorly imagination.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Gainfully employed
You’ve been very quiet, Patrick. Is everything OK?
I have sad news. I landed a job yesterday and I have to start soon. I’ll be serving drinks behind the bar in the Empty Bottle—which, as you know, is a newly renovated pub just around the corner. Four evenings a week. But that still leaves me with mornings free, and three full days each week for sightseeing.
I admit I’m not looking forward to working, but the coffers need bolstering, and at least this job should provide great opportunities to meet loads of new people (maybe even that dream man). I can’t complain about a few shifts behind a bar when you’re spending the whole time you’re away slaving over a hot laptop.
I hope the novel is going really well for you.
Best wishes
Molly
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Gainfully employed
Thanks for the description of your vision of Beth. I really like it. I think my hero’s going to like her, too.
I’m very sorry you have to start work. Seems a pity when there’s so much of London you want to see. I guess the extra cash will be helpful, though. Perhaps it will allow you to take a few trips out into the countryside as well? Rural England is very pretty at this time of year.
I’ve only been in the Empty Bottle on a couple of occasions (my usual is closer to work), but it seemed like a nice pub.
Please keep me informed. It could be a place frequented by the likes of Beth Harper, so keep a lookout for high-heeled red boots and micro-mini-skirts.
I’ve taken your advice and kitted my heroine out in sexy underwear and your recommended wardrobe.
I’m still giving deep thought to her (discreet) tattoo.
P.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: A bedtime story
Goldilocks Revisited
So I trudged home late last night, after a gruelling shift at the Empty Bottle. My head was aching from the pub’s loud music and all the laughter and shouting of noisy drinkers. In fact my head hurt so much I thought the top might lift right off. As you might imagine, I wasn’t in a very good mood.
My mood wasn’t improved when I dragged my weary bones into my/your bedroom and switched on the light.
Someone was sleeping in my/your bed!
Someone blonde, naked and busty. And tipsy. Quite tipsy.
You remember Angela, don’t you, Patrick?
She’d been at a party a few blocks away and she’d had too much to drink and needed somewhere to crash. She had a key to your house, and I don’t think she had to go to a bank to get it from a safety deposit box.
I slept in the spare room, but the bed wasn’t made up and I had to go hunting for sheets and blankets. I was so tired I might have slept on top of the satin quilt with only my denim jacket for warmth if satin wasn’t so slippery.
Next day, a shade before midday, Angela came downstairs, wrapped in your port wine silk dressing gown and looking somewhat the worse for wear, and she asked about breakfast as if I was a servant.
Patrick, you asked for my reactions to your world, but I suppose I may be coming across as somewhat manipulative in this situation—as if I’m trying to make you feel awkward and maybe even sorry for me. Or you might even think it’s the green-eyed monster raising its ugly head. But I’m not the type to get jealous of your former girlfriend when I haven’t even met you.
I just don’t do headaches well. That’s all.
Anyway, I was determined to be generous, so I cooked up an enormous hangover breakfast for Angela and she wolfed it down. Bacon, eggs and tomatoes, with toast and expensive marmalade, plus several cups of strong coffee. It all disappeared with the speed of light. The colour came back into her face. She even managed to smile.
I do admit that Angela is exceptionally pretty when she smiles—a beautiful, delicate, silky blonde. I tried to dislike her, but once she understood my reasons for taking up residence in your house—that it was a fair swap and very temporary—she thawed a trillion degrees.
So then we poured ourselves another mug of coffee each and settled down to a lovely gossipy chat. About you.
I promise I didn’t ask Angela to talk about you, Patrick, but your lovely kitchen is very chat-friendly, and she was the first English girl of my age that I’d had a chance to gossip with. I’d like to think of it more as a cross-cultural, deep and meaningful exchange.
Angela even flipped through the photos on her mobile phone to see if she still had one of you, but you’ve been deleted, I’m afraid. She told me that she’s just one in a string of your neglected girlfriends, and that your work has always, always come first.
Case in point—the time you missed her birthday because you had to fly to Zurich (on a weekend). And there were apparently a lot of broken dates and times when you sent last-minute apologies via text messages because you had to work late, when she’d already spent a fortune on having her hair and nails done, and having her legs, and possibly other bits, waxed.
It’s not for me to judge, of course.
Maybe Angela (and those other girls who preceded her) should have been more understanding and patient. Maybe you have a very ambitious and driven personality and you can’t help working hard. After all, you’re using your holidays to write a novel when most people lie on the beach and read novels that other people have written.
Or maybe, just maybe, you could be a teensy bit more thoughtful and considerate and take more care to nurture your personal relationships.
OK, that’s more than enough from me. I’m ducking for cover now.
Cheerio!
Molly x
PS Angela was thoughtful enough to return your key.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: A bedtime story
Dear Molly
I confess I’d completely overlooked the possibility that Angela Carstairs might still have a door key. I’m sorry you were inconvenienced by her unexpected visit, and thanks so much for going above and beyond. You’re a good sport, Molly, and I’m very grateful. I’m sure Angela is too.
I suppose I should also thank you for your feedback and your advice regarding my previous and possible future relationships. As I said before, it’s always helpful to receive a fresh perspective.
On the subject of unexpected visitors and questionable relationships, however, you’ve had a visitor, too. A young man called in here yesterday. A Hell’s Angel look-alike with a long red beard and big beefy arms covered in tattoos. He asked ever so politely about some ladies’ lingerie which you, apparently, are holding here for him.
I would have been happy to oblige your boyfriend. I might have asked a few pertinent questions. But he seemed very secretive, almost furtive, and I got the distinct impression that he would not welcome my curiosity. As you might imagine I was somewhat at a loss. I had no idea where I could lay my hands on lingerie in his size. I suggested he call back in a few days. Do you have any suggestions or instructions, Molly?
Kindest regards
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: A bedtime story
Wipe that smirk off your face right now, Patrick Knight. I know what you’re thinking, and stop it. That visitor was not my boyfriend, and he’s certainly not a crossdresser.
