Molly Cooper's Dream Date

by Barbara Hannay

  And he has perfect manners. In fact he’s so perfectly lovely I could eat him.

  I keep wondering if I’ve done something very good in a past life. Or perhaps the stars are perfectly aligned in my personal cosmos? Surely some special form of magic brought Peter to my doorstep?

  I know I’ve never felt remotely like this before. This is so much more than a crush. It’s like I’m so constantly high I’m practically flying.

  Should I be frightened? Might I fall?

  I keep telling myself to calm down. I know Peter’s only in London for a week, and I know he’s only amusing himself in my company while he’s here, and I know that he’ll soon be back in South America. But he’s persuaded me to ask for a few days off work from the Empty Bottle so that we can do lots together, and to my surprise they said yes—no problem.

  And he does seem to be having a really good time. With me!

  So for the moment I’m going with the flow (which feels a bit like a flash flood)—and I’m reminding myself every so often to breathe.

  I haven’t even mentioned my biggest piece of news yet.

  This afternoon, after an expedition to elegant Hampstead and its many gorgeous, gorgeous houses, Peter and I were walking back from Sloane Square when he reached into his coat pocket and ever so casually produced two tickets.

  ‘My cousin plays cello in the orchestra at the Royal Opera House and she gave me these,’ he said, with his lovely, twinkling, careful smile. ‘I’ve no idea if ballet’s your cup of tea, but I wondered if you’d like to give it a try.’

  I confess I squealed. I know, I know—I should have been more composed and ladylike. Thank heavens I didn’t also give in to my impulse to leap on poor Peter and hug him to death.

  But it just seemed too much to have the last part of my dream fall into place—an invitation from a lovely Englishman to an evening of culture. Better still, I’ve been invited to something that’s both cultured and romantic. The ballet is Romeo and Juliet and I know that story inside out. I can recite whole sections of Shakespeare’s balcony scene. I adore it.

  After I’d accepted (breathlessly, but politely, I hope) Peter told me that there’s a restaurant at the Opera House and he suggested we should dine there, as well. We could have a starter and a main course before the show and then dessert at interval.

  Be still my beating heart!

  Eliza Doolittle, stand aside.

  And I’ve made what is, for me, a hugely rash decision. I’ve been so cautious about spending money, but my bank balance is actually healthier than I expected, so I’ve decided that I can afford to pinch a portion of my savings to buy a new outfit (I really don’t think my faithful camel suede skirt is quite right for dinner and the ballet at the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden).

  I can afford a new dress. Maybe even a nice piece of jewellery to set it off. I’ve set tomorrow aside for shopping. Squee!

  Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket before my good luck runs out.

  To: Patrick Knight

  From: Molly Cooper

  Subject: How are you? Hi Patrick

  I assume you’re still exploring the wonders of the reef? I hope you’re having a great time. All is going very well here.

  Molly

  Private Writing Journal, May 26th

  I hesitate to admit on paper that I’m pretending to be someone I’m not. I’ve never thought of myself as an actor, but I must admit it’s fun to take on a role. It all happened so spontaneously—as soon as I saw Molly. I suddenly wanted to become someone better than myself. The man she’d invented in her imagination.

  As soon as she told me that Brad the Australian was no longer on the scene, I suppressed my impulse to cheer and instead interpreted his absence as a very clear green light.

  So now Molly and I are having a great time. Molly’s fabulous, so lively and engaging, and she’s so incredibly excited about our planned date. I refuse to spoil this fun by worrying about when or if I should tell her the truth. For once in my life I’m having fantastic, incautious fun, and everything about this planned venture feels right.

  Nothing ventured, nothing gained, etc.

  Molly’s Diary, May 27th

  I know I have turned a corner tonight.

  I’ve had the most wonderfully romantic and incredibly special evening, and I feel as if I’m a different person in some mysterious but vitally important way. (I’m wondering if I’m a late bloomer and I’ve finally grown up.)

  I’m sure I can’t still be the same overly excited twenty-four-year-old who wrote that rave in yesterday’s diary entry. I feel calmer, safer, happier, surer.

  Peter kissed me tonight, and I know I’ll never be the same again.

  But perhaps I should start at the beginning.

  I had the most fabulous time shopping. It was a little overwhelming, of course, after living on the island, where there are just two dress shops both specialising in resortwear. Today I was shopping in London, which has thousands—yes, that’s right—thousands of shops filled with dresses!

  Instead of my usual experience of finding just one outfit that might do, for the first time in my life I had an endless range of clothes to choose from.

  Did the vast array of choices do my head in?

