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, unself-conscious 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.
Is that something well-bred people learn? Are they given lessons in how to put other people at their ease?
Anyway, I found myself chatting happily. I don’t supp
ose that surprises you, considering the way I chat on endlessly with you.
Peter asked what I’d seen of London, and I told him about some of the things I’d discovered—like the Kensington Roof Gardens and the tiny old pub in Ely Street—and to my surprise he was really interested. He said he’d lived here nearly all his life and hadn’t known about them. I told him about the book you’d so kindly sent to me, and tomorrow we’re going to do some more exploring together.
Me and Peter Kingston. Can you believe it?
Patrick, I’ve just realised how long this e-mail is. Sorry, I’ve been carried away. But I’m sure you have the gist of my news, and I suppose I should try to get some beauty sleep. I’ll tell you more after tomorrow (or you can tell me to shut up, if it’s all a bit much).
Don’t worry, Patrick. I won’t do anything rash. I have a highly efficient built-in jerk-detector, and I just know deep in my bones that I’m safe with Peter. But I will try to follow your very sweet advice and take care!
Yours, bubbling with too much excitement
Molly x
CHAPTER SEVEN
To: Patrick Knight
From: Molly Cooper
Subject: London explorations
Dear Patrick
I hope you’re having as fabulous a time on the Great Barrier Reef as I’m having here. I could carry on about the way discovering London with Peter just keeps getting better and better, so that each discovery is more interesting and fascinating than the last. But you’ll be relieved to hear that I’m going to save you from that kind of bombardment and give you a brief overview only.
I saw my last message to you on the screen and almost had a fit. Sorry I rambled on so much, but meeting Peter was all so unexpected and so exciting.
However, I would like to tell you about our excursion to Westminster Bridge. Now, I know it’s not exactly a secret or hidden part of London, but have you ever seen the movie A Westminster Affair? It’s one of the few movies I saw on the big screen when I was very young, and that day has always been a standout memory for me.
My gran and I caught the ferry over to Townsville on the mainland and we went to the big cinema complex. I can remember every detail, like eating the hugest choc-topped ice creams while we waited for the show to start, and then the movie was just the most beautiful sappy romance. (I won’t bore you with the details.)
Afterwards we were both a bit weepy when we came out blinking in the late-afternoon light. Then, to cap things off, we went to a Chinese restaurant and ate big bowls of wonderful chicken soup with floating wontons.
Finally we caught the ferry home, and Gran and I sat out the back, watching the mainland slip away while a cool breeze blew in our faces, and we smelled the sea, and we watched the most gorgeous sunset colour the sky and the water. I’ve always thought of that day as one of the most perfect days of my life.
Which is probably why A Westminster Affair has remained my all-time favourite film, and you’ll understand why it was incredibly special for me to be there on the bridge with a man like Peter.
We admired the magnificent Coade stone lion that guards one end of the bridge. (Did you know a woman invented the special cement that stone is made from?) And we walked across the Thames, and it was a beautiful morning, and it was just like those lines from Wordsworth’s poem.
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Sorry if that looks like I’m showing off. I’m not really a poetry buff, but because of my soft spot for Westminster I looked up the poem years ago.
Peter and I didn’t just walk on the bridge, though. We climbed Big Ben’s clock tower. That was Peter’s suggestion. I had no idea you could go up there.
‘My father brought me here when I was five years old,’ he told me as we started up the three hundred and thirty-four stairs.
It was rather fun, climbing all those stairs together, going past the cell where the famous suffragette Emily Pankhurst was held for some time, poor thing.
We walked behind the illuminated clock faces of Big Ben, and heard the tick-tick-ticking in the clock room.
As we watched the busy cogs and wheels, Peter told me that his father had made him stand in front of this machinery while he gave him a lecture about time marching on.
‘He told me that this was my life ticking away,’ Peter said. ‘And that none of us knows how much time we’ve been allotted. Time’s precious and we mustn’t waste it.’ ‘That’s rather a grim message for a little boy,’ I suggested.
Peter smiled a little sadly. ‘I guess it was. Considering I no longer respect the man, it’s surprising that the message stuck.’