His name is David Howard and he’s a butcher in Horseshoe Bay, married to a doting wife with three kids and as straight as a Roman road. But he also has a fabulous singing voice, and he’s landed a major role in the local production of The Rocky Horror Show. It’s all very top secret (and believe me, keeping a secret on Magnetic Island is a big call.) I organised his costume before I left, but I was so busy getting the house ready for you that I forgot to drop it off with the Amateur Players.
I’m sorry David had to disturb you. It’s entirely my fault. I left the costume in a black plastic bag on the table next to my sewing machine in the back bedroom, so I’d be very grateful if you could pass it on to him, with my apologies.
Can you imagine the impact and the surprise when big David, covered in tattoos, steps onto the stage?
Thanks!
Molly
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: One parcel of lingerie duly delivered.
Curiosity drove me to take a peek at the lingerie before I handed it over to David, and I must say you sew a very fine seam. The lace on the suspender belts is very fetching.
But while you wriggled off that hook quite neatly, Molly, I can’t let you get away completely. You’ve had another visitor (dare I say admirer?) who turned up here late yesterday afternoon, expecting a massage. Probably the fittest looking character I’ve seen in a long while. He seemed very upset when I told him your services would not be available till the end of June.
Explain away that one, Miss Molly.
And while I’m on the subject of the men in your life, the strapping young ranger who supervised the crocodile capture last week was very keen to know when you’d be back.
Rest assured, I don’t plan to sit down with these fellows for a ‘cosy chat’, so I won’t be passing on any advice to you re: your previous or future relationships.
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: One parcel of lingerie duly delivered
Patrick, I’m sorry. My friends do seem to be interrupting you lately. The guy who turned up for a massage was Josh. But honestly, it’s not that kind of massage. He’s a footballer—he plays for the local rugby league team and he has a problem with his shoulders. Like a lot of islanders he bucks the system and has no medical insurance, so he balks at handing over money for a professional massage from a physio.
That’s why he comes to me.
I massage his shoulders. Only. He keeps me supplied with fish. Hence my well-stocked freezer. As for Max, the crocodile wrangler, I have no idea why he was asking about me. I should think that’s nothing more than idle curiosity.
Anyway, as you know, it’s not Australian men I’m interested in. I’m still on the lookout for my lovely Englishman. Any advice on where I should hang out to have the best chance of meeting my dream man would be deeply appreciated.
By the way, I’ve bought a Travelcard and I’ve done heaps of travelling on the Tube now. On my last day off I went to Piccadilly Circus, to explore the hidden courts and passages of St James’s. I found the most amazing, ancient, hidden pub in Ely Street. It’s so tiny and dark and dingy and old, and it has the stump of a cherry tree that Elizabeth I danced around!
I was rather overcome just trying to wrap my head around all the history contained in those tiny rooms.
Molly x
PS I’m such a traveller now. Last night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I kept hearing a voice saying, ‘Mind the gap.’
To: Patrick Knight
From: Felicity Knight
Subject: Surprise news
Dearest Patrick
I have the most amazing news. Jonathan has asked me (again) to marry him, and this time I’ve said yes.
Can you believe it? Your mother is getting married and she couldn’t be happier.
As you know, it’s taken me a very long time to get over the divorce. Actually, it’s taken us both a long time, hasn’t it? I know that’s so, Patrick, even though you won’t give in and talk about it.
I honestly thought I couldn’t face another marriage after the way the last one ended, but Jonathan has been such a darling—so patient and understanding.
This time when he proposed I knew it was a case of saying yes or losing him. A man’s pride can only take so many knockbacks.
Suddenly (thank heavens) the scales fell from my eyes and I understood without a shadow of a doubt that I couldn’t bear to lose him. I simply couldn’t let him go.
Now that decision’s made such a weight has lifted from my heart. I’m giddy with happiness.
It’s all happening in a frightful hurry, though. I think poor Jonathan is terrified that I might change my mind. I won’t, of course. I know that as certainly as I know my own name.
So it’s to be a May wedding, and then a honeymoon in Tuscany. Have you ever heard of anything more romantic?
Now, darling, I’m including your invitation as an attachment, but Jonathan and I know this writing time is precious to you. You’ve worked far too hard these past couple of years, and I’m so pleased you’ve taken this break, so we’ll understand perfectly if you can’t tear yourself away from your novel. The wedding will be a very small affair. We were lucky enough to book the church after a cancellation.
Even if you can’t make it, I know you’ll be happy for me.
Oceans of love
Your proud and very happy mother xxx
Patrick KnightThe pleasure of your company isrequestedat the marriage ofFelicity KnightandJonathan Langleyon Saturday 21st Mayat St Paul’s Church, Ealingat 2.00 p.m.and afterwards at 3 Laburnum Lane,West Ealing
To: Felicity Knight
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Surprise news
Wow! What fabulous and very welcome news! I’m thrilled, and I know you and Jonathan will be blissfully happy.
You deserve so much happiness, Mother. That’s been my main concern ever since Dad left us.
I can just imagine Jonathan’s relief. I know he’s mad about you, and tying the knot will put him out of his agony.
Your plans sound wonderfully spontaneous and romantic. I’m glad you’re just getting on with it and not worrying too much about my presence. That said, I’d love to come back for a quick weekend to join the nuptial celebrations, so I’ll give it serious thought and let you know very soon.
Don’t fret about my attitude towards my father. I still can’t forgive him for what he did to you, but Jonathan’s made up for his behaviour in spades.
Love and best wishes to you both
Patrick
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, May 3rd
This isn’t about writing … but my mind’s churning and it might help to get my thoughts down.
I hate myself for hesitating to jump on a plane and hurry back for my mother’s wedding, especially as I wouldn’t have stalled if the book had been falling into place.