  Well, yes, I think I did get high from trying things on. I was like those women in movies who go on shopping sprees and try on scads and scads of dresses—whatever takes their fancy—except I didn’t parade my dresses in front of anyone. I didn’t even have a friend to consult, which was a pity.

  But I’m pleased to report that I did not listen to the salesgirls, every one of whom told me that every single dress looked absolutely fabulous on me.

  I took my time and I was careful, even though I wanted to be bold and reckless like Patrick’s heroine, Beth Harper. It would have been scary but so exciting to have bought something like Beth’s expensive little cocktail dress in show-stopping red. But I have to be so careful with my money, so I decided to play it safe. Even so, I’m happy.

  I settled on a simple, sleek black cocktail dress that makes me feel beautiful and sexy. Honestly.

  I love it! It fits me like it was made to measure and it feels so soft and sensuous against my skin. It’s a truly feel-good, confidence-boosting dress. I teamed it with a lovely woven gold choker necklace, and I think the whole effect struck exactly the right note for this evening.

  I also went to the make-up counter in one of the swishest department stores and had my face ‘done’.

  ‘Keep it subtle,’ I pleaded, and the girl with brightly dyed hair surprised me by doing exactly that. She made my complexion look almost as soft and fine as an English girl’s and she made my eyes look huge! Wow, I had no idea clever make-up could make such a difference. I have a new ambition. I’m determined to learn how to do that kind of make-up for myself—although I don’t suppose I’ll need it when I’m back home on the island.

  (I don’t want to think about that now.)

  It was cool this evening, so I needed my coat, which meant that Peter didn’t see my new dress until we got to the cloakroom. When I took the coat off I have to say the expression on his face was a perfect moment—exactly like something out of one of my favourite movies.

  He told me I looked beautiful, and his voice was choked, and his throat rippled. And I almost cried.

  I’m so glad I didn’t. Think of the make-up disaster! And I would have hated to spoil such a lovely moment.

  I’m sure that wearing my lovely, sophisticated black dress helped me to stay calm. No doubt the dress plus the fact that the most gorgeous man in the entire theatre was at my side. Have I mentioned how absolutely incredible Peter looked in his dark tux? And there he was, paying courteous and focused attention to me. Throughout the whole evening, I felt quietly, confidently, bone-deep happy.

  Oh, and I loved the ballet. Thank heavens. I’d only ever been to the Christmas concerts put on by Karli’s ballet teacher when we were kids, a
nd I was always terribly bored by them.

  There was no chance of being bored tonight. Before the show Peter and I ate—sorry—dined in the most elegant restaurant. We had goat’s cheese and peppered pear, followed by fillet of bream, and both these courses were accompanied by proper French champagne.

  Fortunately, Gran trained me well, and I had the whole business of the cutlery sorted. Mind you, Peter is so well-mannered he wouldn’t have turned a hair if I’d used the wrong knife or fork.

  Then we went into the theatre which was even bigger and grander and more gilded and sumptuous than I’d imagined. There were chandeliers and velvet seats and thick lush carpet and the flash of real diamonds among the women in the audience.

  As Peter guided me to my seat with a warm hand protectively touching (and electrifying) the small of my back, I did notice more than one feminine glance directed his way, but he only seemed interested in me.

  I can write that now without feeling a need to squeal. The fact that Peter seems to really like me is a kind of quiet truth that’s settled happily inside me, keeping my heart warm and light.

  Of course everything about the ballet was fabulous. I was so moved by the stirring music and the brilliant dancing and the dramatic acting. As for the costumes, the scenery, and have I mentioned the man sitting beside me?—I was entranced.

  At the interval we went back to the restaurant and had a sinfully delicious champagne trifle for dessert. And then we returned for the second half of Romeo and Juliet and it was so emotional.

  The performance was beautiful, exciting, heartbreaking, intimate. I was spellbound. It was totally possible to feel the pain of those tragic young lovers.

  But I managed not to cry.

  I think I was still under some kind of spell.

  Afterwards, I thought we might have met Peter’s cello-playing cousin, but apparently she was triple-booked that evening, or something. So Peter brought me home, and it was time to say goodnight on my (Patrick’s) doorstep, and I tried, rather inadequately, to thank Peter.

  Then I saw the look in his beautiful dark eyes. Serious. Tender. Aching. All at the same time. My heart began a painful thumping. My skin burned. I knew what he wanted and I was almost certain it was the same thing I was willing to happen.

  ‘Molly,’ he whispered in his gorgeous deep voice. ‘You know I’m going to have to kiss you.’ Oh, my.