I didn’t like to ask why he no longer respected his father. Instead I said, ‘Does that mean you don’t ever waste time?’
‘I try not to.’
He reminded me of you, Patrick, and the way you’ve worked so hard at the bank and how you’re still working hard when you’re supposed to be on holiday. At least you were until recently. I’m glad you’re taking a break now, on the Great Barrier Reef.
I told Peter that maybe he should try living on a tropical island.
One of his eyebrows shot up. ‘Does time stand still on your island?’
‘It can if you let it,’ I said.
He smiled again, rather ambiguously, I thought. Then we went to the belfry and waited while the hammers struck the famous big bells.
Wow.
As you can imagine, there’s a great booming sound. But it’s not deafening, which was a relief. Just the same, the resonance penetrated all the way through me—rather like the way Peter’s smile vibrates through me.
It was a very moving experience, actually, and Peter’s eyes were extra shiny. As the gong faded he stared at me for ages, and then he reached for my hands and drew me closer and I knew he was going to kiss me.
My heart started booming louder than Big Ben. How utterly romantic to be kissed by my gorgeous Englishman high above the Thames and the London Eye and the thousands of rooftops and spires.
We shared a beat or two of delicious hesitation and then we inched closer. I was in heaven.
But just at the crucial moment a group of noisy tourists burst into the belfry and we lost our opportunity.
The beautiful moment when we might have kissed is now forever gone, which I suppose proves that his father was right about time and opportunity.
Gosh, Patrick, I’m sorry. I’ve rambled on, after all.
Molly x
The message Subject: London Explorations has not been sent. It has been saved in your drafts folder.
Molly’s Diary, Chelsea, May 25th
I’ve decided a diary is a necessity right now. I couldn’t send that e-mail to poor Patrick. The dear fellow has been very tolerant of my long-winded ramblings, and it’s been wonderful to have him to talk to. But there are some things a girl shouldn’t share—especially now that I’ve met one of his friends and I seem to be falling head over heels. That’s too much information for any man.
I guess it’s just as well that Patrick’s away. I hope he’s having a fabulous time, partying like mad at some luxurious Barrier Reef resort.
Actually, the person I really should be talking to now is Karli. She’s been my best friend since we were born—or at least that’s how it feels—but now that she and Jimbo have sold their computer and left for Cairns, she’s out of touch.
Boy, is she going to be mad when she realises she’s missed this golden opportunity. She’s been waiting to discuss my love life since I was ten years old, but apart from one or two teenage crushes, and a couple of semi-serious boyfriends who eventually left the island, there’s been nothing very exciting to report until now. We’re both so over talking about her and Jimbo.
So…as I can’t pour out my innermost feelings to Patrick or to Karli, I’ve turned to this diary. Which isn’t a new
phenomenon for me. When really big things happen in my life I’ve always felt an urge to write them down. I wrote scads when I was a teenager—especially when I first started at high school on the mainland and felt so lonely.
Then last year, after Gran died, I wrote in my diary for weeks and weeks. It was as if I needed to get every sweet memory of her down on paper—the exact shape of her smile, her gentle hands and the blue sparkle in her eyes.
I wrote about all the feelings locked inside me, too. How I felt about losing her and why I loved her and how much I owed her, and how I knew she regretted that I hadn’t gone to university. It was indeed a pity that I didn’t get to extend the wonderful education she scrimped and saved to give me, but how could I have left her when she was so ill and doddery for the last few years? She needed me.
I cried oceans while I wrote, but in a weird way I think the writing helped to ease the painful knots of grief inside me. Eventually I was able to let some of it go.
So now that I’ve met someone as amazing as Peter Kingston, I have to get stuff down on paper or I’ll simply explode.
But where do I start? With his dashing dark looks? His gorgeous smile? His sexy, sexy voice? It’s just so amazing that this man is the incarnation of everything I ever dreamed of—good-looking and charming, with a divinely refined English accent that sends delicious shivers all the way through me. And on top of all of these assets he’s just absolutely nice.
Molly Cooper's Dream Date Page 8