I’ve tried to breathe life into the damn thing. I’ve even tried Molly’s suggestion of leaping in and simply letting the writing flow. It worked for two days, then I made the mistake of re-reading what I’d written.
Utter drivel.
And now, of course, I can’t stop thinking about my father and what a fool he was to leave my mother and take off with his secretary. His actions were a comical cliché to outsiders looking on, and a truly hurtful shock for us.
I was eighteen at the time, and I’ll never forget how shattered my mother was. I wanted to help her, but I knew there was absolutely nothing I could say or do to heal her pain. I bought a plane ticket to Edinburgh, planning to go after my father and—
I never was quite sure what I’d do when I found him. Break his stupid, arrogant nose, I suppose. But Mother guessed what I’d planned and she begged me not to go. Begged me with tears streaming down her face.
So I gave up that scheme, but I was left with so many questions.
Along with everyone else who knew my parents, I could never understand why he did it—apart from the obvious mid-life crisis which had clearly fried his brains. Actually, I do know that my father worried about ageing more than most. He could never stand to waste time, and he hated the idea of his life rushing him towards its inevitable end. Perhaps it’s not so very surprising that he started chasing after much younger women.
Fool. I still don’t see how he could turn his back on Mother. Everyone loves her. Molly’s response to meeting her was the typical reaction of anyone who meets her.
Of course the one thing in this that I’ve totally understood was my mother’s reluctance to enter a second marriage. She didn’t want to be hurt again, and my father is to be entirely blamed for that.
But her heart is safe in Jonathan Langley’s hands. He’s exactly like Molly Cooper’s dream man—a charming Englishman, a gentleman to the core—and he and my mother share a deep affection that makes the rest of us envious. …
I wonder if Mother wants me to write to tell Dad. She would never ask outright.
To be honest, I don’t think I want him to know until Jonathan’s ring is safely on her finger and she’s away in Italy with him. Maybe I’m being overly cautious, but I’m not going to risk any chance that Dad might turn up and somehow spoil this for her.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Impossible dreams
I assume from your silence that you’re not going to pass on any wise advice about how I might find my dream Englishman.
Patrick, have you any idea how hard it is?
I don’t mean it’s hard to get myself asked out—that’s happened quite a few times already—but the chaps haven’t been my cup of tea. My question is—would you believe how hard it is to find the right style of man?
I’ve taken some comfort from reading that a clever academic has worked out that finding the perfect partner is only one hundred times more likely than finding an alien. I read it in the Daily Mail on the Tube. See how much progress I’ve made?
The thing is, I’m not looking for the perfect life partner—just the perfect date. One night is all I ask. But even that goal is depressingly difficult to achieve.
Some people—most people—would say I’m too picky, and of course they’d be right. My dream of dating an English gentleman is completely unrealistic. Mind you, my definition of ‘gentleman’ is elastic. He doesn’t have to be from an upper class family.
I’m mainly talking about his manners and his clothes and—well, yes, his voice. I do adore a plummy English accent.
I know it’s a lot to ask. I mean, if such a man existed why would he be interested in a very ordinary Australian girl?
I know my expectations are naive. I know I should lower my sights. This maths geek from the newspaper has worked out that of the thirty million women in the UK, only twenty-six would be suitable girlfriends for him. The odds would be even worse for me, a rank outsider.
Apparently, on any given night out in London, there is a 0.0000034 per cent chance of meeting the right person.
That’s a 1 in 285,000 chance.
You’d have better odds if you went to the cane toad races, Patrick. Of winning some money, I mean, not finding the perfect date.
But then you’re not looking for an island romance. Are you?
Molly
CHAPTER FIVE (#ulink_6406a61a-752a-5b6f-94c6-9af608057c3e)
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Impossible dreams
Molly, I hesitate to offer advice on how to engineer a date with the kind of man you’re looking for, because in truth I’m not sure it’s a good idea. I hate to be a wet blanket, but I’m more inclined to offer warnings. The sad fact is that a public school accent and your idea of ‘gentlemanly’ manners may not coincide.
Of course there are always exceptions. And you might be lucky. But don’t expect that any man who speaks with Received Pronunciation and wears an expensive three-piece suit will behave like a perfect gentleman. When you’re alone with him, that is.
Sorry. I know that’s a grim thing to say about my fellow countrymen, but I do feel responsible, and I’d hate you to be upset. All I can honestly say is take care!
Sincerely
Patrick
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Cane toad races
You’ve been unusually quiet lately, Molly, and I find myself worrying (like an anxious relative) that something’s happened. I’d hate to think I’ve crushed your spirit. I suspect I knocked a ruddy great hole in your dating dreams, but I hope I haven’t completely quelled your enthusiasm for adventure and romance.
I trust you’re simply quiet because you’re having a cracking good time and you’re too busy to write e-mails.
However, in an effort to cheer you up (if indeed you are feeling low), I thought I’d tell you about my experiences at the toad races the night before last. Yes, I’ve been, and you were right—I enjoyed the evening. In fact, I had a hilarious time.
As you’ve no doubt guessed, I wasn’t really looking forward to going, but I desperately needed a break from my own company and decided to give the cane toads a try.
I’d been curious about how these races were set up, and why they’ve become such a tourist draw. I’d read that the toads are considered a pest here. They were brought out to eat beetles in the sugar cane, but they completely ignored the beetles and killed all sorts of other wildlife instead. They ate anything smaller than themselves, and they poisoned the bigger creatures that tried to eat them.
I was a bit worried that if cane toads are considered a pest the races might be cruel, so I was relieved to discover that, apart from having a number stuck on their backs and being kept in a bucket until the race starts, the toads don’t suffer at all.
The mighty steeds racing last night were:
1 Irish Rover
2 Prince Charles
3 Herman the German
4 Yankee Doodle
5 Italian Stallion
6 Little Aussie Battler
By the time all the toads were safely under a bucket in the centre of the dance floor, and the race was ready to start, there was quite a noisy and very international crowd gathered. Naturally I had to put my money on Prince Charles.