  I was trembling, but it wasn’t from fear. I was trembling from very real, very hot desire.

  I have to say, when it comes to seduction, gentlemen have it all over bad boys. Here was Peter, more or less asking permission to kiss me, and I had to restrain myself from screaming, ‘Yes!’

  As an aside, I should mention that I’ve always understood the general rule that a kiss is the litmus test of dating. I know the bottom line of any guy meets girl situation is chemistry. But, call me fussy, I’ve always wanted something more.

  I’ve had quite a few kisses in my twenty-four years. I’ve had kisses from nice guys I’ve liked but who’ve left me thinking there’s something missing. (Brad would be my most recent example.) And I’ve had kisses from dubious guys I wasn’t too sure about that have really turned me on.

  But now I realise I’ve never had the vital elements coincide—a really nice guy that I liked a lot, and a really hot kiss.

  Until tonight.

  And here’s the wonderful thing I discovered as Peter and I performed a slow, lip-locked two-step through the doorway and into the front hall. Peter Kingston doesn’t just look and walk and talk like my dream man, and he isn’t just a charming and amusing companion, he’s my dream lover.

  His lips were warm and sexy and persuasive, and he tasted absolutely, perfectly, fabulously right. He smelled so good I wanted to bury my nose in his neck and stay there till the next Ice Age.

  Truth is, I did not behave with ladylike decorum. I wound myself closer than a strangler fig clinging to a tree in the rainforest. As for the rest of my response—let’s just say my mouth had a mind of its own. And my hands weren’t exactly shy.

  But I was following his lead.

  I don’t think either Peter or I expected the fireworks to be quite so volatile, although I suspect that Karli might tell me my interest in gentlemen was always about getting to this point—discovering the bad boy behind the polite, genteel façade.

  Right at that moment I would have been quite happy if he’d regressed all the way back to Cave Man.

  Now, however, I’m sitting on my bed and recording the fact that Peter did not stay here tonight, even though I know we both wanted him to. I suppose I’m grateful that he remembered he’s a gentleman and left before things got out of hand.

  I mean, really, one of us had to be sensible. He’s going back to South America in a couple of days, and I’m going back to Australia in a few weeks, so it wouldn’t be wise for us to get too involved. It would create all kinds of complications.

  Just the same…I have to say that Peter’s kiss felt like a beginning rather than a farewell. He lingered over saying goodnight so sweetly, and he looked so torn about leaving that I just knew—as if I was tuned in to his thought waves—that the best was not over yet.

  ‘I’ll ring you first thing in the morning,’ he promised, before he kissed me one last, deliciously sexy time.

  It’s a nice thought to sleep on.

  Please let me wake up remembering my dreams.

  Text message from Patrick Knight, May 27th, 11.55 p.m.: Hi Simon, sorry to disturb you so late at night. Wonder if we could swap cars tomorrow? I’d like to run down to Cornwall and stay overnight. Yr sporty MG so impressive. P.

  Text message from Simon Knight, May 27th, 11.59 p.m.: No prob. Who’s the lucky passenger? Any girl I know?

  Text message from Patrick Knight, May 28th, 12.03 a.m.: Huge thanks. Trust u to guess. She’s special + new + Aussie.

  Molly’s Diary, May 28th

  OMG. I’ve pinched myself black and blue to make sure I’m not still dreaming.

  It’s only early, but Peter has already phoned to ask me if I’d like to drive down to Cornwall with him. He’s borrowed a cousin’s sports car, and as it’s a nice day he’s suggested we can drive with the top down if I liked.

  We could see Somerset and Devon on the way, and stay overnight in a B&B on the Cornish coast.

  I said yes, I’d love that. Thank you very much!

  I think I sounded calm, but, honestly, Peter probably has no idea how big this is for me. I’m flashing hot and cold. The dream date—our night out at the Royal Ballet—which I saw as the pinnacle of glam, is peanuts compared with having this gorgeous man drive me down to Cornwall in a sports car (with the top down), even if the sports car is borrowed (especially when we’re staying overnight in a B&B).

  This is a biggie. I’ve never actually gone away for a weekend with a man before. Peter probably assumes that I have.

  Actually, I’m not sure if Peter and I will be sleeping in the same room, but after last night’s kiss I can’t help thinking there’s a good chance the option might arise, so I’m seriously wishing I’d spent some of my money on new underwear (just in case, you know). Oh, and a new nightdress would have been nice.

  It’s too late now. I really must dash and start packing. Somehow I think this weekend is going to be a huge turning point in my life. In the right direction!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Molly’s Diary, May 28th

  Disaster!

  Of the very worst kind.