A huge cheer went up when the bucket was lifted and the toads took off.
At least the Italian Stallion took off. The other toads all seemed a bit stunned, and just sat there blinking in the light. I yelled and cheered along with the noisiest punters, but I’d completely given up hope for my Prince Charlie when he suddenly started taking giant leaps.
What a roar there was then (especially from me)! You have no idea. Well, actually, you probably do have a very good idea. As you know, the first toad off the dance floor wins the race, and good old Prince Charles beat the Italian Stallion by a whisker. No, make that a wart.
There’d been heavy betting on the Australian and American toads, so I won quite a haul—a hundred dollars—and the prize money was handed over with a surprising degree of ceremony. I was expected to make a speech.
I explained that I was a banker from London and, as a gesture, I wanted to compensate for the unsatisfactory exchange rate as quickly as possible by converting my winnings into cold beer.
That announcement brought a huge cheer.
The cheering was even louder when I added that if everyone would like to come up to my place (that is, Molly Cooper’s place) there’d be a celebratory party starting very shortly.
Everyone came, Molly. I hope you don’t mind. We all squeezed in to your place and had a fabulous night. I lit every single one of your candles and Pandanus Cottage looked sensational. It did you proud.
The party went on late.
Very.
I do hope you’re having a good time, too.
Warmest wishes
Patrick x
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: Cane toad races
Dear Patrick
That’s great news about the cane toad races and the party. I was worried that, working so much by yourself, you might have given the islanders the impression you were a bit aloof. Clearly that’s not so.
I’m afraid I haven’t been up to partying in recent days. I’m laid low with a heavy cold, so I’ve been curled up at home, sipping hot lemon drinks and watching daytime television. Cidalia’s been a darling. She’s come in every day to check on me and make these lemon drinks, and a divine chicken soup which she calls canja.
She said it was her grandmother’s cure-all—which is interesting, because it’s almost the same as the soup my gran used to make for me. Seems that chicken soup is an international cure-all.
But that’s not all, Patrick. Your mother telephoned while my cold was at its thickest and croakiest, and when she heard how terrible I sounded she sent me a gift box from …
Harrods!
Can you believe it? I was so stunned. It’s a collection of gorgeous teas—Silver Moon, English Breakfast, Earl Grey—all in individual cotton (note that: cotton, not paper) teabags. Such a luxury for me, and so kind of her. But how can I ever repay her?
As you can see, I’ve been very well looked after, and I’m on the mend again now, and cheered by your account of your adventures at the toad races. I’m trying to picture you cheering madly and delivering your tongue-in-cheek speech. Fantastic.
I’m more than happy that you hosted a party at my place. The candles do make the little cottage look quite romantic, don’t they? And with all that beer, and with you as host, I’m not surprised people wanted to stay. I bet I can guess who crashed and was still there next morning.
And I’m also betting that you heard Jodie Grimshaw’s entire life story at around 2.00 a.m. Looks like you’re really settling in, Patrick. That’s great.
Oh, thanks for your advice re: English gentlemen, but don’t worry. Your warnings didn’t upset me—although they weren’t really necessary either. I might sound totally naive, but I did see the way Hugh Grant’s character behaved in Bridget Jones, and I have good antennae. I can sense a jerk at fifty paces.
Best wishes
Molly
To: Felicity Knight
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Many thanks
Dear Mother
I’m sure Molly’s already thanked you for sending a gift box when she was ill, but I want to thank you, too. As you know, Molly’s totally on her own in the world. She puts on a brave face, but she was very touched by your thoughtfulness, and so was I.
Love
P
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: Your house swapper
Hi Molly
It’s Jodie here, using Karli’s e-mail. I’m helping her to pack because she and Jimbo are heading off to Cairns. I just thought you might be interested to know that your house swapper Patrick is totally hot and throws the best parties evah. Oh, man. That party last Saturday night was totally off the chain.
Bet you wish you were here.
Jodie G
To: Karli Henderson
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Hands off, Jodie
Sorry, Jodie, I’m going to be blunt. Patrick Knight is not for you. He’s—
The messageSubject: Hands off, Jodiehas not been sent. It has been saved in your drafts folder.
To: Molly Cooper
From: Karli Henderson
Subject: So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, etc.
Hi Molly
I’m afraid this is going to be my last e-mail. What with the move and everything, Jimbo and I are a bit strapped for cash, so I’ve sold this computer, along with half our CDs, in a garage sale. This is my last e-mail to anyone, and I won’t be back online for some time, but I’m sure things will improve once we’re settled in our new jobs in Cairns. Will be thinking of you, girlfriend. Have a blast in London.
Love
Karli xxxxxxxxx
To: Molly Cooper
Form: Patrick Knight
Subject: An address in Clapham
Molly, my (secret) contacts at the bank have found a Charles Torrington Cooper, born in 1956, who used to live at 16 Rosewater Terrace, Clapham.
I can’t guarantee that this is your father, but Torrington is an unusual middle name, and everything else matches, so chances are we’re onto something.
If you decide to go to Clapham by tube, don’t get out at Clapham Junction. That’s actually Battersea, not Clapham, and it confuses lots of visitors. You should use the Northern Line and get out at Clapham Common.
Warmest
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: An address in Clapham
Bless you, Patrick, and bless your (secret) contacts at the bank. Please pass on my massive thanks. I’ll head out to Clapham just as soon as I can.
I hope 16 Rosewater Terrace is still there.
Molly xx
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: An address in Clapham—another long e-mail
I’ve had the most unbelievably momentous day. A true Red Letter Day that I’ll remember for the rest of my life.
Until today all I’ve ever known about my father was what my grandmother told me—that he was charming and handsome and he swept my mother off her feet, and that he didn’t have a lot of money, but managed to make my mum very happy.
Oh, and she would also tell me how excited he was when I was born. How he walked the floor with me when I had colic and was so patient, etc.
I was quite content with these pictures, and because I never knew my parents I didn’t really grieve for them. I had Gran, and she was warm and loving and doted on me, so I was fine.
But ever since I’ve been in London I’ve been thinking rather a lot about Charlie Cooper. I’d look at things like Nelson’s Column or Marble Arch, or even just an ordinary shop window, and I’d wonder if my dad had ever stood there, looking at the exact same thing. I’d feel as if he was there with me, as if he was glad that I was seeing his home town.
The feeling was even stronger today when I arrived in Clapham. Every lamppost and shopfront felt significant. I found myself asking if the schoolboy Charlie had passed here on his way to school. Did he stop here to buy marbles or there to buy cream buns?
And then I found Rosewater Terrace and my heart started to pound madly.
It’s a long narrow street, and it feels rather crowded in between rows of tall brick houses with tiled roofs and chimney pots, and there are cars parked along both sides of the street, adding to the crowded-in feeling. There are no front yards or gardens. Everyone’s front door opens straight onto the footpath.
When I reached number 16 I felt very strange, as if tiny spiders were crawling inside me. I stood there on the footpath, staring at the house, at windows with sparkling glass and neat white frames, and at the panels on the front door, painted very tastefully in white and two shades of grey.
The doorknob was bright and shiny and very new, and there were fresh white lace curtains in the window and a lovely blue jug filled with pink and white lilies.
It was very inviting, and I longed to take a peek inside. I wondered what would happen if knocked on the door. If someone answered, could I tell them that my father and his family used to live there? How would they react?
I was still standing there dithering, trying to decide what to do, when the door of the next house opened and a little old lady, wearing an apron and carrying a watering can, came shuffling out in her slippers.
‘I was just watering my pot plants and I saw you standing there,’ she said. ‘Are you lost, dearie?’
She looked about a hundred years old, but she was so sweet and concerned I found myself telling her exactly why I was there. As soon as I said the words ‘Charles Cooper’, her eyes almost popped out of her head and her mouth dropped like a trap door. I thought I’d given her a heart attack.
It seemed to take ages before she got her breath back. ‘So you’re Charlie’s little Australian daughter,’ she said. ‘Well, I never. Oh, my dear, of course. You look just like him.’
Daisy—that’s her name, Daisy Groves—hugged me then, and invited me inside her house, and we had the loveliest nostalgic morning. She told me that she’d lived in Rosewater Terrace ever since she was married, almost sixty years ago, and she’d known my dad from the day he was born. Apparently he was born three days before her daughter Valerie and in the same hospital.
‘Charlie and Valerie were always such great friends,’ Daisy told me. ‘All through their school years. Actually, I always thought—’
She didn’t finish that sentence, just looked away with a wistful smile, but I’m guessing from the way she spoke that she’d had matchmaking dreams for my dad and Valerie. Except Charlie was one for adventure, and as soon as he’d saved enough he set off travelling around the world. Then he met my mum in Australia. End of story. Valerie married an electrician and now lives in Peterborough.
Daisy also told me that number 16 has exactly the same layout as her house, so she let me have a good look around her place, and I saw a little bedroom at the top with a sloping ceiling. My dad’s bedroom was exactly the same.
But there are no Coopers left in Rosewater Terrace. At least three families have lived in number 16 since my grandparents died and the house has been ‘done up’ inside several times.
The best thing was that Daisy showed me photos of Charlie when he was a boy. Admittedly they were mainly photos of Valerie, with Charlie in the background, sometimes pulling silly faces, or sticking up his fingers behind Valerie’s head to give her rabbit’s ears.
But I felt so connected, Patrick, and I felt as if there’d been a reason I’d always wanted to come to London and now I no longer have such a big blank question mark inside me when I think about my father. In fact, I feel happy and content in a whole new way. That’s a totally unexpected bonus.
So thank you, Patrick. Thank you a thousand times.
Oh, and I have to tell you the last thing Daisy said to me when I was leaving.
‘Your father was a naughty little boy, but he grew up to be such a charming gentleman.’ And she pressed her closed fist over her heart and sighed the way my friends sigh over George Clooney.
I floated on happiness all the way back to the Tube station.
Molly xx
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: An address in Clapham
Patrick, it’s only just hit me—as I pressed ‘send’ on that last e-mail to you I had the most awfully revealing, jaw-dropping, lightbulb moment.
I’m in shock.
Because now when I think about my dreams of dating a perfect English gentleman, I have to ask if it’s really some kind of deeply subconscious Freudian search for my father.
I felt quite eeeeuuuwwww when I tried to answer that. But where does my interest in gentlemen come from? I mean, it’s pretty weird. Most girls are interested in dangerous bad boys.
And this leads to another question. Has becoming acquainted with so much about my father totally cured me of my desire for that impossible, unreachable dating dream? Can I strike the English gentleman off my wish list of ‘Things to Do in London’?
I’m not sure. Right now I’m confused. It’s something I’m going to have to think about. Or sleep on.
Molly, feeling muddled …
x
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: An address in Clapham
What fantastic news about your father!
I’m so pleased we found the right address and that you’ve had such a good result. Charles Torrington Cooper sounds as if he was a great guy (a gentleman, no less). Lucky you, Molly. Cherish that image.
I say that selfishly, perhaps, because my own father has caused me huge disappointment and I haven’t forgiven him. It’s not a nice place to be.
Don’t get too hung up on trying to psychoanalyse yourself or your dating goals, Molly. I doubt we can ever understand how our attraction to the opposite sex works. And why would we want to? Wouldn’t that take all the fun out of it?
Besides, you’ve only been in love with the idea of your perfect Englishman. Until you try the real thing you won’t be able to test your true feelings.
Molly, you seem to me to be a woman with high ideals and fine instincts. Forget my warnings. I was being overly protective.
Take London by storm and have fun.
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Surrender
Thanks for your kind and very supportive words, but I’m afraid they came almost too late. I’ve caved, Patrick. In one fell swoop I’ve wiped two of my goals from the board.
Rule 1: Avoid other Aussies.
Rule 3: Fall in love with an Englishman.
I’ve been out with an Aussie guy.
I know what I said about not mixing with Australians, but I realise now that I was limiting myself needlessly. It makes sense that I’d get along better with a fellow countryman. And besides, Brad’s kinda cute—a really tall, sunburned Outback Aussie, a sheep farmer from New South Wales.
Brad may not take me to Ascot or to Covent Garden, but who did I think I was anyway—Eliza Doolittle?
When he came into the Empty Bottle the other night it was like something out of a movie. Heads turned to watch him, and he strode straight up to me at the bar with a big broad grin on his suntanned face.
‘G’day,’ he said, in a lazy Australian drawl and I have to say our accent had never sounded nicer. ‘I remember you,’ he said. ‘You were on my plane coming over from Sydney. We said hi. Don’t you remember?’
I hadn’t remembered him (don’t know why, because he’s very attractive), but I mumbled something positive and I smiled.
‘I sat on the other side of the aisle,’ he said. ‘I wanted to catch up with you when we landed, but I lost you in the crowds at Heathrow.’
Can you see why a girl might find that flattering, Patrick? We were on a plane together more than a month ago, and yet Brad recognised me as soon as he walked into a crowded London bar.
He doesn’t want to sit around talking about home, and that’s another reason to like him. He worked as crew on a yacht from Port Hamble to Cascais in Portugal, and then he crewed on a fishing boat back to England. You have to admire his sense of adventure.
I told him about the book of London’s secrets that you sent me, and tomorrow we’re going to go to Highgate Hill to find Dick Whittington’s stone. I used to love the story about Dick and his cat, and the bells that made him turn around. Did you know that Dick really was Lord Mayor of London (four times), and that he gave money to St Thomas’s hospital as a refuge for unmarried mothers? That’s pretty amazing for way back in the 1300s.
So at least Rule 2—educate myself about the ‘real’ London—remains intact.
Don’t feel sorry for me, Patrick. I’m happy. Brad’s a nice bloke, and he seems pretty keen on me, so he’s helped me to get over the whole silly idea of a dream date with an English gentleman.
I bet you’re highly relieved that you’ve heard the last about that!
Best
Molly
CHAPTER SIX (#ulink_02efb0f8-2a1b-5843-8b4c-b901ae4f06f2)
To: Felicity Knight:
From: Patrick Knight:
Subject: I’ll be there to dance at your wedding.
Hi Mother
This is a quick note to let you know that I’m definitely flying over for the Big Day.
This morning I jumped straight onto the internet and made the bookings, so everything’s all sorted and I’m really looking forward to seeing you both. I can’t believe that I almost allowed this blasted writing project to get in the way of something so significant.
Nothing’s as important as seeing you and Jonathan tie the knot.
I’ll be there with bells on (or in this case in white tie and penguin suit).
Much love
Patrick
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Surrender
Dear Molly
It appears that you’re pleased with the latest turn of events in Chelsea (i.e. your New South Wales sheep farmer), so I suppose your change of heart must be a good thing. But I can’t help thinking it’s a damn shame that none of my fellow countrymen have stepped up to the mark.
However, I do understand the appeal of someone from home when you’re so far away, and I suppose there’s no harm in breaking your own rules. If the rules have become outmoded they’re not much use to you, are they?
From your e-mail, it sounds as if your new Australian escort is more than acceptable to you, and it sounds as if he’s also very keen on you, so of course you must be flattered.
Just the same, I feel compelled to repeat the same advice I gave you once before—take care.
Regards
Patrick
Private Writing Journal, Magnetic Island, May 13th
Take care?
Did I really say that? Again?
If only there was a way to retract e-mails. How could I have told Molly to take care with her new Australian boyfriend? What an idiot.
It’s not as if she’s a helpless child. She’s a grown woman—only four years younger than I. And she’s on familiar ground now. She’s dating the kind of fellow she’s no doubt dated many, many times.
Who on earth do I think I am? Her big brother? Her priest?
OK, maybe she’s all alone in the world, and in a completely new environment, but that doesn’t mean I should try to stand in for her family. I have no inclination to be her father figure.
What’s my excuse? Why am I so over-protective? And why did I try to warn her off this Brad character? It’s crazy, but I find myself wishing he’d jump on another yacht and take off around Cape Horn, or go climb the North Pole—anything that would take him far away from Molly.
Anyone would think I was jealous of him, but that’s impossible. I don’t even know Molly. I’ve never met her and I have no plans to meet her.
Unless e-mails count.
I suppose e-mails are a form of meeting. They’re certainly a very clear form of communication, and all over the globe friendships and relationships are forged via the World Wide Web. But it’s not as if Molly and I are cyber-dating.
And yet, when I think about it, we are in rather unusual circumstances. We’re exchanging very regular e-mails, and we’re living in each other’s houses. And if I’m honest I must admit that I do feel as if I know Molly incredibly well, even though we’ve never really met. In many ways I actually know more about her than I’ve known about the women I’ve dated.
I know her hopes and dreams and her fears, and to my surprise I find myself caring about them. I’ve even had my mother and colleagues from work involved in helping her. I can’t ever recall doing anything like that for a girlfriend.
Each day I look out of the windows of Molly’s cottage, at the view that has been her view for her whole life, and I think of her. I think of her when I switch on her kettle and use her coffee cups, when I boil an egg in her saucepan and use one of her crazy purple and pink striped egg cups. I even think of her when I drag out her damn vacuum cleaner and give the floors a once over.
Worse, I find myself leaping out of bed in the mornings (out of Molly’s bed, as she likes to remind me) and racing to switch on the laptop, hoping that a message might have come from her during the night.
During the day, when I’m supposed to be writing, I find myself waiting to see the little envelope pop up in the bottom right-hand corner of my screen, telling me that I’ve got a message (as if she’d be writing to me in the middle of the UK night).
I’ve let myself become incredibly involved with her, and it’s like she’s become part of my life. I even find myself wishing she was here, wandering about this cottage in her bikini and a sarong.
Actually … there are a couple of beautiful isolated bays where locals tell me you can skinny-dip without being hassled. Now, that’s an arresting thought … Molly, slipping starkers into the crystal-clear waters of Rocky Bay.
I’ve gone barking mad, haven’t I? It must be this solitary lifestyle that’s messing with my head.
Clearly I need to get out of this house.
Well, I’ll achieve that when I go back to the UK for the wedding. A weekend of mixing with my family and some of my old crowd will soon clear my head.
Already, just the thought of seeing them makes me feel saner. And now I’m asking myself why I was so worried about writing two words in an e-mail. It’s not as if Molly will take any notice of my ‘take care’ warning. She’ll have the good sense to laugh at it.
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Having a good time
Hi Patrick
Unfortunately I can only fit in sightseeing jaunts around my work schedule, but Brad and I have still been getting around. Yesterday we investigated Cleopatra’s Needle, which was rather impressive. It’s hard to believe it’s over three and a half thousand years old and was lying in the desert sands of Egypt until some English fellow dragged it back to London behind a steamer.
While I was at work Brad went off on his own to check out the Cabinet War Rooms Museum. They’re leftovers from WW2, and still hidden away in tunnels and offices beneath Whitehall. Brad’s interested because his grandad served over here as a fighter pilot, but I was quite pleased to miss that trip. I’m still a bit iffy about spending too much time underground.
All’s well here. Hope you’re fine, too.
Molly
To: Molly Cooper
From: Patrick Knight
Subject: Re: Having a good time
Molly, I’m glad you’re having such a fine time, and I’m pleased to report that I’ve made some exciting discoveries of my own. You’re not the only one who can break rules, you know. I’ve taken entire days away from the laptop to go skin-diving. Now that the stinger season is well and truly over I feel as if I need to make up for lost time, so I bought myself a snorkel, goggles and flippers and headed down to Florence Bay.
Every day this week I’ve spent hours and hours in the sea. I’m surprised I haven’t grown gills.
I’m hooked. It’s amazing. Mere metres below the surface, I enter a different and fascinating world. The water is a perfect temperature, the visibility is excellent, and as you know it’s like swimming in a huge aquarium, surrounded by millions of colourful fish.
Thanks to your fabulously helpful illustrations, I’ve been able to identify lionfish, trigger fish, blue spotted stingrays, clownfish—and of course our cheeky friend Chelmon rostratus.
I was so excited when I saw him poking his long stripy snout out from a piece of pink coral! I almost rang you just to tell you. I suppose I felt a bit the way you did the first time you spotted a film star on the King’s Road.
Honestly, I’ve dived in the Mediterranean and the Red Sea, and I thought those reefs were beautiful, but I hadn’t dreamed the reefs on this island would have so much diversity.
Using your map as my guide, I’ve now dived in all the main bays—Radical, Alma, Nelly, Geoffrey—and I’ve loved them all. Especially the range of corals in Geoffrey Bay.
The locals tell me that these are only fringing reefs. If I really want to see something spectacular I should head out to the main Great Barrier Reef. So, as you can imagine, that’s on the agenda now as well.
I think I’ll catch one of the big catamarans when they’re passing through on their way to the reef. I can’t wait. I might even head north to stay on one of the other Barrier Reef islands for a while.
Sorry, if I’m sounding carried away, Molly. I think I am.
Regards
Patrick
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Re: Having a good time
It seems we’re both reaping the rewards of our daring decisions to break our own rules. I’m so pleased you’re enjoying the island’s reefs, Patrick. I got quite homesick reading your descriptions, and I found myself wishing I was there with you, sharing the excitement of your discoveries. Shows how greedy I am, because I wouldn’t want to miss all the fun I’m having here.
Yes, I know I can’t have my cake and eat it, too.
But, still … skin-diving with you would be so cool.
I hope you enjoy your trip to the Great Barrier Reef, or to other islands further north. Don’t go if the weather’s rough, though. I’d hate you to be horribly seasick.
Cheers!
Molly
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: Quiet
You’ve been very quiet, Patrick, so I’m assuming you must have gone out to the Great Barrier Reef, or perhaps you’re exploring further afield. Please don’t tell me you’ve found another island you like more than Magnetic.
Molly
Private Writing Journal, Lodon, May 23rd
I almost didn’t bring this journal back to London, but I threw it in my bag at the last minute because writing in it has become something of a habit. My thoughts (sometimes) become clearer when I put them on paper. So here I am, two days after my mother’s wedding, pleased and relieved that it was the beautiful, emotional and happy event that both she and Jonathan wanted and deserved.
My duty phone call to my father in Scotland is behind me, so now I’m considering my options.
To see or not to see Molly.
To fly straight back to the island, or stay on here in London for a bit.
The thing is, I’m desperate to call on Molly while I’m here. I’ll admit I’m utterly fascinated by her (and my mother could hardly stop talking about her), but I’m hesitating for a number of reasons.
1. The Australian boyfriend. It probably sounds churlish, but I don’t think I could enjoy Molly’s company if Brad the sheep farmer was hanging around in the wings.
2. Our house swapping agreement. I’ve handed over my house for three months in good faith, and if I suddenly turn up on Molly’s doorstep in the middle of that time she’ll be placed in a confusing situation—not sure if she’s my hostess or my house guest. I guess this hurdle is one we could work our way around, but then there’s—
3. The fantasy date with a gentleman. Here’s the thing: I have the right accent and the right clothes to meet Molly’s criteria, and if I was on my best behaviour I could probably pull off the role of an English gentleman. I could even take Molly on her dream date to the theatre. In fact, I’d love to.
But—
Maddeningly, I have a string of doubts …
• Does she still want that ‘dream’ date now that she has her Australian?
• Just how perfect does this Englishman have to be? A movie star I am not.
• What if I try to do the right thing by her, but she misinterprets my motives? Might she think I’m amusing myself at her expense? After all, she’s spilled out her heart to me. She might feel horribly embarrassed if I turned up and tried to act out her fantasy.
So where does that leave me? I suppose I could arrange to meet her on neutral ground—in a little café somewhere. Or perhaps I should just phone her for a chat. But then I wouldn’t see her, would I?
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: You’re never going to believe this, Patrick!
I don’t know whether you’re home from the reef yet, but I’m writing this at midnight because I just have to tell you. The most astonishing, amazing, incredible, miraculous thing.
He … Him … The man of my dreams has turned up on my doorstep.
The most gorgeous Englishman. In. The. World.
I hyperventilate just thinking about him, but I’ve got to calm down so I can tell you my news.
Patrick, I’ve met your colleague—Peter Kingston, who, as you know, has been working in South America for the same banking company you work for. Now he’s back in London for a short break.
OK, I know you must be asking how I can gush about a new man when I’m supposed to be going out with Brad. No doubt you’re thinking I’m the shallowest and ficklest woman in the entire universe.
First, let me explain that Brad left last Friday, heading off on another adventure, with no definite plans to come back this way. He’s now somewhere at the top of Norway in the Arctic Circle, looking for the Midnight Sun.
He wanted me to go with him, but, while I’m sure the sun at midnight is well worth seeing, I didn’t want to spend my hard-earned cash chasing off to another country when there’s still so much of England that I haven’t seen.
As you mentioned once in an e-mail, the rural parts of England are beautiful. I can’t leave without seeing at least some parts beyond London, so other countries will have to come later.
Besides, Brad was fun to go out with here in London, but he was never the kind of guy I’d follow to the ends of the earth.
So, Brad had gone, and it was a Monday night—one of my nights off—and I was having a quiet night in. Oh, you have no idea, Patrick. I was at my dreckest, with no make-up and in old jeans, an ancient sweater and slippers (slippers—can you imagine anything more octogenarian?).
Worse, I was eating my dinner on my lap in front of the telly, and when the front doorbell rang I got such a surprise I spilled spaghetti Bolognese all down my front.
I was mopping bright red sauce from my pale grey sweater as I headed for the door, and then I was stuffing tissues into my back pocket as I opened the door. And then, as they say all the time on American TV—Oh. My. God.
Patrick, let me give you a female perspective on your work colleague.
He’s tall. He’s dark. He’s handsome. The nice, unselfconscious kind of handsome that goes with chocolate-brown eyes and a heart-stoppingly attractive smile.
And when he spoke—you know where this is going, don’t you? Yes, he has a rich baritone voice, and a beautifully refined English accent, and I swear I almost swooned at his feet.
The only thing that stopped me from fainting dead away was my need to make sure he hadn’t rung the wrong doorbell by mistake.
There was no mistake, thank heavens. Number 34 was Peter’s destination. But, to be honest, our initial meeting was a teensy bit awkward. I was flustered. Of course I was. Can you blame me? And I guess my blushing confusion flustered Peter, too.
He seemed rather nervous and uncertain, and I couldn’t help wondering if you’d given him orders to call on me. If you did, were you setting yourself up as a matchmaker?
Anyway … We both tried to talk at once, and then we stopped, and then he smiled again and said, ever so politely, ‘You go first, Molly. You were saying …?’
Oh, he was the perfect gentleman. He kept his eyes averted from the sauce stains on my chest while I stumbled through my story of why you weren’t here and why I was living in your house. Then he explained who he was.
Once that was sorted, and it was clear after a few more prudent questions that we were both at a bit of a loose end, Peter asked ever so casually if I’d like to go out for a drink. I’m afraid I had to wait for my heart to slide back to its normal place in my chest before I was able to accept his invitation.
In no time Peter was comfortably settled on your sofa and watching TV, while I scurried upstairs to change.
If there was ever a wardrobe crisis moment when a girl might wish for a fairy godmother, that was it. The jeans and T-shirts I’d worn on dates with Brad were totally unsuitable to wear out for a drink with Peter. He was in a suit! (No tie, admittedly, but still, a suit’s a suit.)
I might have found it easier to think about clothes if my brain hadn’t been swirling like a Category 5 cyclone. Here I was, with a chance to go out with my dream Englishman, and I was freaking out. I was very afraid I wasn’t up to the challenge.
Panic attack!!
Thank heavens the possibility of failure snapped me out of it. How could I not go out with this man? Till the end of my days I would never forgive myself. And in a strange way I also felt I owed it to you, Patrick. You sounded rather disappointed that I’d given up on my Englishman.
So I fell on my camel suede skirt like an old friend—the same skirt I wore to afternoon tea with your mother—and the gods must have been smiling on me, for I found a clean silk shirt and tights with no ladders.
I can’t do fancy make-up, so applying lipgloss and mascara didn’t take long, and there’s not a lot a girl can do with my kind of curly hair, so Peter was pleasantly surprised when I was back downstairs inside ten minutes.
He gave me the warmest smile, as if he quite liked how I looked, and off we went. Not to the Empty Bottle, thank heavens. Peter quite understood about avoiding my workplace.
We went to a bar that I hadn’t even noticed before. It’s so discreet it just looks like someone’s house from the outside. (Another of London’s secrets?) Inside, there were people gathered in couples or small groups, and everyone was comfortably seated on barstools or in armchairs, which made a pleasant change from the noisy Empty Bottle, which is usually standing room only.
After our awkward start, I was surprised to feel quite quickly at ease. Sitting there with Peter in comfortable chairs, sipping my Sloe gin fizz and gazing into his lovely dark coffee eyes, I should have been dumbstruck with awe, but he has the same easy way that your mother has.
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Nikki Logan и Barbara Hannay
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современные любовные романы
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
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